Free Kathryn Caskie by Love Is in the Heir Page B

Feathertons’ guests with a selection from Haydn.
    It was a simple piece for her. One she’d played at least one hundred times before, which now afforded her the freedom to allow her gaze to drift from the music and across the drawing room in search of the rake, Mr. St. Albans.
    The Featherton sisters had informed her that evening, several times actually, that he would be in attendance. She was sure he would be, knowing of his interest in astronomy, and yet he had not returned to Number One Royal Crescent all day, which was entirely out of character for the man. If nothing else, he would have wished to dress for the soiree.
    In the third time in as many minutes, when Hannah glanced up from her music, she finally saw him. He looked rather dashing, she supposed, in his dark blue coat and buff breeches. Like several other guests, he seemed completely enraptured by what Miss Herschel was saying and, indeed, seemed to be questioning her on several key points.
    Still, it seemed clear to Hannah that he was not at ease, for more than once, she caught him glancing her way, absently fingering her aunts’ prized Sèvres
seau-à-liqueurs
sitting atop the mahogany table between the high windows.
    Suddenly the room went quiet, and Hannah realized that everyone was looking at her.
    She turned her gaze from Mr. St. Albans and saw that her fingers were no longer tapping the piano keys, but were instead poised in the air. Heat surged into her cheeks.
    “Is something amiss, Hannah?” Lady Viola laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “You stopped playing midway through the piece.”
    “Oh, I-I seemed to be missing a page of music, ’tis all.” She forced a twittering laugh. “Dear me. How silly I am. Here it is after all. It was just turned back to front.”
    “I . . . I will leave you to your music then if you are certain you are having no difficulty.”
    “No, none at all. I am perfectly fine.” Hannah realized that her reply sounded a little too cheerful to be entirely believable. “Really, please go and enjoy the soiree.”
    “Very well, then. If you are . . . truly.” As Hannah nodded and smiled, Lady Viola hesitantly began to turn and head back in the direction of her sister.
    Lord above.
    With that embarrassment concluded, Hannah began to play again, bending her back and drawing her face close to the keys to avoid meeting anyone’s judging gaze.
    Especially
his
.
    And then, as if her thoughts had summoned him, suddenly there was a deep voice caressing her ear. “May I turn the pages for you?”
    She turned her head a bit to glance up at her all-too-willing assistant. “Do not trouble yourself, Mr. St. Albans. I have played alone for most of my life. And besides, I would not wish you to miss a single word of wisdom Miss Herschel has to impart.”
    Hannah rolled her eyes. That sounded a bit bitter . . . almost as if she was jealous. Which she wasn’t, of course.
    Miss Herschel was an elderly woman—and, well, Hannah wasn’t the least bit interested in astronomy—or Mr. St. Albans—anyway.
    Still, his eyes following the notes across the page, he reached out to turn the music, his palm sweeping along her bare arm as he did so.
    Sweet tingles of warmth slid down her forearm to her hand, and before she knew what she was doing, Hannah had laid her fingers atop his, stilling his movement.
    Her gaze turned upward and locked with his own. For several seconds she stared deep into his eyes, her hand upon his, her mind hopelessly blank and wordless.
    In the next instant, Hannah caught in her peripheral vision a glimpse of a plump little man standing beside Mr. St. Albans. And if she was not mistaken, he was tugging at the taller gentleman’s coat sleeve.
    “Well, lad, are you going to introduce me to your bride, or not?” the impatient little man demanded to know.
    Hannah yanked her hand away from Mr. St. Albans’s, accidentally knocking his fingers aside and sending music sailing in every direction to the floor.
    “I-I beg