himself enough to join in the applause. He wasn’t alone in thinking the performance good. Greystoke too had been much struck by it.
‘Wonderful!’ he said at last. ‘First class, Miss Davenport.’
‘I had a first-class teacher,’ she replied, looking at Ellen.
‘There can be no doubt about that,’ Marcus replied. ‘You are both to be congratulated.’ This time there was no trace of mischief in his face when he looked at Claire. ‘Please, won’t you play something else?’
Her heart beat a little faster for he had never used quite that tone before. It was unwontedly humble. Controlling her surprise, she could only acquiesce.
‘Yes, of course.’
Turning to the pile of music, she drew out a piece at random. It was much more difficult and she was glad of it for it meant she wouldn’t be tempted to look at him instead. However, she soon became conscious that he felt no such constraint. Her skin seemed to burn beneath that penetrating gaze and only with a real effort of will could she keep her expression impassive and her concentration on the music. Soon enough the melody claimed her and filled her soul. Marcus saw her surrender to it and felt all the passion of that skilled performance as he too was transported. He knew then that he was listening to something quite out of the ordinary, something that both awed and delighted, and he didn’t want it to end.
When it did he was first to lead the applause. However, the others were not far behind him. George Greystoke got to his feet.
‘Bravo, Miss Davenport!’
She received their praise with a gracious smile and then rose from the piano stool, insisting that Ellen be allowed her turn. When her friend bowed to the pressure Claire retired to a seat across the room. Marcus’s gaze followed her, but he remained by the pianoforte and presently turned his attention to his guest, consulting with her about the choice of music and then waiting to turn the pages as she played. He was, thought Claire, a most courteous host, and, seeing him now, his attentions to herself did not seem so marked at all, but rather the good manners of one accustomed to moving in the first circles. It was foolish to refine on a look or a gesture. He would treat any female guest with the same polished courtesy.
The remainder of the time passed agreeably enough until, soon after the tea tray had been brought in, the Greystokes took their leave.
‘It has been a most delightful evening,’ said Ellen as they stood together in the hallway.
‘I hope to have the pleasure of seeing it soon repeated,’ Marcus replied.
He shook hands with George and then came to stand by Claire to wave the guests off.
‘Miss Greystoke is right,’ he observed as the carriage pulled away. ‘It has been a most delightful evening.’
Claire glanced up at him and smiled. ‘Yes, it has.’
They remained there together until the vehicle was lost to view round a bend in the drive, and then turned and walked back into the hallway. For a moment they paused, neither one speaking. Aware of him to her very fingertips, wanting to linger and knowing she must not, she forced herself to a polite curtsy.
‘I’ll bid you a goodnight, sir.’
Marcus wanted to detain her, but could think of no valid reason for doing so. Instead he took her hand and carried it to his lips.
‘Goodnight then, Miss Davenport.’
Reluctantly he watched her walk away and then returned to the drawing room and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter on the table. He tossed it back in one go and poured another. As he did so he glanced across the room to the pianoforte and, in his imagination, heard Claire singing and knew again the frisson along his spine. He also knew that what he felt was a damn sight more than admiration for fine musical skill. When they had been alone together after the guests had gone he had wanted to take her in his arms. No, he corrected himself, what he had really wanted to do was carry her up the stairs to his bedchamber and make love to her all night.
Almost immediately he felt self-contempt. Claire Davenport was not some trollop to be used for an idle hour’s amusement. She was a respectable young woman. She was Lucy’s governess, for heaven’s sake. A role he had appointed her to. Any liaison between them would make that position untenable and he would be responsible for ruining her reputation and then for causing her to leave. Only a real cur would do that. Only a cur put his own desire before the welfare of the woman he claimed to care for. For both their sakes there could be no familiarity between them. It was not only his feelings and hers that were involved here, but Lucy’s, too. She was beginning to settle into her new home, to trust him. It was obvious that she was also growing attached to her new governess. Could he be responsible for the loss of yet another person she cared for? Could he put her through that? It needed but a moment’s thought to know the answer. There must be no advances to Claire, no matter what it cost him. Had she been living with the Greystokes it might have been different, but the minute he hired her he had put her out of reach. The irony did not escape him.
Claire returned to her room and retired to bed, but sleep would not come. Her thoughts were troubled and her mind raced. Every time her eyelids closed Marcus’s face was there. His words echoed in her memory. She could still feel the warmth of his hand on hers. The memory set her pulse racing, like that other memory of his lips on her skin. When he was near it was hard to think of anything else. His presence drew her as a moth to a flame and, just as surely, she knew that yielding to temptation would mean getting badly burnt. Men of rank might dally with their servants, but they did not marry them.
The knowledge brought with it a feeling of overwhelming sadness. If things had been different…if they had met under other circumstances…but she could not imagine any circumstances under which they would have met. Her uncle, though a gentleman, did not move in such exalted circles. He was flattered by the notice of a man like Sir Charles Mortimer. What would he have said to the notice of a viscount? What would have been his reaction if such a man had offered for her hand? She knew the answer too well: the offer would have been accepted immediately and she would have been expected to comply. Her heart beat a little quicker at the thought. If she had been promised to a man like Marcus Edenbridge would she have sought to escape the match? The answer brought another wave of warmth to her neck and face. Just as quickly she realised how ridiculous it was even to consider the possibility. Ridiculous and dangerous. She was not safe yet. This post was her refuge, her protection. She would do nothing to jeopardise it, no matter what her personal inclination.
In the morning she would resume her duties as though nothing had happened. When she and Marcus Edenbridge happened to meet, she would behave with the utmost propriety. Never by word or sign would she let him suspect what she felt for him. This evening, delightful as it had been, was a one-off occasion, a favour perhaps for past aid. It would not happen again. He had discharged his obligation and in future his socialising would be done among his social equals. The knowledge gave her a pang; she had enjoyed herself this evening. It had given her a glimpse of another world, one to which she would never belong. It served to reinforce how very different were their social positions.
In the days that followed the Viscount behaved with the utmost propriety when their paths crossed. He visited the nursery each day and took a keen interest in what Lucy did, but he never lingered or tried to interfere in any way. To Claire he was unfailingly civil, but never more than that. Just occasionally the grey eyes betrayed a stronger emotion, but it was never given further expression.
He also rode with them less frequently, having many other matters requiring his attention. Although
