the obvious. “Quite aside from consolidating your position in wider society and bestowing all the benefits and freedoms accruing to a married lady, marrying me will reassure your family as nothing else will—despite their outward acceptance of your decision not to wed, they worry about you and your future. Deep down, all would prefer to see you suitably married, and you marrying me will come as a relief.”
He paused to see if she might feel prompted to volunteer something of the reason behind her decision not to wed, but when she remained silent, one dark brow slowly arching as if to inquire if that was all he had to say, he went on, “Most importantly, however, you becoming my marchioness will give you all the position you could wish for and all the clout you might need to engage with the ton in support of worthy local musicians.
“The goal you’ve embraced as your life’s work is to introduce local musicians to the ton—to create an avenue whereby they get the right sort of exposure so they gain patrons who can advance their careers. That, I’ve discovered, is important to me as well, and I will continue to support you regardless of any formal connection between us.” He clung to her gaze. “However, you know, as do I, that the best—the most effective and certain—route to achieving your goal, which I now share, is to become my marchioness—to throw in your lot with mine and work with me to convert our sham engagement into a real one.”
Pensiveness had returned to her eyes and brought a frown along with it. Frederick braced to hear her reject the notion out of hand.
Instead, after a moment that seemed to stretch forever, she blinked, refocused on him, studied his face, then glanced around.
More riders had arrived, and the queue for the track was lengthy.
“I believe I’ll return to Green Street.” She shook her reins and turned her mare.
Frederick swallowed his temper along with his impatience and, lips thinning, nudged the gray to pace alongside.
He held his tongue—there was nothing more he wanted to say—and waited as they trotted their mounts back up the park, then slowed and walked through the gate back into Park Lane.
By then, he was growing curious. She hadn’t reiterated her refusal to even consider marriage. Presumably, that meant she was considering it—or at least, considering what he’d said. If so, the last thing he should do was prod her.
They reached the cobbles outside her front door, and still, she’d said not a word. He dismounted, handed his reins to her groom, and went to lift her down. He closed his hands about her waist and, for once, sensed no real reaction to his touch; admittedly, over the course of the past week, she’d grown much more accustomed to it. Searching her face as he lifted her to the pavement, he saw that, if anything, her pensiveness had deepened, and so had her frown; the latter now knitted her fine brows.
With her feet on the ground, she finally looked up at him.
He held himself unmoving as, her lips tight, she studied his face and his eyes. Finally, unable to hold back the words, he arched a brow at her. “What do you think of my suggestion?” In effect, his proposal.
Her lips compressed even more, then eased. “I feel that I should be telling you—again—that marriage is not for me.” She held his gaze. “Not even marriage to you.” She paused, then drew breath and said, “As it is…” Her frown deepened still further, then she reached out and lightly squeezed his arm. “I don’t know what to say to you other than I’ll think about it.”
He couldn’t whoop in triumph—and that was hardly an acceptance. With his features schooled to utter impassivity, he inclined his head, then waved her to her door.
He followed her up the steps and, when the door opened, bowed over her hand, straightened, then leaned close and touched his lips to her cheek before releasing her and, with a final salute, walking down the steps to where her groom held the horses.
Chapter 12
That evening, Stacie and Frederick attended a dinner that had the potential to prove significant in garnering support for local musicians via a connection to the respective music schools of both Oxford and Cambridge Universities.
Stacie had learned that, while Frederick was a graduate of Christchurch College in Oxford, that university’s premier school for musicians and musical historians, Lord Brougham, after leaving Eton at the same time as Frederick, had taken his degree at Kings College, Cambridge. She’d been given to understand, from others as well as from the men themselves, that no greater rivalry existed in the annals of music than that between those two university colleges.
Yet in the matter of the quality of the three young musicians who had performed at her musical evening, Frederick had made an effort to elicit Brougham’s opinion, and for his part, Brougham had been genuinely supportive, albeit in his rather stiff way.
Although in ton terms, the dinner was restrained and relatively quiet, intellectually, the conversation was stimulating, intense, and demanding. Quite exhausting, in its way.
By the time Stacie climbed the stairs and opened her bedroom door, she was flagging—and immeasurably glad that Frederick hadn’t pressed her to discuss his suggestion of the morning further, either on the way to Grosvenor Square or during the return journey.
Kitty, Stacie’s maid, was waiting to help her out of her gown and brush out her hair. “So was the dinner worthwhile, my lady?”
While dressing for the evening, she’d explained to Kitty what she and Frederick had hoped to achieve at the dinner. Stacie stretched her neck by tipping her head from side to side. “I think so. At the very least, there’s now considerably more awareness of the potential quality of our locally trained musicians, and that’s all to the good.”
Kitty chattered on, filling Stacie in on how Ernestine had spent her evening and how things were going below stairs; Kitty had long acted as Stacie’s eyes and ears within her household.
Reassured that no domestic issue required her attention, Stacie allowed Kitty to drop her nightgown over her head, then shooed the maid away to her rest and headed for her own.
Kitty grinned and bobbed a curtsy. “Goodnight, my lady.” She slipped out of the door and pulled it shut behind her.
Stacie climbed between the cool sheets, laid her head on the pillow, and sighed. After a moment, she reached out and turned down the lamp on her nightstand.
Darkness enveloped her. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
Only to find, as she’d feared would be the case, that her mind, finally free of all other distractions, promptly returned to Frederick’s suggestion.