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Victor supposed trying to understand how, when, and why things had gone awry was futile, and although he dreaded attending that evening, hearing Lady Montgomery play had been a balm to his dour mood. Apparently, his sister had her finger on his pulse better than he did. Except . . .

Why had Cilla chosen to sit in the row with Miss Merrick?

And to insist they switch places so Victor was right next to the lady?

He suspected Cilla was up to her matchmaking machinations.

Ever since she had secured a love match with the good doctor, she’d been hellbent on seeing everyone she cared about equally leg-shackled.

He had a sinking suspicion that she’d even played a part in that scoundrel Lord Nash stealing Miss Lovelace from under Victor’s nose. It would serve Cilla right if Victor let her think she succeeded in her scheme. What harm would it do to play along and flirt with Miss Merrick?

Confident his face was free of any telltale tearstains, he turned toward her. He half expected a delicately raised blond brow at the emotion on his face he was unable to contain.

Instead, sincerity and understanding filled her cornflower-blue eyes, and she placed a hand over her heart. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anything so moving. Honoria told me how well Bea played, but I simply wasn’t prepared for...for—that.” She waved a hand toward the piano.

Victor nodded, desperately trying to clear his emotionally clogged throat. “Do you play, Miss Merrick?”

A pretty blush covered her cheeks—a delicate mix of pink and peach against her cream skin. How he’d like to capture that on canvas. “Not well. I’m trying to learn, but I fear I’m hopeless.”

Victor understood the frustration of a novice artist. How many pieces of paper had he crumpled in anger when he couldn’t get the lines of a sketch just so, or an expensive canvas tossed aside when his paints blobbed together rather than blended as he desired?

“Practice, Miss Merrick, is an unforgiving mistress, but in the end, the reward is worth it. If your heart is there, the art will follow.”

The audience settled down, and when Cilla rose from her seat, Victor peeked down at the program and noted Cilla was next to perform. “Whose idea was this?” he whispered to Timothy.

His brother-in-law grimaced. “Bea’s. I suspect it’s a latent attempt to punish Priscilla for her scheme involving Ashton. Bea has yet to completely forgive her, even though Priscilla is family now. Hopefully, things will change once...”

Timothy didn’t have to finish his statement. Victor remembered his conversation with Cilla three weeks prior. Children had a way of bringing people together and mending old wounds.

Or setting a final closed stamp on one’s heart.

Cilla had told him that Adalyn and that scoundrel, Nash, had welcomed a son into their family.

The fleeting hope that she might come to her senses about her rake of a husband, and return to England, confessing to Victor her error in rejecting him, flapped its wings and flew out the proverbial window.

People—especially women—rarely ended marriages once children were involved. Even Victor’s mother had returned from her exile in Lincolnshire, and his father was doing his damnedest to repair their marriage.

No. Victor had to face the facts. If he was going to fulfill his duty as heir to the viscountcy and take a bride, he would have to look elsewhere.

According to his mother, Lydia Whyte was the perfect candidate.

But Victor found Lydia like so many other girls of the ton self-centered, shallow, and—boring.

He stole a peek at Miss Merrick. And as he’d done the last time he’d seen her, he unwittingly compared her to Adalyn.

Would he never get the woman out of his mind? She haunted his dreams and now, his waking hours in the form of Miss Merrick. He tried to concentrate on the piece Cilla performed on the flute.

The polite applause that followed Cilla’s performance remained so, not reaching the level of appreciation that Lady Montgomery’s had elicited. Victor leaned over to Miss Merrick and whispered. “I’m sure my sister is relieved that is over.”

Her gloved hand flitted to her mouth, stifling her laugh, but Victor caught the merriment sparkling in her eyes.

“I dare say she did better than I would have.”

“You’re learning the flute as well?” Victor’s surprise mixed with admiration at her generosity.

She shook her head, one golden strand of hair coming loose and draping down her neck. “I tried, but my attempts were worse than those at the piano. I fear the music teacher is reaching his wits’ end. Do you play an instrument, Mr. Pratt?”

“Cello and piano. But only passably well. My mother complained of headaches.” He gave her a sheepish grin.

Light and natural, Miss Merrick’s laugh lifted Victor’s spirits. He smiled at Cilla when she returned to her seat. He would thank her later for insisting he attend the event.

A hush descended on the crowd when Dr. Somersby and his wife ascended the dais next to the piano.

Although Victor had yet to hear the doctor play, Timothy insisted the man coaxed his very soul from the violin.

And Camilla Somersby’s voice was legendary.

Had she not been the daughter of a baron, she could have performed on the best operatic stages of Europe.

But as Victor was well aware, people born of the aristocracy did not pursue occupations in the arts, especially men in line to inherit. His own aspirations as a painter had not been met with approval or encouragement from his parents.

Victor inclined his head toward the dais. “I understand we are in for a treat, Miss Merrick.”

Victor found Dr. Somersby to be an unassuming man, later learning of his Romani heritage.

He seemed uneasy at first in front of the crowd but soon became absorbed in his music.

And although the accompaniment to his wife’s singing was lovely, he allowed her to be the center of attention.

When they finished, Camilla encouraged the crowd to demand more from her husband.

The Duke and Duchess of Ashton joined in Camilla’s entreaty, the duchess saying, “Play the song you wrote for Camilla!”

A slight flush covered Oliver’s swarthy complexion, but he nodded.

And from the first stroke of his bow on the strings, the audience was enthralled.

Victor had never heard anything like it in his life. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and neck. Beautiful and bittersweet, the music held a touch of hope, countering the minor key in the perfect combination.

When the last note faded, hanging in the air like a lover’s kiss, no one moved, no one spoke. All eyes were glued to the man with the violin in rapt appreciation. A soft sniffle sounded to Victor’s left, and he turned toward Miss Merrick, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Through those tears, she smiled at him, and to his surprise, she reached up and brushed his own tears away.