Despite herself, Anne looked up. “But you play the violin.”
“I know,” Harriet said miserably.
Anne scanned the notes on the page as fast as she could, her eyes jumping quickly from bar to bar.
“Daisy’s glaring at us,” Harriet whispered.
“Shhh.” Anne needed to concentrate. She flipped the page, took her best guess, and brought her fingers down into G minor.
And then slid over to major. That was better.
Better being a most relative term.
For the rest of the performance she kept her head down. She didn’t look up, not at the audience, not at the man watching her from the back room. She banged through the notes with as much finesse as the rest of the Smythe-Smiths, and when they were done, she stood and curtsied with her head still bowed, murmured something to Harriet about needing to tend to herself, and fled.
Daniel Smythe-Smith hadn’t planned to return to London on the day of his family’s annual musicale, and indeed, his ears were wishing mightily that he hadn’t, but his heart . . . well, that was another story.
It was good to be home. Even with the cacophony.
Especially with the cacophony. Nothing said “home” to a Smythe-Smith male like badly played music.
He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him before the concert; he’d been gone three years, and he knew that his return would upstage the performance. The audience would probably have thanked him, but the last thing he wanted was to greet his family in front of a crowd of lords and ladies, most of whom probably thought he should have remained in exile.
But he wanted to see his family, and so as soon as he’d heard the music begin, he’d crept silently into the rehearsal room, tiptoed to the door, and opened it just a crack.
He smiled. There was Honoria, smiling that big smile of hers as she attacked her violin with her bow. She had no idea she couldn’t play, poor thing. His other sisters had been the same. But he loved them for trying.
At the other violin was—good heavens, was that Daisy? Wasn’t she still in the schoolroom? No, he supposed she must be sixteen by now, not yet out in society but no longer a young girl.
And there was Iris at the cello, looking miserable. And at the piano—
He paused. Who the devil was that at the piano? He leaned a little closer. Her head was down, and he couldn’t see much of her face, but one thing was for certain—she was definitely not his cousin.
Well, now, this was a mystery. He knew for a fact （because his mother had told him so, many times） that the Smythe-Smith quartet was comprised of unmarried Smythe-Smith young ladies, and no one else. The family was rather proud of this, that they’d produced so many musically inclined （his mother’s words, not his） female cousins. When one married, there was always another waiting to take her place. They had never needed an outsider to step in.
But more to the point, what outsider would want to step in?
One of his cousins must have taken ill. That could be the only explanation. He tried to remember who ought to have been at the piano. Marigold? No, she was married now. Viola? He thought he’d received a letter saying she’d married, too. Sarah? It must have been Sarah.
He shook his head. He had a ferocious lot of female cousins.
He watched the lady at the piano with some interest. She was working very hard to keep up. Her head was bobbing up and down as she glanced at the music, and every now and then she’d wince. Harriet was next to her, turning the pages at all the wrong times.
Daniel chuckled. Whoever that poor girl was, he hoped his family was paying her well.
And then, finally, she lifted her fingers from the keys as Daisy began her painful violin solo. He watched her exhale, stretching her fingers, and then . . .
She looked up.
Time stopped. It simply stopped. It was the most maudlin and clichéd way of describing it, but those few seconds when her face was lifted toward his . . . they stretched and pulled, melting into eternity.
She was beautiful. But that didn’t explain it. He’d seen beautiful women before. He’d slept with plenty of them, even. But this . . . Her . . . She . . .
Even his thoughts were tongue-tied.
Her hair was lustrously dark and thick, and it didn’t matter that it had been pulled back into a serviceable bun. She didn’t need curling tongs or velvet ribbons. She could have scraped her hair back like a ballerina, or shaved it all off, and she’d still be the most exquisite creature he’d ever beheld.
It was her face, it had to be. Heart-shaped and pale, with the most amazing dark, winged brows. In the dusky light, he couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, and that seemed a tragedy. But her lips . . .