Free A Reason to Rebel by Wendy Soliman Page A

betrayed her appreciation for his robust masculinity and the peculiar effect it was having upon her. He was dressed all in black, his broad shoulders emphasising the superb cut of his coat. He escorted her to a chair by the fire. She seated herself and took longer than necessary arranging her skirts, using the time to regain her composure. Only then did she deem it safe to thank him. But she had miscalculated. He was still looming over her like a predatory animal, smoothly formidable, smiling as though he perfectly understood her difficulty. Her eyes collided directly with muscular thighs showcased to perfection by his tight-fitting inexpressibles. She licked at her lips, which seemed inexplicably dry, and averted her gaze.
    “Be sure that you do not overtax your strength this evening, Miss Tilling.”
    “Thank you, sir. I shall endeavour not to do so.”
    During a very fine dinner Lady Crawley chattered in her usual disjointed manner about people and places unknown to Estelle. Lord Crawley was adept at keeping his mother’s rambling discourse on track without making it apparent that he was doing so. At times Estelle was conscious of such closeness between them she felt she was intruding.
    But Lady Crawley demonstrated remarkable sensitivity and drew her into their conversation by frequently requesting her opinion. If ever a lady deserved to have a whole brood of children to fuss over, it was she. She was a natural, so at variance with Estelle’s own cold, selfishly inept mother that she had not, until that moment, realized that such warmth and intuitiveness could exist between two generations of the same family. She felt a sadness for all she and her siblings had missed during their austere childhood in that show house in Hampshire that had never been a real home.
    Upon learning that Estelle played the harp, Lady Crawley’s face turned pink with pleasure at the prospect of hearing her.
    “How I wish my hands still permitted me to play.” She glanced down at her fingers, swollen and disjointed from the pain of arthritis.
    “I should warn you that I have not played for some months, ma’am. I would not wish to excite your expectations only to disappoint.”
    “Nonsense, child, something tells me you will excel. You are in possession of a great sensibility, and I wager that you intuitively feel the music inside you as your fingers bring it to life. I was once the same. Is that not so, Alex?”
    “Most assuredly.”
    “It is the mark of a true musician, Miss Tilling. To be able to express the passion which the music engenders in one, I mean.”
    “You are obviously knowledgeable critics. I feel a little fearful about performing in front of you.”
    “Surely your profession has given you ample opportunity to overcome any such feelings of self-effacement, Miss Tilling?” said Lord Crawley, his tone mildly hectoring. “You must be accustomed to displaying in front of your charges, I should have thought.”
    “Indeed, but one cannot alter the way one feels inside, my lord.”
    “That is where you are quite wrong.”
    “Come, come, my dear, do not allow Alex to bandy words with you, not when I am most anxious to hear you play.”
    Lord Crawley did not stay at the table when the ladies quit it and offered an arm to each of them as they made their way towards the drawing room. It was Estelle’s first foray into the vast chamber and she felt a little intimidated by its splendour. When she espied the magnificent harp situated in the corner she could not prevent an exclamation of pleasure from escaping her lips.
    “Another gift from my husband,” said Lady Crawley, following the direction of Estelle’s gaze.
    “It is quite the most extraordinary instrument it has ever been my good fortune to encounter.” Estelle ran her hand reverently over the beautifully carved and gilded harp, her nerves driven away by the urgent desire to test it out.
    “Please, Miss Tilling.” Lord Crawley nodded to the stool at the side of