Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(16)

Slowly Alec lowered himself back into the chair, every muscle in his body taut with the control he imposed on himself. The smothering silence of the room did not ease, and the rustle of Mira’s skirts was audible as she walked to the piano. She moved with straight-backed grace, her slender figure riveting every eye. She wore a black velvet gown, its softness skimming the lines of her figure in stark simplicity. The sleeves were puffed and slashed in the Elizabethan

style, a row of tiny buttons fastening the bodice in front. The firm curves of her br**sts and the line of her throat were resplendent, emphasized by the black velvet in a classically pure contrast. Her dark hair was pulled away from her face by a ribbon, and it fell down her back in long curls. She looked young and painfully vulnerable, not at all what one would have expected of Sackville’s mistress.

A glitter of admiration lightened Alec’s eyes as Mira sat down to the piano without assistance. She smiled a little in a disparaging manner as she looked around the room while several women peered at her and giggled together behind their fans.

Mira had a right to be contemptuous, Alec mused, his mouth twisting cynically. Most of the women present lived by the very lowest standard of morality. Adultery was a way of life to them; they knew nothing of loyalty or modesty. If Mira could be called a whore, then the others had been as well, for much longer and with a lesser degree of discrimination. Are you making excuses for her now? an inner voice questioned silkily, and his jaw hardened with self-disgust.

Mira’s dark lashes lowered as she hesitated before the piano keys. Then she placed her small hands on the instrument and played a French ballad. The melody was haunting and plaintive, and no one moved or made a sound as she sang in her native language. Her voice was unexpectedly low, and while it lacked vibrato, it was pure and resonant. The unashamed emotion that colored her song was clear and stirring. Alec watched her with narrowed eyes, sensing that she was absolutely aware of the reactions that her looks and her music were producing. The little cat, he thought wryly; she meant to make them all ill-at-ease, and she was succeeding. It was not an appropriate performance— something light and pleasant would have ended the situation gracefully—but she had chosen a piece sc passionate and bittersweet that it made the worldly-

wise crowd uncomfortable. Her hands flickered over the keys, the gentle touches eliciting sounds of longing. Then the last note hung in the air, lengthening until the sound disappeared into a whisper, and as the piece finished, she looked down at her hands.

The applause was quiet and subdued, serving to break Mira’s concentration. She stood up and looked at them all, her gaze blank as she saw that Caroline Lamb and some of her contemporaries were whispering behind their fans and handkerchiefs, no longer giggling. Mira smiled grimly. Lord Sackville stood up and went to her with a smile. He lifted her cold fingers to his lips, entirely pleased with the way the evening had turned out.

“Every man here envies me, my dear. Well done—I only wish I had planned this! Well done.”

She nodded and let her hand slip from his. As she made her way out of the room, she paused at Lady Ellesmere’s chair. Her eyes met those of the older woman, and suddenly Mira swept into a low curtsy, a deferential and mocking gesture.

“I hope you were pleased with the performance, my lady.”

Clara Ellesmere inclined her head frostily.

Calmly Mira left the room, hearing a burst of excited murmurs erupt as she closed the doors.

Her knees were weak. It took a long time for her to climb the stairs. She had never felt so drained and numb. Now that the ordeal was over and the tension past, she found that she was weary with the effort it had taken to face Sackville’s guests. Why had Lady Ellesmere attempted to crucify her in front of all those people? How cruel, how terribly cruel to make sport of someone in such manner. Tiredly Mira walked to her room, wanting to crawl into bed and never come out. When she reached the turret stairs she heard footsteps behind her, and she turned around abruptly to face him. “Lord Sackville—”

“Congratulations.” It was not Sackville, but Alec Falkner, who paused a few feet away from her and leaned against the wall in a casual attitude. He was in a dark shadow and she could not read the expression on his face. “You were quite impressive.”

“I’ve taken a few lessons,” she murmured, shrugging her shoulders dismissively.

“I wasn’t referring to your musical abilities.”

“Then I don’t know what you mean,” she replied sharply, raising a trembling hand to her forehead in order to ease a pounding headache. She was tired of the verbal battles with him, she was tired of constantly having to defend herself. Something inside her seemed to break… because of him ... he had the power to hurt her when that entire room of people had not.

“I’m complimenting your courage. You don’t lack mettle, whatever else you may—”

“I felt like a trained monkey on display,” she interrupted harshly. “I despise the lot of you. None of you are fit to judge me. Tell me, why should my sharing Sackville’s bed make me a person without feelings? Why should I be forced to entertain you all at the whim of some shallow woman, as if I’ve sold my mind and my soul as well as my body?” Her eyes blazing, she stepped closer to him, clenching her fists. “Why are you here?” Her breath rasped in her throat. “Why did you come after me? Not to compliment me. Go on, say anything you like—sneer if that’s what you came for! I don’t care about anything that you have to say, not you”—she struck his chest with her fist—”or anyone else!” She hit him again, her wrist half-numbed by the blow against the steely surface of his chest. “I don’t care!”