He held out his arm. She hesitated, and she looped her arm through it, and thought how odd it was to be familiar with, comforted by, the feel of his huge bicep against her hand. And to feel an ache in her chest at touching him again.
“Thank you. Now let’s go throw fruit at Lord Vaughn.”
They arrived in the ballroom to find the other guests milling about a table promisingly burdened with a ratafia-filled punch bowl and a variety of little cakes. It had been pushed against the wall.
“Alas, no fruit for throwing,” Lorcan said to Daphne.
Present was everyone who lived and worked at The Grand Palace on the Thames and one gentleman they’d never seen before who appeared to already be drunk, and who was introduced to them by Dot as “the man who usually leans against our building.” They’d all been given a TGPOTT handkerchief to clutch.
Lorcan steered Daphne into one of the little white chairs arrayed at the front of the room, behind Dot and Rose, the maid.
Finally, Lucien bounded onstage, and called for quiet by extending his arms and pressing the air downward with his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to present to you what we like to call the Chagrin Trio—Lord St. John Vaughn, Mr. Angus McDonald, and Mrs. Pariseau—performing their rendition of ‘Ah,vousdirai-je,Maman.’ Conducted by Otto Heinrich.”
The audience enthusiastically applauded, and Delacorte put two fingers in his mouth to whistle, and the curtains were whipped open.
“Have you heard the lyrics that were set to this tune?” Angelique murmured to Delilah before they began. “Perhaps we can sing along. ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star...’”
Lorcan and Daphne glanced at each other. “Star” was always going to be their word.
St. John and Mr. McDonald were as white as their cravats with nerves. Mrs. Pariseau looked confident and cheerful.
Otto’s hand waved, and Mrs. Pariseau launched into the tune at a sprightly pace.
Everyone gasped when actual recognizable music emerged from the cello St. John was playing.
Then Mr. McDonald’s violin harmonized.
And together they all played a fully recognizable piece of music.
Three entire verses, with charming variations here and there. And while it wasn’t flawless—there were a few clumsy muffled places, and squawks—it was competent, and the musicians managed to inject the music with the passion and urgency of people afraid of being thrown out into a terrible rainstorm.
Finally Otto emphatically gestured the end of the piece with a vigorous chop of his right hand.
Thunderous applause greeted them.
They leaped to their feet to curtsy and take bows in every direction.
Already a little tipsy, the audience stomped and whistled.
St. John pushed the cello and the bow into Otto’s hands—he had joined them onstage for the bows. “I need a drink!”
And he leaped from the stage and all but bolted for the table of refreshments.
Lucien returned to the stage and cheerfully bellowed, “Let the dancing commence!”
The German trio remained on the stage and launched at once into “The Sussex Waltz” with such competence and verve they were at once forgiven all the flirting, eating, and loud and untoward merriment.
“I’ve something to confess, Daphne,” Lorcan said. “I don’t know how to dance the waltz.”
She smiled up at him. “I suppose it’s impractical to waltz on the deck of the ship.”
“Not to mention the dearth of willing partners.”
She didn’t say, it’s likely because you haven’t been asked to many balls, which was, in fact, true, and they both knew it. She stayed by him, while the dancers sailed by.
He watched her foot tap out that one two three, one two three rhythm. Her face was alight and wistful.