To distract himself, he called up the memory of Uncle Finch’s gray-tinged face, wheezing out his taunts. Empty threats, surely. But a timely reminder of the man’s determination to see his useless son inherit the marquessate. Gabriel could put a stop to all of it with a bride of good birth and good breeding. Better still if she was too meek to complain about the unfortunate necessity of marrying a rogue.
Forcing his attention to the program, he assessed the tortures that lay ahead. Four pieces before the interval, four afterward. Would the vocalist or the violinist screech worse? He clapped politely for the young woman who faced the pianoforte as if she had a plank stuffed down the back of her dress. He studied the reflection of the chandelier in the high polish of his boot during an overly ambitious aria, while silently praying its composer might deign to make an appearance—from the beyond if necessary—to prevent Miss Blaise from further tarnishing his good name.
The first rippling notes of the harp were soothing, a welcome change. Beside him, Felicity smiled and shifted, leaning to murmur something to her mother, who nodded approvingly. Without any contortion on his part, their movements opened up his line of sight to Camellia, who sat almost as stiffly as the piano player, the corners of her mouth turned down.
“Do you dislike the harp, Miss Burke?” he asked when they came together between the performances. It would be churlish to ignore her entirely, he excused himself. And likely to draw the notice of others.
“Camellia dislikes anything that smacks of frivolity, Lord Ash,” Lady Merrick asserted before she could answer for herself.
He expected to see disapproval in Camellia’s expression—disapproval either of the performance or her aunt’s charge. But the countess’ words seemed to have caught her off guard, so that her full lips were parted in half shock, half pout. The pose gave the very briefest of glimpses at the woman she hid behind that mask of severity.
Then those mobile lips curved ever so slightly upward at the ends and she said, “I have no objection at all to the harp, my lord. When it is well played.”
It was Lady Felicity’s turn to gasp in surprise. “You do not mean to fault Miss Cunningham’s talent, surely.”
“She plays well enough, I’m sure. Not so well as many I have had the pleasure of hearing. Those who have a sort of native feeling for the instrument, if you will,” she added. “As an Irishwoman, I cannot bear to see harpistry classed among the merely fashionable accomplishments, like painting screens or netting purses.”
“Surely you would not deny us access to your country’s finest exports?” Gabriel prodded devilishly.
“Such as linen?” she suggested, glancing from him to her aunt as she replied. “Or salmon? Or a ridiculous stage brogue at which you may laugh when you choose to while away an hour at the theatre?” Lady Merrick’s complacent nod of agreement became a frown. “Indeed not,” Camellia finished, her defiance cast as reassurance. “I would deny no one anything to which they have earned the right.”
“A patriot, eh?” Gabriel began, but her aunt’s scold cut him short.
“Really, Camellia. A fling at politics? I would expect a niece of the Earl of Merrick to know enough to keep her opinions on such matters to herself.”
“Which is to say, to have no opinions at all,” Camellia countered.
Lady Merrick made no effort to deny the claim, but instead looked toward Gabriel for confirmation. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Lady Felicity, that specimen of ideal English womanhood, had turned away, clearly and properly bored by the direction the conversation had taken.
“I have always considered it remarkably shortsighted to believe that a woman exists to cater to a man’s pleasure,” Gabriel said, forcing himself to look only at the countess, “but then to expect she ought to know nothing about what pleases him—what interests him, what occupies him in his daily life.”
“Indeed, my lord, his interests, his desires, should be her daily study,” Lady Merrick said. “But to form an opinion counter to his own on any matter of importance? Surely you would not tolerate—”
“A gentleman who cannot bear to have his opinions countered is not worthy of having them,” he declared. “Surely you would not require a lady to respect beliefs that cannot be defended?”
Before her aunt could reply, Camellia spoke, and he could no longer avoid her eyes. Something in them suggested disappointment—no, not that, but rather confusion, as if she were having to revise some long-held opinion and found the process trying. “What of the lady?” she asked. “Are her beliefs entitled to the same respect?”
“If they are sincerely held and can be rationally defended, then yes. But the passion of a moment, or an unthinking prejudice—”
“National pride, perhaps?” Her chin jutted forward.
“Precisely. One’s emotions must be kept under good regulation,” he insisted, wondering when he had become such an idealist. Or perhaps a fool. After all, it was emotion that had brought him to this pass to begin with. “Certainly, they have no place in the world of politics.”
“Which is why,” Lady Merrick interjected with a note of finality, clearly intending to bring the distasteful subject to a close, “God has ordained politics to be the province of rational men, and not such poor, weak creatures as we women who are too easily swayed by our hearts.”
Camellia’s lips parted again. This time, however, he suspected that the words struggling to force their way past them might cause her to lose her place entirely—or at least cause her to lose the privilege of leaving the house.
So he spoke over her. “Lady Felicity, may I escort you to the refreshment room?”
Although he would have been willing to swear that she had not heard a word that had passed among her cousin, her mother, and him, she responded with alacrity to his offer. “Yes,
