Nora sat at the outer edge of a sea of dames and dandies, crushed side-to-side and elbow-to-elbow in breathless anticipation of the spectacle about to unfold before them.

“I cannot believe I’m here,” she whispered to Lady Roundtree.

The baroness lifted her fan so no one would see her gossiping with a paid companion. “Of course you cannot. No one forgets their first Grenville musicale.”

Nora didn’t bother to correct her misassumption.

’Twasn’t just that she was about to witness a performance by the famed Grenville siblings, a feat which by all appearances was an honor and a privilege to everyone fortunate enough to receive an invitation.

It wasn’t the musicale part of “Grenville musicale” that held her spellbound to her seat.

It was Grenville.

Nora was inside Heath Grenville’s childhood home. A town house that had belonged to his family for two generations, according to Lady Roundtree. Mr. Grenville’s parents were under this very roof. Possibly inside the same overcrowded salon right this moment.

Even though she knew Mr. Grenville had his own bachelor gentleman’s town house elsewhere in Mayfair, Nora could not help but feel that she was peering inside an intimate part of his life.

The entrance hall had been stunning. Spotless checkered floor despite the crush of visitors, intricate plasterwork decorating the high ceiling, a gorgeous staircase curving up to the next level.

The current salon was no less grand. Towering sash windows draped with elegant jade curtains, striped silk wall hangings in a paler tone to match, furniture and moldings and cartouches that Nora could only describe as beautiful and extremely expensive.

Toward the rear of the otherwise empty dais sat a gorgeous, lacquered pianoforte the likes of which she had never seen. Although she hadn’t a single musical bone in her body, she itched to run her fingertips over the smooth keys, the delicate curves of the carved cypress housing.

“How many songs will they play?” she whispered to Lady Roundtree. “Is it always different?”

The baroness glanced over her shoulder to ensure they weren’t being watched before leaning over the arm of her wheeled chair to whisper back. “Twelve. It’s been the same set for years, and as you can see, the fashionable set will never tire of it. We know quality.”

Nora belatedly recalled herself. She was not the fashionable set, and the baroness was not her personal guide to Grenville musicales. If she could not keep her curiosity in check, she would not be attending another.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”

Lady Roundtree hesitated, then opened a painted fan to hide her words from any onlookers. “You are correct to realize that any person in another’s employ should remain silent unless first addressed. However, as my companion, whenever we are in a situation where we are unlikely to be seen or overheard… I give you permission to speak freely.”

Nora blinked. “You what?”

“Use your fan,” Lady Roundtree hissed.

Nora unfurled her fan and positioned it just like the baroness. “You give me permission to speak freely?”

“Not here, Winfield,” Lady Roundtree clarified. “At home, whenever we won’t be disturbed.”

Nora’s teeth clacked together as she immediately closed her mouth, but inside her mind was whirling. The baroness quite understandably would not wish to publicly fraternize with an employee, but the explicit request to be herself whilst ensconced in the privacy of the Roundtree town house…

On the one hand, it felt like yet another double life. But on the other hand, it felt like freedom. Freedom to be herself, if only for a few hours each day.

Before she could ruminate more on this surprising turn of events, a footman swept aside the heavy velvet curtain and the first of three dark-haired Grenville siblings stepped out on the stage.

“Miss Camellia Grenville,” the baroness whispered behind her fan. “The only one of her sisters not destined to shame her family. The one with the violin is Miss Bryony Grenville. Once again, she didn’t bother to curl her hair for the occasion.”

Nora was no longer listening. Her pulse had skipped the moment Mr. Grenville emerged from the shadows, and she had not so much as blinked since. How was it possible that he grew more handsome every time she saw him?

His gleaming black boots looked spotless and shiny even from across the room. His formal knee breeches and the dark superfine of his evening coat contrasted brilliantly with the snowy white of an intricately tied neckcloth against a gold silk waistcoat. His dark, perfectly tousled hair looked soft and inviting, but his strong jaw was set at an angle to invite no disruption.

Nora could not tear her gaze from him. How he strode across the dais, how he was far from dwarfed by the enormous pianoforte, how he commanded every stuttering breath she took just from being in the same room. And when he began to play—

“That’s the first arrangement,” Lady Roundtree whispered from behind her fan. “I told you; there will be no surprises tonight. Wait until you hear Miss Grenville sing.”

When the youngest sister lifted her violin to her shoulder, Nora could feel the vibrations of the music beneath her seat, along the arms of her chair, inside her very bones.

But when the eldest opened her mouth to sing, the entire world fell away. Never had Nora heard a voice so pure, so rich and textured. If choirs of angels filled the heavens, they must sound exactly like Camellia Grenville. Each note transported the rapt audience out of their bodies and into the soaring melody itself.

And still Nora’s eyes were not on the incredible soprano or the impressive violinist, but on the devastatingly handsome gentleman whose fine fingers flew across the keys of the pianoforte, yet his eyes appeared lost somewhere far away.

The song ended and another began, even more haunting and arresting than the first.

Lady Roundtree and the rest of the breathless crowd were in raptures.

Nora’s forehead creased. The anguished concentration on Mr. Grenville’s face hinted he was building up to something far more powerful than a mere crescendo. As if this familiar arrangement he could no doubt play in his sleep was tonight a beast to be vanquished, a battle to be won.

When the song ended without incident, her lungs let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Is it always like this?” murmured a male voice in the row behind her.

Nora’s shoulders relaxed. Apparently she was not the only interloper amongst this crowd of well-heeled regulars. The gentleman must have been just as swept away as she was.

“Always,” a low voice responded to him. “Although tonight is even better than—”

All whispers stopped as Mr. Grenville began the next melody, leaving the entirety of the audience frozen in place like a life-sized glass menagerie.

In alarm, Nora turned wide eyes toward Lady Roundtree just as the gentleman behind her whispered, “What is it? What’s happening?”

“It’s…a new song,” came another man’s disbelieving voice. “It’s never a new song.”

Camellia Grenville stepped up to the edge of the dais to face her peers.

“Tonight, I am going to sing an aria currently being performed at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden.” She took a deep breath and smiled at the crowd. “With luck, the next time I perform, it will be on that stage.”

A collective gasp ran through the audience.

Before anyone could begin to process the shocking announcement, she opened her mouth and began to sing.

Nora stared in awe and disbelief. Miss Grenville had been born to vast advantages that someone like Nora could not begin to imagine, and yet was willingly tossing it all away to pursue a dream she might never achieve.

More startlingly, her elder brother wasn’t just allowing it to happen. He steadfastly played an operatic accompaniment despite the pallor in his cheeks, despite the horrified murmurs in the crowd, despite the obvious anguish on his face. Her heart flipped.

This was a man who loved his family just as much as Nora loved hers.

When the song ended, scattered applause sounded from a few brave souls whilst the rest of the crowd erupted into cacophony, each outraged opinion vying to be heard over the din.

Others simply stood up and walked out of the room in disgust.

“Don Juan: A Grand Opera in Two Acts,” Lady Roundtree whispered behind her fan. “She shouldn’t even know about such things, much less sing them.”

But she didn’t motion for her footmen to wheel her from the room. A significant percentage of the audience appeared just as glued to their seats as Nora was, on tenterhooks to see what would happen next.

Poor Mr. Grenville. And his sister! Nora’s heart twisted for the entire family. It had taken a lot of courage for the siblings to be complicit in such a display, and even more bravery for Camellia to destroy her easy path in favor of a difficult one she felt passion for.

An elegant lady with a silver-streaked chestnut chignon leapt up from the first row and whirled toward the crowd in an obvious panic. “Everybody go home! The musicale is over. Out! Out!”

“Lady Grenville,” the baroness whispered behind her fan. “Normally, such crass shrieking would be the talk of the Town by morning, but I rather suspect no one will recall a word she says tonight because they’re all too focused on Camellia. Mark my words, that chit will be the next face you see in the caricatures.”

Nora’s sympathy twisted into self-loathing. She had not been thinking about the caricatures. She had not been thinking about the repairs needed on the farm or her grandparents’ fragile health or the boatload of money she could earn for her desperate family by turning the Grenville family’s pain into a city-wide mockery.

But could she afford not to?