Lila paused, not out of uncertainty but because Henry was listening. “He has a strong instinct for music,” she said gently. “One has only to let him keep it.”
Marcus’s throat tightened. Those words had been meant for a smaller room. For his son.
Henry beamed.
“Remarkable,” Lady Harbrook said. She turned to Marcus. “You must be proud, Lord Wolfton.”
“I am,” Marcus replied, though his eyes remained on Lila.
Fenwick moved next, gliding through the cluster like a shadow across lamplight.
“A fine performance, Miss Edgewood,” he said. “Truly fine.”
Lila inclined her head. She did not retreat, though Marcus caught the impulse.
“You command a room as effortlessly as any duchess,” Fenwick continued. “One might say you command it.”
“That is enough,” Bessie said.
Fenwick ignored her. He shifted to block Lila’s path away from the pianoforte, placing himself between her and Marcus with the easy assurance of a man accustomed to occupying space.
“Miss Edgewood,” he said softly, “I will be holding a private gathering in a fortnight. Intimate. Appreciative. Music would be—”
“She is not available.”
The room stilled.
Lady Harbrook blinked. Miss Lyle’s whisper died mid-syllable.
Fenwick raised his brows. “My lord, I do not recall addressing you.”
“But you were speaking of her time,” Marcus replied. “And her time is already spoken for.”
Lila went utterly still.
“Miss Edgewood has not answered,” Fenwick said.
“She does not need to,” Marcus said.
Fenwick turned to Lila, eyes calculating. “Is that so?”
Her gaze flicked to Marcus. Not for permission. Not for rescue. For measure. She drew a steadying breath.
“As I said,” she replied, “Mrs. Dove-Lyon engages my time.”
Fenwick’s eyes cooled.
Marcus saw it.
So did Bessie.
Lady Harbrook laughed lightly. “There you have it, Mr. Fenwick. It seems the Den runs tighter than your gaming rooms.”
Fenwick bowed, his smile a practiced thing. “Miss Edgewood, my offer remains.”
“I decline.”
The refusal was quiet. Absolute.