The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(98)

“It’s not too late. If you’ve changed your mind . . .” He left that there. An offer of forgiveness. And the part of her that would always love this man ached to take that measly piece of him. The woman who’d been stripped of her pride long ago could not make that sacrifice. Not even for Broderick.

She shook her head.

He glanced over at her paperwork. “You’re determined to leave.”

She’d not see him stay and marry another. Even if that match would save him, it would destroy her. “I am.” And she would miss him until the day she drew her last breath.

“Very well.” He cracked his knuckles and took ownership of the piano bench. “What manner of work is it?” he asked even as he was opening her folders.

She jumped, her fingers reflexively reaching for that work she’d kept hidden from him.

He cast a glance over his shoulder.

Reggie spoke through gritted teeth. “I’d have to be a fool to tell you anything about my intentions. There’s nothing proprietary in an idea.”

He grinned. “I’ve trained you well. You’re worried I’d nick it, then,” he drawled. She warred with herself before slowly turning those pages over. Mayhap she’d be proven a fool for trusting him and this exchange would have been nothing more than a ruse meant to weaken her, but she believed him. She believed him because of the man he’d proven himself to be over the years.

“Cleo insists you never intended to establish a gaming hell.” Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. What else had Cleo shared with her brother? At her silence, he shot her a quizzical look. “It’s a saloon?”

“It’s not a saloon.”

“A tavern, then?”

Reggie shook her head.

“Then what is it?” He raised his brows. “Surely you know, Regina, that I’ll gather precisely what you intend, whether you tell me or not . . .”

She swatted at his shoulder. “God, there is no one more arrogant in the whole of England than you.” And with reason to be. Time had proven that whatever he desired, whether it was information, power, or wealth, he ultimately wrested it for himself.

He bowed his head.

She snorted. “You’re incorrigible.” Reggie smoothed her palms down the front of her night rail. “It is a music hall.”

“A . . . ?”

“Music hall,” she supplied. She braced for his condemnation and criticism. Encouraged by his silence, she gathered her notebook. “There will be folk music and operas and ballet performances.” She rested a knee upon the bench and set the book out before him. “Patrons will not be required to seek out stalls in separate barrooms”—as all theatres did—“but rather will be allowed to consume spirits in the middle of the theatre.” When she’d finished, he availed himself of her work folder and said nothing.

“Ah, a music hall.”

She wrinkled her nose, trying to make sense of those four words.

“And what manner of music will you play?” He drifted reverent fingers over the oxwood keys and ebony sharps, plucking the strains of “Death and the Lady.” “Somber music for your patrons?”

Butterflies danced in her breast. Of course he’d be skilled in even this. When Oliver always mocked music as a lady’s pursuit, Broderick had owned those keys. Before she could answer, he began plucking a more upbeat tempo; his fingers flew over the keys, and he sang in an endearing, slightly off-key baritone.

“There lived a Man in Baleno, crazy

Who wanted a Wife to make him uneasy.”

Reggie giggled. “And you sing.”

He paused midlyric. “Poorly.” He resumed playing. Tipping his head back and forth, he winked at her, and her heart tripped a funny beat.

“Long had he sigh’d for dear Ally Croaker,

And thus the gentle Youth bespoke her:

‘Will you marry me, dear Ally Croaker,

Will you marry me, dear Ally, Ally Croaker?’”

When he finished, he quirked a brow. “Or romantic shows?”

“Of all the girls that are so smart

There’s none like pretty Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

There is no lady in the land

Is half so sweet as Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.”

As he sang, she studied his bent head, losing every last scrap of her heart that hadn’t already belonged to him.

When he glanced up, she fought for a semblance of control.

How casual he was in every regard, while inside she remained a riot of emotions and would always be where he was concerned.

He leaned back on the bench. Removing his fingers from the keys, he held a hand out.

“Well?” she asked grudgingly. It didn’t escape her notice that he’d not revealed his opinion about her plans.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.”

He flipped through those pages, working his stare over the details written in her meticulous hand.

“Hmm.”

She tapped her bare foot in an agitated staccato. “What?”

Broderick briefly lifted his gaze. “It’s a theatre,” he said with an air of finality.