Page 23 of The Perfect Rose

“Only one, my voice. I do love to sing. I was always the voice to my mother and Miriam’s musical prowess.”

“Was?” She hadn’t missed his past tense admission.

In truth, he hadn’t sung in company for many years. It brought back too many memories of his parents, of less complicated times when he wasn’t responsible for running an estate and raising his younger sister. He didn’t relish the idea of feeling those moments in his heart the way he knew he would if he were to sing. “I no longer sing in public. It is too painful.”

Lady Rose tipped her head to the side, her brow pulled low on her face as she looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry. What makes . . .”

“Mr. Hastings,” Mrs. Hamilton interrupted and rushed onto the balcony, concern written in the lines of her mouth and wringing a shawl in her hands. “What has happened?” Ron followed the housekeeper outside and took the shawl from Mrs. Hamilton. He presented the wrinkled mass to Lady Rose.

“I had a clumsy moment is all.” Frederick chuckled as Mrs. Hamilton looked at his ankle for a moment. She gave him a knowing look, pronounced that it looked fine and that he might just sit a bit. Ron then took up a post just outside the drawing room door on the opposite side, the perfect position for him to see his master and provide propriety for their solitude outside in the dark night as well as attend to anything that was necessary in the drawing room.

Lady Rose joined Frederick on the small bench, her hand grasping the cold stone beneath her as if she needed the steadying. “I am sorry you no longer sing. I would have liked to hear it.”

“It was nothing special, I assure you,” Frederick lied. It had been special to him, even if it wasn’t going to garner interest from many. Attempting to turn the conversation, he rolled his shoulders back. “Who was your teacher?”

She looked at him sideways and took a breath. “I learned to play each instrument from a different teacher. Mother would never have me learn any other way. She does not believe in a general music teacher. She wished to hire only those who were considered to be experts on the different instruments. Mr. Howell taught me the pianoforte, Mr. Skinner taught me the harp, and Mr. Taylor taught me the violin.”

Frederick nodded as she spoke; it was not so unexpected. A man, more than likely seeing only the beauty of Lady Rose, would not have assumed that she was capable of so much more than correct posture, timing, and notes. “I wish my mother could have been your teacher.”

She slumped, just a little. “Was she yours?”

“Yes, and no. I had a music teacher, but he was a horridly boring man. My mother though, she breathed life into the music. She taught me to feel it to my very core.”

He watched her relax her shoulders, her shoulder brushed against his so lightly he wondered if he’d imagined the touch; either way, it effectively set his heart stuttering.

“She must have taught Miriam as well.” Lady Rose sighed. “She was as captivating as a ballerina at the theatre, all movement and emotion, completely vulnerable to the notes and to her audience.”

Frederick’s mouth hung open . . . again. How did Lady Rose steal his words and startle him so often? “So you felt it? The magic in her playing?”

“Who could not?” She shrugged and took a deep breath.

“I do not mean to offend you, but if you can feel music when it is played with passion, why do you not play that way yourself?”

She laughed. A dry, mechanical, ton-taught laugh. “You believe I have any desire to be vulnerable? All joy from music was sucked from my soul by the time I was ten. A person can only be drilled in perfect timing and practice for so long before the chore of it drives you mad. Besides, it was never enough, even when I tried. So, I gave up trying.”

Frederick shook his head. “The people in that room who heard you play . . . they were in awe of you, perhaps even terrified of performing after you. There had been no room for mistakes in your performance. You can tell me that you do not enjoy music, but you cannot tell me you gave up trying.”

She closed her eyes, giving Frederick an opportunity to memorize her in this moment. The sliver of candlelight that followed them out into the night shone off her beautifully rich brown hair, curled atop her head. A breeze tugged at a strand of curls at the base of her slender neck.

Frederick swallowed.

“I guess I never gave up trying, but anything I do falls short of the mark. It is not enough for my mother, or you, or anyone. I know what is required of me, Mr. Hastings.”

“Perfection?”

She sighed. “Anything unnecessary must be pruned. Emotion is unnecessary. It hinders one’s capability of thinking clearly.”

Frederick slammed a fist onto his leg. “I brought you out here to perhaps help you see your potential as a musician, but you already knew it. And now I learn that you have had emotion pruned out of you! Cut from your very being with sharp knives? Lady Rose, we are here in this world to feel and to feel for others.”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “If you’ve decided to chastise me, Frederick Hastings, I would suggest you do not. You know nothing of what I’ve endured. Nothing of what it is to try your whole life to measure up to an impossible standard.” She stood and gave him a perfect curtsey. “I hope your ankle feels better quickly. I feel I must retire for the evening.”

He jumped to his feet and grabbed her hand. She tugged it toward her but as he had no intention of releasing her, the jerking only proved to draw her closer to him. The reflection of light from the drawing room shone from her narrowed eyes like a blade peeking out of a sheath. The look was as lethal as it was intriguing. A rush of rose scents permeated the air around him, seeping into his senses. He pulled her even closer, and his breathing came fast. “I was never injured, Rose. I just needed to speak to you.” He kept his voice low. “But the fire in your eyes makes me want to make you angry with me always. It is beautiful because it is real, it is genuine . . . and I’m drawn to it.”

He felt himself leaning toward her, aching to close the gap between them. Wanting to do nothing but take that proud, upturned chin in his hands and pull her to him. But a barrier of her free hand pushed against his chest.

“Are you mad? You are drawn to my anger?” She forced a more painful distance between them. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Hastings, but I do not believe that is the way I would want to live.”

She’d misunderstood him, but he didn’t very well care. She was feeling something that brought her energy instead of the slow dying that he’d seen lately. “Then think about it, Rose. How do you want to live? What is it that you want? Not your mother, you. I’d love to know.” He took a step back and released her hand. Running a hand through his hair, he tried in vain to calm his stampeding heart. If he felt this strongly for her now, only heartache would await him later on. He needed to put himself in his correct place: he was helping her . . . not courting her. He cleared his throat. “It would be helpful for me to know. I could try to align you with a gentleman that would be most likely to make you happy, after all.” And that gentleman cannot be me. He took a purposeful step away from her. “If you would excuse me.” He bowed.