It was nearly an hour later when Stacie walked in. Immediately, he lifted his fingers from the keys.
“There you are!” Smiling, she strolled to the piano. “I haven’t heard that piece before—what is it?”
He almost told her—self-preservation caught his tongue just in time. “Just a minor air.” He had to assume she’d heard the stories of his past, of his supposed young love and the last piece he’d composed and played; if she had, then learning that he was composing a piece for her would alert her to his feelings for her, and he didn’t think he’d yet convinced her that him loving her embodied no threat.
She halted in the curve of the piano; from there, she couldn’t see that the music sheets were newly created, in pencil rather than printed.
If she saw, if she asked…
He couldn’t explain without giving himself away. In reality, he was quietly amazed; he’d thought the impetus to compose had left him, an outcome of that long-ago public debacle—that the creative spark necessary to ignite the flame had died. Apparently, an ember had lurked beneath the cold ashes, and she—all she was, all she was becoming as his wife—had been enough to coax it back to life.
The musician in him exulte
d.
The rest of him was focused on keeping the development concealed. Holding her gaze, he reached for the felt to cover the keys and, with a deliberately seductive smile, asked, “Did you have some purpose in mind in hunting me down?”
Her smile deepened. “I did, as it happens. I wondered if you had time to stroll the gardens with me before we change for dinner. Storrocks is of the opinion that we should cut down the old elm on the west lawn and replace it with an oak or a beech.”
“Is he?” He closed the lid of the piano and rose. He left the incriminating music sheets facedown on top of the piano; he would hide them later, after she’d gone upstairs. “Did he say why he’s taken against the elm?”
Stacie turned, and side by side, they walked toward the door. “He says it’s of an age when it’s liable to start dropping branches.” She slanted a teasing glance up at him. “I believe he imagines that we’ll soon have infants and small children resting or racing around on the lawn, so he views the elm as a potential threat better removed.”
“Ah—I see.” His lips curving, he caught her hand, laced his fingers in hers, and walked beside her into the front hall. “In that case, I suspect we had better examine the tree and then duly agree with Storrocks.”
Three days later, Frederick drove Stacie into the nearby town of Guildford so she could experience the town’s market day, a once-a-month event.
He drove into the town along Millbrook, the road that followed the river Wey, then turned onto Castle Street so she could view and exclaim over the castle, sitting on its hill above the town. The market was held where the eastern end of North Street widened into a rectangular space that passed for the town square. Frederick left his curricle and horses at an inn in the High Street and, with Stacie on his arm, escorted her around the corner to where a plethora of colorful stalls had been set up, running along either side of North Street. Combined with the shops that lined the street, the stalls created three long avenues of temptation.
There were food stalls of all kinds, offering everything from potatoes and turnips to sweetmeats and pastries. There were glovers and buckle makers and ribbon sellers, haberdashery of every conceivable sort, and fabrics aplenty. The stalls selling animals were restricted to one corner, but the noise from the pens added to the cacophony; everyone in the crowd seemed to be either talking or listening to someone speak, and the raucous calls of sellers blared over the scene.
Despite the noise, despite the throng of people weaving their way along the aisles, the atmosphere was good-natured, and almost everyone was smiling.
They were halfway up the first aisle when Frederick touched Stacie’s hand in warning, then drew her to the side, out of the flow of bodies, as an older couple approached.
The gentleman, a bluff, jolly-looking sort, beamed and bobbed a bow. “Lord Albury—a pleasure, my lord.” The gentleman turned to Stacie. “And this must be your delightful wife.”
“Indeed.” In the face of such open enthusiasm, Frederick couldn’t help but smile. “My dear, allow me to present Alderman Geary and Mrs. Geary.”
“Lady Albury—your devoted servant, ma’am.” Geary swept Stacie a much more formal bow.
Mrs. Geary sank into a curtsy. A plain lady with a kind face, as she rose, she inquired, “Is this your first visit to Guildford, ma’am?”
Stacie smiled. “It is, indeed.” She glanced at Frederick. “Lord Albury suggested that I would find market day entertaining, and that has, indeed, proved to be the case.” With her gaze, she indicated the bright stalls to left and right. “The town hosts a very impressive turnout.”
Pleased, Geary puffed out his chest. “We on the town council strive to ensure our market offers both range and competition.” He twinkled at Stacie. “Keeps the prices down, and keeps the housewives coming back.”
Stacie laughed and added a favorable comment about the neatness and organized arrangement of the stalls, which played to Geary’s pride.
Frederick and Stacie remained exchanging comments with the Gearys—including the couple’s views on the local sights, which Stacie thought to elicit—before parting company and moving on.
They hadn’t got much farther when Lady Fairweather hailed Frederick from the next aisle over. When he looked, her ladyship pointed an imperious finger at him and ordered, “You wait right there, my lord.”
When Frederick dutifully stood rooted to the spot, Stacie looked up at him, a startled question in her eyes.
He grinned. “Yes, I know, but she’s a local eccentric, rides like the devil on the hunt, and has a heart as large as the county.”
“Ah—I see.” Stacie subsequently composed herself and waited patiently beside him as Lady Fairweather found a gap between stalls a little farther along and barged through, into the aisle in which they stood. A much younger lady followed rather more timidly, towed along in her ladyship’s wake.