This story is intended for all audiences.  Enjoy. ~ Doreen

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

	"Iris, for pity's sake, stop fidgeting."
	"Yes, Mama."  Iris stood patiently while her mother fastened the delicate gold chain around her neck, then pinched her cheeks gently.  There was never any color in Iris's pale face, other than the occasional painful blush, but Mama would insist on trying.  
	"There."  Her mother stepped back and looked her over, as she had on dozens of occasions.  Iris could have said the next words in unison, she'd heard them so often.  "You look lovely, dear." 
	She turned and dutifully looked in the mirror.  Either Mama was lying, or her eyesight was fading.  Or perhaps she saw her only daughter through the veil of parental bias.  Iris had nothing to cloud her own judgment.  The maid's attempt to style her hair in fashionable ringlets only drew attention to the thin, wispy strands.  At least the pale aquamarine dress made her eyes look more blue than gray.  If only her eyes weren't so narrow.  
	But there was no use in crying over her looks.  She moved away from the mirror and forced a smile for her mother's sake. 
	"Try to be more animated at dinner tonight, Iris.  Gentlemen like a lady who has some conversation.  You've known Sir Mannerling for years, so there's no occasion for nervousness.  And he's quite fond of horses, as you are." 
	She opened her mouth to correct her mother, but thought the better of it.  What good would it do to point out that Sir Mannerling lived for hunting, and that his only use for horses was to run the foxes to ground?  "I will try, Mama." 
	"Another gentleman is joining us for dinner.  A distant cousin of Sir Mannerling, I understand." 
	Oh, no.  A stranger at dinner.  She was always more tongue-tied around strangers.  
	"Now we'd best hurry.  The gentlemen will be here any moment." 
	She held back a sigh.  Another evening spent in idle conversation, with her parents hoping against hope that Sir Mannerling would be moved to offer marriage to their dull, plain daughter.  At the advanced age of three and twenty, this would likely be the only offer she ever received.  And Sir Mannerling seemed interested, if only to relieve his widower status.  But how could she accept a man who had no liking for music? 
	She followed her mother downstairs.  The knocker sounded as they reached the foyer.  Iris stood behind her mother as the butler opened the door.  
	"Sir Mannerling," Mama said, sounding as delighted as if he was handing her the crown jewels.  "And this must be your cousin." 
	"Indeed he is," Sir Mannerling said in his usual hearty voice.  "Name's Danvers.  Geoffrey Danvers." 
	"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am." 
	The stranger's voice was deep and rich, like the lower strings of a cello.  Iris looked over her mother's shoulder, and her breath caught.  Why, Mr. Danvers was much younger than Sir Mannerling, probably no more than five and twenty.  He was tall, easily six feet tall, with thick dark hair that fell, untamed, over his high forehead.  She couldn't tell from this distance, but she thought his eyes might be a rich amber brown.  Quite the most appealing man she'd ever seen. 
	She barely heard Mama introduce her, but managed to smile back at Mr. Danvers.  "Pleased to meet you, sir," she murmured. 
	How would she ever say a word during dinner, with such a handsome man at the table? 
*	*	*
	Not only was Mr. Danvers at the table, he was seated next to Iris.  Yet he seemed reluctant to converse.  Even in silence, his nearness had her quivering with awareness.  Pure foolishness.  She could never hope to receive interest from such a handsome man.  Yet she wanted to learn more about him.  The dessert course was nearly over, and they had spoken but little.  
	"Do you live nearby, sir?" 
	"Unfortunately, no," he answered, his voice deep and resonant.  "I have a small estate in Derbyshire." 
	Her fork shook as she lifted it to her mouth and slowly ate a bit of peach jubilee, stalling for time.  Surely she could find some response.  "You have horses, then?" 
	"Only a few," he admitted.  "It is a rather small estate.  As my tastes don't run to hunting, I have no use for an extensive stable."  
	She could think of no response to that.  Perhaps he lacked the funds to keep many horses.  Perhaps he didn't care for horses.  Perhaps he wasn't interested in speaking with her, the dowdy, on-the-shelf female his older cousin might wed. 
	"Although I do enjoy riding," he added, somewhat belatedly. 
	"I do as well," she said, pathetically eager to find a common interest.  "I ride every morning, regardless of the weather." 
	"I can understand why.  The countryside here is quite spectacular." 
	"Yes."  Curses on her shyness.  Why could she think of nothing to say?  "I...I especially enjoy riding in the home woods.  It's so eerie under the trees...like a different world."  She stopped, fearing she was rambling. 
	Mama stood, signaling the end of dinner and leaving the men to their port and cigars.  Iris rose and followed her, reluctant to part company with the appealing Mr. Danvers.  Silly of her, considering she could barely bring herself to speak to the man. 
	But time alone was exactly what she needed.  Time alone with her pianoforte, the only instrument Mama allowed her to play when company was present.  Violin was her favorite, but stringed instruments were not at all the thing for a young woman of quality. 
	Her mother left her alone in the drawing room and went to speak with the housekeeper about some trifling problem with the upstairs linens.  Iris sat at the pianoforte, running her fingers over the familiar ivory keys.  Without conscious thought, her fingers drifted into a familiar melody.  A lonely melody.  Beethoven. 
	She played the Moonlight Sonata straight through, then the happier Pathetique.  As she was about to switch to Mozart, soft clapping startled her. 
	She turned to see Mr. Danvers in the doorway.  "Forgive the intrusion," he said.  
	"Not at all."  
	He moved into the room and stood beside the pianoforte.  Only then did she notice that he was alone.  She looked up at him questioningly, and he answered before she could voice the query. 
	"Your father and my cousin had private matters to discuss." 
	"Oh."  Matters such as a marriage contract, perhaps.  Here she was, drawn to this quiet, dark man, yet resigned to an offer from his cousin. 
	He ran a long, elegant hand over the top of the pianoforte.  "You play extremely well, Miss Reed."
	She felt heat in her cheeks, as she always did when someone praised her for the talent God had given her.  "Thank you." 
	"And without sheet music." 
	She nodded.  "Once I learn a piece, I find the sheet music rather distracting." 
	"A rare gift." 
	She shrugged.  "Are you fond of music?" 
	"Yes.  I even play pianoforte a little." 
	No man of fashion would ever admit such a thing.  Mr. Danvers, it seemed, was an unusual man.  "You do?"
	He nodded.  "Pianoforte, cello, viola, a few others.  In varying degrees of competence." 
	A most unusual man.  "Would you play something?" 
	His gaze was oddly serious, intent on her face for a moment.  After long seconds he nodded, and slid onto the bench.  Much as she would have liked to stay beside him, Mama would never have countenanced such behavior.  She stood next to him instead, watching as he closed his eyes and his fingers found the opening keys. 
	She'd never heard the piece before, yet the introduction was oddly familiar.  The music seemed to describe every unfulfilled need of her being.  The melody started slowly, hauntingly, a tune of aching longing, like a half-forgotten dream of bliss.  Then the bridge, building in intensity, until he broke into a storm of rage.  And finally a swift, agonizing drop back to the original melody, as if resigned to the despair of loneliness.  
	He sat with his eyes closed for a minute after he'd finished.  When he finally looked at her, she had to swallow before she could speak. 
	"That was...that was..."  She had no words. 
	"Tell me."  His voice was urgent.  Clearly, her opinion mattered to him. 
	She couldn't say he played well.  Such a passionate display deserved more than a tepid compliment.  She struggled for the right words. 
	"Just tell me how it made you feel." 
	"It made me feel..."  She closed her eyes, remembering the haunting melody.  "It made me feel a deep sadness, and anger at the unfairness of having to feel such despair.  Then acceptance.  And melancholy."  She opened her eyes and saw him nod. 
	She smiled, pleased that she had understood.  "I would dearly love to have the sheet music for that piece.  Although I could never play it as beautifully as you did." 
	His hands moved over the instrument, playing a delicate D‑minor arpeggio.  "I shall send you a copy." 
	"Oh, I don't wish to impose," she protested.  "Only tell me the name of the composer, and I can easily purchase a copy." 
	"Unfortunately, it is not yet published." 
	"You know the composer?"  How lucky he was, to have such a talented friend. 
	His fingers stilled.  "I am the composer." 
	She drew in a breath, and stared at him.  Unbelievable, that such a stunning piece could have sprung from the imagination of the man sitting before her, at her very own pianoforte.  "You are very talented, sir.  May I ask what inspired the piece?" 
	She wished the question unasked as soon as she spoke.  A wary look came into his eyes, and he glanced away. 
	"Forgive me," she said, speaking quickly.  "I had no right to ask.  My wretched curiosity, you know." 
	"It's quite all right," he answered, but he didn't look at her.  "I wrote the piece last year, when a neighbor's engagement was announced.  A young lady whom I'd hoped to marry myself." 
	He loved another.  Pain wrenched her heart.  Her foolish heart.  Men like the talented, handsome Mr. Danvers were not for the plain, awkward Iris Reeds of this world.  How could any woman have refused him?  Yet his suffering had led to a great creation.  "I'm sorry to remind you of unpleasant times," she said.  Puny words, totally inadequate to comfort him.  "But the piece is magnificent."  
	"Some good has come of it for me, then," he said, tracing another arpeggio across the keyboard.  "I was a fool to even hope a lady would be willing to see me across the breakfast table every day for the rest of her life." 
	Her brow furrowed.  "What do you mean?" 
	He missed a note in the sliding scale he'd been playing, and stopped.  "Miss Reed, it's kind of you to pretend not to notice.  But I face myself in the mirror each morning, and I assure you, I have long since come to terms with this beak of a nose and these elephant ears." 
	He must be jesting, yet his jaw was clenched.  He truly believed himself ill-favored.  The handsomest man she'd ever met.  "Perhaps your nose is a bit larger than the common way," she stammered, "but that hardly makes you unattractive." 
	He gave a soft snort of derision, and shook his head.  "You are too kind, and too lovely, to speak truth on the subject." 
	Lovely?  How dare he.  "Don't mock me," she said.  "I may be as plain as a wren, but I don't lie." 
	He looked puzzled.  "Plain?  You?  With that baby-fine hair and delicate mouth, you could be an angel who stepped out of a Botticelli painting." 
	Incredible words.  He must be jesting.  Yet his eyes, those beautiful amber brown eyes, seemed sincere.  "And your skin is almost translucent," he murmured.  His hand reached towards her face, slowly, as if afraid she might bolt if he moved too quickly.  Her breath caught.  She wanted the touch of his hand against her skin more than anything in the whole world. 
	Voices in the hallway made her leap away from him and turn towards the fireplace.  She had barely a moment to compose herself before her parents and Sir Mannerling swept into the room, laughing boisterously. 
	"Miss Reed," Sir Mannerling said, coming to her side.  He seemed artificially bluff and hearty, compared to the quiet steadiness of Mr. Danvers.  "Has my cousin been entertaining you with his little tunes?" 
	How rude, to dismiss the work of a brilliant composer so indifferently.  She opened her mouth to protest, but saw Mr. Danvers shaking his head slightly at the edge of her vision.  "No indeed, sir," she said.  "I was merely practicing a few scales." 
	"Excellent," he said dismissively.  "Your parents have been kind enough to invite me to tea tomorrow.  I hope to have a few private moments of your time, Miss Reed." 
	Oh, no.  Her parents were grinning broadly.  He'd offered.  She'd finally had an offer. 
	But how could she accept him, when she felt such a strong attraction for his cousin?  Could she give up her only chance at marriage, at a home and family of her own, for a man who would never offer for her?  A man who loved another. 
	Yet there had been moments when he'd seemed interested in her.  He'd called her lovely.  He'd compared her to an angel.  If she waited.... 
	He stood at the windows, staring out into the cold night, as remote and untouchable as the moon.  Even if his heart was free, he would never offer for her.  He needed a lady who could inspire him, a lady who could make him feel the kind of passion that gave rise to exquisite compositions like the one he'd played for her tonight.  
	This was her only offer of marriage, and she feared she must accept it. 
*	*	*
	There was an odd kind of freedom in being an almost-affianced bride.  Mama went upstairs early, and Papa and Sir Mannerling went to the stables for a quick look at a new hunter, leaving her alone with Mr. Danvers.  Quite improper, though she was not the type to drive a man to reckless lust.  And she was happy to be alone with Mr. Danvers again. 
	But she felt awkward, knowing that he loved another.  Knowing that his cousin intended to ask for her hand on the morrow.  They stood at the fireplace, looking into the dying embers.  She searched for words to express what he meant to her, and came up sadly flat.  As usual.  "Thank you for sharing your composition with me," she said at last.  "I'll never forget the experience.  I hope it wasn't too painful for you to relive those memories." 
	"It was, but not in the way you imagine." 
	"I don't understand." 
	"Any feelings I had for the lady in question are long resolved.  Only now do I realize that what I felt for her was mere infatuation." 
	"Oh.  Well, the piece is still phenomenal.  Quite moving.  A masterpiece."  There she went, babbling again.  If he no longer loved the lady, was there a chance...a remote chance.... 
	He turned to her, and looked steadily into her eyes.  "Miss Reed, I have no right to ask.  But do you love my cousin?" 
	"Sir, I..." she meant to say it was a most improper question, but that seemed missish.  Especially given her feelings for him.  "No," she said bluntly. 
	"Then you must not marry him." 
	"I know."  A tear slid wetly down her cheek.  How humiliating.  She looked at the floor, trying to hide her emotions from him.  
	He took her hand, and she lifted her gaze, wiping the errant tear with her free hand.  His hand felt so warm, so comforting.  It surrounded her own fingers with gentle strength.
	"Do you know why I played that piece for you tonight?" he asked. 
	"No."  She'd never imagined he had a particular reason. 
	"Because I wanted you to know how I felt, Iris."  Her name sounded so musical in that deep, rich voice.  "Because meeting you aroused those feelings in me.  Feelings of longing for someone I could never have." 
	You can have me. 
	The edge of his mouth quirked up in a grin.  "Can I indeed?" 
	Heat bloomed in her cheeks.  Oh, no.  She'd spoken the thought aloud.  
	He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek.  So, so gently.  Like a caress.  Like a promise.  "I find these roses in your cheeks quite endearing, " he murmured. 
	She knew they looked horrible, like splotches of bright red paint on her pale face.  Yet she leaned her head into his hand, wanting to believe him.  "They're only awkward blushes." 
	"I should like nothing more than to see you blush every day of my life." 
	He moved closer, closer, until she closed her eyes and felt his lips against hers, warm and gentle.  Then more insistent, as his arms went around her and he slanted his mouth against hers with increasing passion.  She leaned into the heat of his body, meeting his lips eagerly.  
	When he pulled away, her fingers were tangled in his hair, and his hands were on her backside, pulling her tight against his hips.  How scandalous.  How shocking.  How wonderful.  He nuzzled her neck with his lips, making her knees go weak.  "Geoffrey," she whispered, wanting him to kiss her again. 
	He took an unsteady breath, and moved his hands to her arms.  "Easy, love," he said.  "You’re as tempting as sin, but I mustn't rush you." 
	She didn't feel rushed.  She felt ripe, and warm, and shockingly excited.  She pressed against him, delighted by his deep groan. 
	"You little minx," he said against the top of her head.  "Does this mean you accept my offer?" 
	"Offer?"  She leaned back, just far enough to see his face, and arched an eyebrow.  "I heard no offer, sir." 
	She meant only to tease him, but he dropped to one knee and took her hand, looking up at her solemnly.  "Iris, I want nothing more than to have you for my wife.  But I can give you little more than my heart, my loyalty, and my love.  My estate has only a modest income, and much of it goes back into the land.  But there should be enough to keep you in comfort, and I promise you'll have all of the music your heart desires.  Will you have me?" 
	"Yes!" 
	He stood and swept her into his arms, into another searing kiss.  He straightened too soon, his gaze troubled.  "I'll never be a dashing, handsome man, Iris.  Are you certain you can be happy with me?  Can you tolerate this homely face of mine?"
	She reached up and touched his cheek, cupped his ear.  Perhaps they did stick out a bit, but his wonderfully thick hair disguised that fact.  "I see nothing homely in your face," she answered truthfully.  "But you..."  She intentionally echoed his earlier words.  "Could you bear to see me over the breakfast table every morning?" 
	He skimmed his lips over her forehead, down one cheek.  "I could more than bear it.  Seeing you every morning -- every night -- would be a pleasure, my love." 
	He kissed her again.  His lips parted hers, and she felt the hot warmth of his tongue exploring her mouth.  Oh, he made her feel dizzy with longing.  She had never dreamed such passion existed, not for her, not for anyone.  
	"What the devil is going on here?" 
	They sprang apart, and she faced her father in horror.  Sir Mannerling was behind him, looking as shocked and disgusted as Papa did.  Beside her, Geoffrey cleared his throat.  "Sir, I apologize.  Miss Reed has just consented to be my wife, and I was overcome with emotion." 
	"I know damned well what you were overcome with," Papa snarled.  "How dare you take advantage of my daughter in her own  home?  And you, miss," he bellowed at Iris.  "How could you behave like this, and with a man you've only known for a few short hours?  You're practically engaged to his cousin, for pity's sake." 
	"I'm sorry, Papa," she mumbled.  
	Geoffrey moved closer, and put his hand on her back.  She took strength from his touch.  "If you must vent your anger, sir, berate me," he said quietly.  "Miss Reed is entirely blameless.  She did nothing more than accept my offer." 
	"I forbid it." 
	"You can't," she said.  "I'm of age.  I can marry whomever I please." 
	"You won't marry a wastrel like him.  Not if I have to chain you up in your room, you won't."  
	"Now see here," Sir Mannerling protested.  "My cousin's a fine man.  Won't have you insult him.  The gel could do far worse." 
	Her father clenched a fist at his side.  "You'd make her a better husband, Edward." 
	"Maybe yes, maybe no," Sir Mannerling said, his usual cheerfulness unaffected by losing his prospective bride.  "But that's no matter now, is it?  You might prefer me, but the chit has other ideas.  And he's a good lad, though I never knew he had such an impetuous streak in him."  
	"I'm sorry, Edward," Geoffrey said. 
	His cousin waved his hand magnanimously.  "Think nothing of it, my boy.  Just take good care of her, and name me godfather to your firstborn." 
	"That I shall."  He turned to her father.  "Sir?  Do we have your blessing?  I won't ask Iris to choose between me and her family." 
	She clutched at his arm.  He couldn't mean it.  
	"Very prettily said," Papa replied.  "But I can see her choice is made.  Come back tomorrow for tea.  By then I may not want to knock you down." 
	"Thank you, sir." 
	"But I warn you now, I'm going to insist on a long engagement.  Six months, at the very least." 
	"Six months?" she cried.  He couldn't be serious.  Sir Mannerling chuckled, and she felt a familiar heat in her face.  She must have sounded desperately eager to be wed. 
	"Six months," Geoffrey agreed.  He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers.  "It will give your parents time to reconcile themselves to the idea, Iris.  And it will give us more time to get to know each other." 
	Fear made her frown.  "You need more time?" 
	He smiled at her tenderly, as if they were alone.  "Of course not.  But having waited six and twenty years for you, I can easily wait six more months.  And I'll compose some very interesting music during those six months."  He bent to whisper in her ear.  "I'll play it for you, and you can guess what I'm feeling." 
	She blushed anew.  "I'm sure I will." 

© 1991 by Doreen DeSalvo
www.DoreenDeSalvo.com