Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) by Karen Harbaugh Page A

She thought of what Sir James had said; she could not help wondering about Lord Brisbane, about his background. She had not asked him . . . there never arose the opportunity, or it never appeared to be the right moment. Dinner conversation tended to dwell upon general subjects, and upon the war abroad, or taken up in telling Lord Brisbane about the tenants and the nature of the property.
    But no personal exchanges were ever made. Mourning made everyone keep their distance for fear of some unintentional hurt. Even Sir James and Mr. Southworthy kept to themselves, not mentioning the accident or the late earl.
    Except for the current Lord Brisbane. His manner was still lazy, his eyes still heavy-lidded, but he listened and commented in his quiet voice, and somehow Mama would laugh at something he said, and Diana found herself talking of her life and her uncle.
    It was like that last evening. When the ladies and gentlemen went into the drawing room after dinner, the vicar conversed upon the state of the war, in which he was highly interested, but soon afterward retreated into reading some religious works. Sir James engaged Lord Brisbane in a short discussion of upcoming prizefights and races, but soon left to partake of a cigar out-of-doors.
    She had been playing a few tunes on the pianoforte all the while, not really wanting conversation, and watched Lord Brisbane wander over to the windows and look out at the sunset in the distance. He had been impeccably dressed in a black jacket with pale yellow knee breeches and a cream-colored embroidered waistcoat. His shirt points were higher than the rest of the gentlemen’s, but not as high as she had seen some dandies wear.
    He had moved to her mother, who was stitching some tatting she had made to a collar. The earl made some comment, and Mama had laughed and blushed, shaking her head slightly. She had made a shooing motion, and he had grinned, and turned toward Diana.
    He had stood, watching her play for a while, then forestalled her when she reached to turn the sheet of music. He turned it instead, and she nodded her thanks to him. She finished the piece—it was a Mozart divertimento—and he clapped his hands. “You play very well,” he said.
    “Thank you, my lord,” she said. “But I beg to differ. I have heard better musicians than I in London.”
    “I said you play very well, but not like a
professional
musician.”
    “Now I know your proclamation of love was false,” Diana sighed mock-dolefully, for she did not take offense at obvious truth. “I thought if one were in love, one loved everything about the beloved.” It was a daring thing for her to say—but something prompted her to say it, and for some reason she did not think Lord Brisbane would mind. Besides, they were far enough away from everyone else so that she would not be overheard.
    “Well, I have heard that love is blind, but I have never heard that it was tone-deaf,” he replied.
    She had begun a sonata, but laughed and stumbled in mid-phrase.
    “Oh, now look at what you have done! I shall have to start over again, and will sound like the veriest beginner.”
    He grinned. “No, not like a beginner. You do play very well.
    Did your mother teach you?”
    “Yes, and then Uncle Charles bought this pianoforte and paid for a music master in addition to a governess. So you see, I have been brought up a lady.” If the last few words were said with more than usual emphasis, she could not help it. Sometimes her Aunt Matchett’s voice echoed in her ears, criticizing everything she did. After a month in London, the sound of it had given her a stomachache.
    “That must have been dull,” he replied.
    She looked up at him in surprise. “Why do you say so?”
    “Aside from the music, I have often thought the education of young ladies to be tedious in the extreme: dancing, stitching, nothing beyond basic reading, writing, and arithmetic, barely any geography, and perhaps a smattering of Italian, enough to