Seated on a plush velvet seat in the Oakland box at the King’s Theatre, Mary stared down at the stage on which she’d stood so many times before. It almost seemed like a distant memory now with all that had happened since her last performance. Leaning back, she turned toward her husband, his expression somewhat anxious as he gazed out over the crowd. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered as she reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. “There is no reason for it.”

He nodded tightly, paused for a second, and then dipped his head toward hers. “Muzio Clementi is here.” Jerking his chin a little, he indicated the spot where the Italian composer was seated.

“I would consider that a compliment if I were you,” she said, raising her opera glasses for a closer look.

“He has played with Mozart,” Richard stated. “Indeed, it is a well-known fact that Mozart borrowed Clementi’s B-flat major sonata for the overture of The Magic Flute!”

Slanting a look in Richard’s direction, Mary couldn’t help but smile. “From what I hear, Mozart was not the least bit impressed by Clementi.” She brushed her thumb against the top of his hand in an effort to reassure him. “You are ready for this, Richard. The pieces you have written are absolutely marvelous, and if Clementi fails to realize this, then I daresay there must be something wrong with his hearing.”

He laughed at that. “In truth, the only opinion that matters to me is yours.”

“And I adore your music,” she said. “So does Katharine, by the way. Your playing never fails to soothe her.”

He smiled lovingly at the mention of his daughter’s name. “Perhaps we should start considering a brother for her.” His hand closed warmly around Mary’s, the look in his eyes more mischievous than before.

She couldn’t help the blush that followed or the jittery feeling in the pit of her belly as she gazed back up at him. The effect he had on her was really quite scandalous. If only they didn’t have to wait three full hours until they could be alone again.

Beneath them, the orchestra finally started to play, notes swirling through the air until they soared high above them, dancing beneath the ceiling. A woman appeared on the stage, her voice accompanying the song just as Mary’s had done so many times before.

“She is very good,” Mary whispered, aware of the audience’s rapt attention. It filled her heart with pride and happiness, because experience told her that this was going to be one of those performances that people would speak of for years after—Mr. Heartly’s first showing of The Masquerade.

“Perhaps,” he murmured with a shrug. “But she is not you, and in my eyes, nobody else can possibly compare.”

“You spoil me with your flattery.” She spoke with laughter in her voice.

Raising her hand to his lips he placed a tender kiss upon her knuckles. “Would you rather I stop doing so?”

“Only if you wish to divest me of my vanity.”

His eyes darkened a fraction. “I can think of a number of things that I would like to divest you of, my lady, but your vanity is not one of them.” His voice was low, rippling through her and heightening her awareness. “No one is more modest than you, Mary. You are perfection in every conceivable way.”

“As are you,” she whispered back, “which makes us very fortunate indeed to have found one another. Can you imagine the alternative?”

Chuckling lightly, he shook his head. “Indeed I cannot.”

Neither could Mary. The way in which they had met and the events that had happened since, seemed to have been orchestrated with the sole purpose of leading them both to this exact moment in time. It was miraculous, in a way, given the odds initially stacked against them.

With her hand placed comfortably in her husband’s, Mary closed her eyes and allowed the music to guide her back to Thorncliff, to the night of the masquerade and to when they’d first met. He’d been a stranger then, asking to share her company. Now, little more than a year later, he had become the most constant part of her life—the father of her child and the only man she would ever love, until her dying day.