Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (Scandalous Seasons #2)(25)

Just then, a ray of sun filtered through a narrow windowpane and settled upon a vase filled with vibrant dahlias, nerines, and the purplish-pink fuchsia. The fragrance of the buds wafted throughout the otherwise cheerless space and filled Sophie’s lungs with the sweet, Spring scent.

Nurse Whiting cut into her musings. “Lady Emmaline has flowers delivered each week.”

Sophie sighed. She should have seen her friend’s hand in this. Emmaline possessed a level of skill with flowers and shrubbery that would make most gardeners throughout England green with envy.

Her gaze strayed to the sea of curious looks trained upon her.

“Miss Winters?”

And because it seemed like a very small sacrifice in light of everything these men had given to their country, Sophie lied through her teeth. “I’d be honored to play.”

Nurse Whiting clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Just wonderful!”

Duke barked in agreement.

Sophie leaned down and rubbed the top of his head. Little traitor.

“Do you intend to play?”

Sophie started and looked around for the person who’d uttered the question. A big, burly fellow with red hair smiled at her.

Nurse Whiting performed introductions. “Miss Winters, this is Lieutenant Woods. Lieutenant Woods, this is Miss Winters, a very dear friend of Lady Emmaline.”

Sophie smiled. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The man’s eyes went round in his pale cheeks. “Lady Emmaline?” Murmurs from nearby beds met his question.

“Yes, the very one,” she said. Based on the warmth and awe in the soldiers’ eyes, it would appear Emmaline had earned their eternal admiration. Sophie’s heart tugged as she shared a connection with these men. Her days in London had been so very lonely since her friend had wed Lord Drake.

“I gather I have very large slippers to fill. That isn’t to say that Lady Emmaline has large feet, but rather…” Be silent, Sophie. She closed her mouth. And then because it seemed to need explaining, “Not that I’ve ever really considered Lady Emmaline’s feet. I’m sure, however, they are remarkably daint…”

Nurse Whiting and Lieutenant Woods stared at her as though she’d sprung two or three heads. Sophie felt herself coloring. She glanced down at her slippered toes. “I would love to play the pianoforte,” she finished lamely. And this time, she found herself meaning it.

Nurse Whiting escorted her over to the instrument.

Duke trotted along and lay down with his head upon his paws. Sophie eyed the pianoforte for a long moment.

“Ahem.”

Sophie jumped. Then taking a deep breath, sat. She studied the ivory and black keys, considering her music selection. Long a favorite of Beethoven’s sonatas, her mother and all Polite Society thought his music nothing more than noise.

Of course, Charles Dibden’s, Tom Bowling was quite popular.

She peeked around at the men who stared at her with expectant looks on their somber faces.

Then, the song written about his brother’s passing at sea was hardly the stuff of cheer.

“Miss Winters?” Nurse Whiting rested her hand upon the top of the pianoforte.

Sophie tapped a single key. The chord reverberated and echoed around the still room. She straightened her shoulders, and played.





“The moon on the sea

So bright and free

A reminder of my sweet, lass Lady Tindley

With our love so strong

No storm will part us

No dangers await us

In each other’s arms, we’re free

When wartime is over

We shall meet in the clover

And celebrate my love for Lady Tindley!”





She lost herself in the lyrics, her fingers dancing upon the keys, until the song ended in a triumphant crescendo. Breathless, Sophie looked up. Her stomach curled at the thick silence that had fallen over the room. All her oldest insecurities came rushing back. Her palms grew damp and she shoved back her seat. This was utter foolishness. She should have never…

The room broke out into resounding applause that echoed off the walls, and windowpanes.

Nurse Whiting dashed tears from her eyes. “That was just…just…splendid, Miss Winters.”

“Please say you’ll play another,” a young man with a thick black patch across his right eye called from several beds away. Similar requests came from those around him.

Sophie smiled, her heart lifting. “It would be my honor.”

And she continued to play.

Sophie played until the minutes blurred into hours. She sang until her voice grew hoarse from overuse and the tips of her fingers ached.

“Just one more,” an older man cried when she fell silent.

Nurse Whiting held a hand up. “We must allow Miss Winters to rest.”

Her pronouncement was met with a chorus of groans and protests.

“I promise to return,” Sophie said, rising to her feet.

All the reservations she’d carried with her that day faded as she made her way through the hall with Duke at her heels, returning fare thee wells to the soldiers. Nurse Whiting accompanied her to the foyer. A servant rushed over to open the door.

Sophie made her goodbyes to Nurse Whiting and had a foot outside when someone called, “Miss Winters?”