To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(93)

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In a weaker moment some days earlier, Jeremy had agreed with Lady Helen’s insistence that an “evening of light musical entertainment,” as she put it, would be an enjoyable occasion. This was what came of allowing too many women at a house party, he thought as he watched some unfortunate spinster from the village pluck away enthusiastically at her violin. He had prided himself, in previous years, on only allowing a select cohort of ladies to attend his shooting parties—women like Violet, whom one could trust to behave in a generally reasonable fashion.

Jeremy was unlike many men of his acquaintance in that he suffered under no misapprehensions regarding the relative intellect of men and women. It was obvious that, in general, ladies were the vastly more intelligent sex, but they did have a few blind spots in their otherwise sound minds, and their preference for watching a group of people saw away at instruments for an hour was undoubtedly one of them. He thought longingly of the evening he could have been having instead, had he been a bit stronger-willed in the face of female determination: it would have involved brandy and cards and hopefully Diana at as far a remove as was possible.

Instead, she was seated one row ahead of him. They were assembled in the music room, of course, a row of chairs having been rather hastily erected for the occasion. Jeremy had seated himself in the back of the room, so as to place as much distance as possible between himself and the instruments that were about to be wielded. He’d been under no illusions about the quality of the entertainment he’d arranged: he’d known that there were several ladies in the village who had been taking music lessons for some time—he’d heard enthusiastic reports to this effect from their mothers on his most recent jaunts down to the local shops—and he’d thought it would likely thrill them to have the opportunity to perform at Elderwild.

His charity extended only so far, however, and he was unwilling to place himself directly in the line of fire. He was just eyeballing the candles burning in sconces on the wall and wondering if it would be too noticeable if he were to use some of the melted wax to fashion earplugs when Diana swept into the room, imperious as a queen, and took the seat directly in front of him.

Meaning that now, while his ears were being assaulted with something that might have, in a former life, been Bach, he was being tormented by the sight of a single curl that had come loose from her coiffure, curling against the smooth expanse of her neck.

It was, logically, a lock of hair. Everyone had them.

It was, illogically, the single most enticing thing he had ever seen in his life.

How long had he been staring at that single curl? Too long, undoubtedly—and yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He thought that he might be content to sit here, in this uncomfortable chair, listening to this mildly painful violin solo, staring at this curl, for the rest of his life.

It was in the midst of that undeniably disturbing thought that the violin solo in question mercifully came to an end, and a scattered round of rather unenthusiastic applause interrupted his reverie before he could lose his head entirely.

But, of course, the reprieve was only temporary—the violinist was replaced by sisters at the piano, who he was forced to admit were quite tolerable, though had he been their music teacher he might have steered them away from Italian songs until they could better pronounce even a fraction of the words contained therein.

During this bit of creative linguistic interpretation, it was the delicate curve of Diana’s ear that caught his attention. And, truly, had it come to this? A few kisses and suddenly he was contemplating ears?

And hands, as he learned over the course of a rather lugubrious cello performance, an ensemble piece that he thought was supposed to be Mozart, and some remarkably energetic fluting. And shoulders. And—most pathetic of all—elbows.

He’d never known the female body had quite so many hidden places, all designed to torment him. He was familiar with the more popular haunts, of course, but it turned out that the female form—or perhaps just Diana’s form in particular—had been designed with a seemingly limitless supply of tempting hollows and angles.

All of this was to say that Jeremy heard precious little of the music on offer—which, in truth, might have been a blessing—but became exceedingly familiar with the back of Diana’s head.

For amid all of his emotional, mental, and physical turmoil, not once did she so much as glance back over her shoulder. He was reasonably certain that she was aware of his presence behind her—if she wasn’t, he was a trifle concerned for her eyesight—but she had given no outward sign that there was anyone in her immediate proximity with whom she had recently enjoyed a night of passion and a singularly awful row.

Eventually, the musical portion of the evening’s events ended, and they retreated to the drawing room for tea, brandy, and a fine selection of his cook’s blueberry tarts. Jeremy ignored the brandy entirely as he beat an eager path toward the tarts; while he usually did not hesitate to fill his tumbler at the earliest possible opportunity—and was, in truth, feeling rather badly in need of a drink at the moment—he was helpless to resist the allure of a good blueberry tart, and Mrs. Lucas’s blueberry tarts were the very best. He was just about to lift one eagerly to his mouth when the sound of his grandmother’s voice froze his hand in the air.

“What have you done now?”

He turned, blueberry tart still suspended in midair, to find the dowager marchioness eyeing him through a lorgnette—a ridiculous affectation if he had ever seen one, considering her eyesight was likely better than his own, despite her being fifty years his senior. He considered her comment, decided that he should likely take offense, and then realized that he hadn’t the energy.