But the crowd seemed to like it. Half of the eyes that had pressed upon her a moment ago now turned toward the piano. Nods of approval spread right and left, looks of appreciation on thoughtful faces.
She bit her lip. Didn’t take Mrs. Hemple to guess that laughing would be rude.
Simon leaned down. “What do you think?”
“I think he can’t play nearly as well as you.”
“You’d be wrong,” he said. “Technique aside, though—he’s quite innovative in his compositions.”
The snooty tone rubbed her wrong. He wasn’t talking to Viscountess Swanby. “I can bang on some tin pots for you,” she offered. “I guess that would be original if I did it in a drawing room.”
He snorted. Heads turned and he smiled down at her. “You’ll ruin my reputation with such talk.”
Now he was teasing. “If this pianist didn’t harm it, I’d say you’re ironclad.”
His smile faded a little, growing softer, more intimate, like the look he’d showed her in bed this morning. “You haven’t learned yet when to lie.” Slowly, as if the words were being dragged from him, he added: “I confess, Nell, I hope you never learn.”
She found herself staring at him. Unsteadying thought: there was something hot in his eyes that wasn’t purely want. It was too tender, too … affectionate.
Under that look, secret places in her fluttered to life. Look at me that way forever, she thought. She’d learn everything there was to know about music as long as he always looked at her so.
A dark thought intruded: he might be looking at her, but if he thought she didn’t know when to lie, then he was watching a woman who only existed in his imagination. Nell could lie through her teeth all the day long. Sorry, Michael, only fourteen shillings this week. Hannah, the gloves are lovely. Simon, I don’t care what you’ve done with that viscountess; this marriage is only for money, after all. I could leave you and never regret the loss …
The piece segued into another—and Simon’s expression went blank at the same moment she recognized the music: the piece he’d written when heartbroken.
Lady Allenton approached, evidently deciding that the bride and groom had enjoyed enough privacy. “Have you had many opportunities to enjoy Mr. Andreasson, my dear? I hope Lord Rushden is not selfish in sharing his coterie’s talents!”
“Not yet,” said Simon, speaking before she could open her mouth. “But I’ve an artist in mind for our wedding portrait. A very unusual talent. There’s a deceptive simplicity to his palette, but his brushwork is extraordina