Music and Mistletoe: A Ridlington Christmas Novella

by Sahara Kelly

  Obediently she placed her hands in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “All right?”

  He spun her around, took her place and pulled her into his lap before she realised what he intended.

  “Oh…” He smiled at her gasp of surprise. “Now we’re comfortable,” he grinned, settling her against his chest. “This is a much better spot for sharing delicate conversations, love.”

  “This is…” she sputtered.

  “Shocking. I know.”

  She blinked at him, unsure, her posture stiff and uncertain. But she made no move to rise.

  He simply held her there, one hand holding hers across her lap, the other gently rubbing her back, soothing her.

  His heartbeat quickened as he felt her ease and lean against him.

  “You are quite impossible, Perry.”

  “Thank you. And you are quite lovely. I can’t imagine a more pleasant moment than this, can you?” He touched the nape of her neck, running his fingers over the soft skin and smiling at her little purr of delight.

  “Is it dreadfully improper of me to say how much I like this?”

  “No, not at all. I like it very much as well. I care a great deal for you, Grace. You’re a woman after my own heart and let me tell you there are very few like you out there. So I’m glad we’re here, sharing what we can certainly describe as a Christmas moment.”

  She chuckled and at last settled into his arms where he took shameless advantage and cuddled her close to his chest.

  “Now tell me,” he murmured. “Tell me how you came to carry those scars…”

  Chapter Eight

  Grace didn’t know how—or where—to start.

  It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to remember the bad times, that recalling them now was as if the doors of her mind needed oiling before they would open.

  So she sat for a minute or two, enjoying the warmth of the fire on her legs and the warmth of a man everywhere else.

  It was a strange moment; nobody had held her or cuddled her for the longest time, if ever. Max hugged her, of course, but a brotherly display of affection couldn’t come near to matching the exquisite sensation of being nestled against a charming gentleman in an outrageously shocking way.

  A sigh caught in her throat. Then she steeled herself. “I suppose it’s fair to say that I met Martin Chaney when I was nineteen.”

  It was a start, and surprisingly enough, she got the words out without difficulty.

  “He was…he was so handsome. Well-spoken and well-read; his family lived not far from Seton Hall and we’d crossed paths as neighbourhood children do—at county fairs, market days, and occasionally at some church fete or other, so we weren’t complete strangers. You can imagine the sort of thing. Happens all the time.”

  “Was your marriage arranged?”

  “At first glance, you might say that was the case. My parents and his parents were better acquainted, and given how close we were in age, it seemed sensible to put us together and see what transpired. It was a sensible alliance, but there was no pressure from either family.” She thought about it for a moment. “If we’d not liked each other, I doubt any match would have been made. But that wasn’t a problem.”

  “You found him acceptable, then?”

  “I did,” she answered quietly. “And more. I was at that stage of my youth when romance was all; to be swept away by love’s sweet passion was an experience much desired by all of us budding debutantes. So by the time we’d had our first dance together, a debut of sorts as a couple, I was already half in love with him.”

  “Not surprising,” soothed Perry. “A handsome young man and a beautiful young woman? Just the sort of thing that fairy tales are made of.”

  She nodded. “Indeed. And that is an excellent summation of our year together. A true fairy tale. At least how I perceived it. We moved to a house in London that his aunt had owned; I did all the things young brides are supposed to do—you must know—visits, and teas, and outings to the country. He was involved with several members of Parliament. I remember thinking at the time that he had his own growing political ambitions. Sometimes he would accompany me of an evening, and when he could not attend, I would ask Max to be my escort. There were more than a few of those…”

  “Why did he not attend, Grace?”

  She shook her head. “Most often it was a serious headache—and he would turn quite white during those periods, refusing to stay in a room where the curtains allowed in the sunlight. Others had told me about the same symptoms in people they knew, so I thought little of it.”

  Perry was silent, which she appreciated. This return to the shadows in her past was not easy, and his restrained acquiescence of her hesitant words comforted her.

  “Laudanum relieved his pain, and I was glad it was available, since he would return to me once the siege had ended, jovial and happy to be out and about.” She swallowed. “These episodes increased in frequency. I can see that now, in hindsight, but I did not know that the amount of laudanum he ingested was also increasing.”

  “How could you? Even if you did, it wasn’t anything you could control, Grace,” said Perry, his chest rumbling as he spoke.

  “True, but I had no idea of the devastating effects such a panacea carried with it.” She moved slightly. “With time, his pain episodes increased in severity…I heard him crying out some times. It was terrible. And afterwards his happiness became more intense. More like euphoria, I suppose. They were extremes, Perry. And I couldn’t see them.”

  “You were too close, love. How could you?”

  “I suppose,” she sighed. “But eventually, one winter night—almost twenty years ago now—we’d just returned from visiting friends. It was cold…that bitter cold that only January can inflict. I remember hugging my cloak tightly even as we entered the house. But he appeared hot, burning hot, throwing off his greatcoat, tearing himself free of his jacket and pulling his cravat loose. It was strange. His colouring was high, and I saw his eyes…so wide and dark. It concerned me, so I suggested we share a cup of tea before retiring.” A tiny shiver danced over her skin.

  “I’m here, Grace. Take your time.” His arms were warm around her, giving her the courage to continue with her narrative.

  “He briefly excused himself, then came back downstairs and we went into the parlour. There was a tea tray set out.” She managed a brief smile. “With a Dundee cake. I recall it so clearly.” It was almost as if she could smell the rich fruitiness and the tang of whiskey. “Our cook had baked several for the holiday season, and it was a favourite of ours. It’s a thick and heavy cake, so there was a larger knife next to it for serving.”

  Grace took a breath. “I thought nothing of him picking it up. Nor of him running his hands over the blade, other than he should be careful not to…not to c-cut himself…”

  Her voice tapered off as she shivered again, this time more violently.

  “Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you safe.”

  Once again, Perry soothed her agitation. In many ways it was cathartic to relive these moments, but in others it was a resurrection of the horror and pain she’d suffered.

  Closing her eyes, Grace continued. “He seemed so bright. Chattering away about the evening, laughing, it was as if he’d had the best time ever. I walked to the table and asked him to cut me a slice of the cake. He looked at me in the oddest way—a piercing gaze, as if he wasn’t quite sure who I was. Then he-he raised his arm and turned the knife on me, bringing it d-down toward me. I ducked away, but he caught the side of my face. I felt the skin tear, and then warm wet heat as blood poured over me.” She breathed in air to fill lungs that seemed empty. “I c-couldn’t even scream, I was so stunned…and then he just shook his head and said…and said…No more. I’m done with it.”

  She’d not realised that tears were pouring from her eyes until Perry wiped them away with his fingers.

  “I’ll never forget those words. They were the last he spoke because right afterwards he put the kni
fe to his throat and…and…”

  He held her tight.

  “I didn’t know he’d dosed himself with laudanum when we came home…” she fought for control. “I didn’t know about the injections he was giving himself…”

  The sobs became stronger and then turned into gasping cries of pain and loss. Vaguely aware that she was still sitting on Perry’s lap, Grace tried to calm herself, but the floodgates had opened and the tears fell without cease.

  Eventually she sobbed, hiccupped and sniffled her way back to some sort of composure.

  He remained warm, steady, a rock beneath her and his arms a barrier around her. For the first time in many, many years, in fact ever, Grace felt at ease with herself—and her past.

  “Better now?”

  A light kiss touched her on the top of her head.

  “Yes, oddly enough.” She glanced up at him. “And somewhat embarrassed.”

  He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Don’t be. None of what occurred was your fault. I recognise the indications of a laudanum addiction, but how could you, a mere child, be expected to know that?”

  She nodded. “You’re right, of course. But it was a terrible time. And I cannot forget it.” She touched her scars.

  As if he felt her sadness, he slipped his free hand under her chin—and kissed her. Softly, sweetly and so tenderly that the back of her eyes stung with fresh tears.

  “I have a suggestion for the perfect ending to this evening, love.”

  Grace managed a watery half-smile. “I’m sure you do…”

  “Not that,” he laughed. “Not right now. But this. Come with me.” He eased her to her feet, stood, and took her hand, leading her out of the parlour and back to the ballroom. Walking to the dais, he pointed at the piano stool. “Sit, Grace. Play something for me. Something you love, something you’d have me hear for the first time tonight. Let the music bring us peace and joy. Just like the Christmas season.” He lit a single candle and put it next to her on the warm wood surface.

  She looked at his face, so strong, yet with an expression of tenderness that moved her deeply. She’d never felt quite this way about anyone; certainly not as a girl nor since as she matured.

  This was new…a deep yearning, a wondering about intimacies, an eagerness to explore life and love with this man. He’d been an acquaintance, become a friend, and now…perhaps a lover, if she could set aside her own weaknesses.

  Her body heated as intriguing paths appeared in her imagination.

  So she sat on the stool, opened the piano—and played.

  *~~*~~*

  As soon as her fingers touched the keys, Perry knew he was lost.

  Her gift for music, and gift it was, could transform an ordinary pleasant piece to something greater. She possessed some kind of instinct that sought out the perfect rhythm, the ideal momentum…whatever the music said on the pages, she read so much more and made it part of her performance.

  He listened for a few minutes as she brought a simple Christmas carol to a cascading magnificence that would have stopped angels in their tracks.

  He gulped down his emotions…the ones that were so affected by the right kind of music.

  His whole being ached for this woman, for everything that made her who she was—including her talented playing. So he quietly moved behind her and knelt, waiting until she finished the carol.

  As she raised her hands from the keys, he touched her, a delicate brush of his fingers across her shoulders. She didn’t jump; she’d known he was there.

  “Don’t stop, love,” he whispered. “For me. Please.”

  She nodded and began something different, haunting but with a leitmotif that threaded through the chords and impressed itself into his mind.

  As she played the opening notes, he began to loosen her laces.

  A brief hitch in her music—and then she continued, letting her fingers dance as the tempo increased and the sound became more sprightly.

  He gently untied her gown, loosening the laces, parting the fabric and baring her back. The fastener at the edge of her bodice was no impediment and within a few minutes he found himself admiring the flawless perfection of her skin from nape to tailbone.

  A smattering of freckles here and there fascinated him, and he ran a teasing finger down the entire length of her, almost daring her to keep playing.

  He saw her ribcage expand with her breaths as he leaned forward, pursing his lips and blowing against the creamy expanse of silk.

  Muscles tensed and relaxed, her shoulders moved as she played, and Perry knew that if he were standing at the far end of the piano she would probably appear completely composed.

  But she wasn’t. He could detect the scent of her, the heat from her skin, the pulse throbbing at the base of her neck. Her music was soft, gentle, yet alluring. He didn’t recognise the melodies, but could not fail to appreciate their exquisite and overwhelming beauty.

  It might have been a new sonata—he had no clue. So he leaned close, letting his waistcoat buttons rub against her bare back. “What is this piece? I cannot recall it, but it is magnificent…”

  She swallowed, her throat convulsing as she kept playing. “I don’t know. I’m just allowing the music to come to me…”

  Stunned, Perry gulped down his amazement. “My God, woman. You’re…you’re composing this right now?”

  She nodded. “Your touch. It’s you Perry. You and me. When you touch me…I play the music I hear…”

  The words were whispered low and he would not have heard them had he been any further away.

  “You are a miracle of unexpected delights, Grace.” He leaned back. “Please don’t stop…”

  And he slid his hands beneath the fabric of her gown, skimming them around in front of her to cup her breasts.

  She paused, silence filling the room as a shiver crossed her body.

  “Keep playing…and let your fingers tell me if you like this…”

  He felt a shudder this time as he squeezed the full globes, but the music began again, a ripple of chords, point and counterpoint, edgy yet sensual.

  Just like her.

  He found her nipples with thumbs and forefingers, rolling them gently and daring to pinch them as he did so. She moaned, and the melody turned to a lower key, the notes painting a picture of something intense and exotic. The rhythm became that of a heartbeat, the chords dying down to a simple tune that tore his heart from his body.

  “Perry,” she groaned as he lifted her breasts. “Oh Perry.”

  She missed a note as he squeezed again, teasing her nipples with a fingernail. Then she caught herself and continued.

  Perry grinned. This was the best musicale he’d ever attended. And there was more to come. He slid one hand down, down to her lap, wiggling it between her legs.

  A sharp chord shattered the air around them, and she shifted on the stool for a moment, her thighs parting to accommodate his touch.

  It was an invitation he couldn’t refuse. He found her, hot and wet, silky folds ready to be parted. He delved deep.

  She played as if her life depended on it, fingers racing, body rocking, the triumphant chords echoing around them as he conducted her private orchestra—the tiny bud between her thighs.

  She gasped, shuddered, her muscles tightening, her music losing pace, the notes now misplayed, a cacophony that faded into nothing as she leaned back against him, took her hands off the keys and grabbed for his head.

  “Perry…”

  Her cry of completion was the most beautiful symphony he had ever heard.

  He held her close as she rode out her release, and gentled her as she recovered. “Come to bed with me, Grace. Now. Tonight.”

  Her head rested on his shoulder and her eyes were closed. He watched as she parted her lips and took a deep breath, then raised her eyelids and turned to him with a sensual smile that arrowed through him, straight to his cock.

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Nine

  Grace shivered, but not from the cold.
>
  Perry had loosely re-tied the laces on her gown, and together they walked from the ballroom, through the hall, and up the stairs.

  They could have been walking over the moon for all Grace knew, since her attention was on the man beside her, not on where they were. She’d made the decision, she’d said yes to his question.

  Yes to his desire, and yes to her own.

  For this one night, this almost-Christmas eve, she would give herself the gift of passion, knowing now that Perry was the only man with whom she could share those intimacies she’d set aside so long ago. In truth, she’d never imagined half of what Perry had given her so far; her first marriage had been loving and affectionate at the beginning, but neither bride nor groom had any way of knowing the heights to which the body could rise. Perhaps that came with maturity.

  All she knew was that they were walking along the upstairs corridor to a room in a house that didn’t belong to either of them, where it would probably be chilly and dark, and where they would create their own warmth. Their own fire.

  She couldn’t wait, and another tremor rippled over her skin.

  “Cold, love?” His arm came around her shoulders and he pulled her close.

  “A little.” How could she tell him of her need for his touch? How forward he would think her if she demanded he remove his clothes immediately and thrust himself inside her without further ado.

  She felt the moisture dappling her thighs and knew her body yearned as much as her mind.

  As if by unspoken agreement, they walked to the room at the far end of the hallway, pushing the door open and finding a few candles already lit.

  “Bless Edward. That lad deserves a few extra guineas,” approved Perry.

  Grace nodded, but shivered all the same. “There’s a chill, but I suppose we don’t dare light a fire.”

  “Until the chimney has been verified as sound, no. I’m afraid not.” He turned to her. “But we’ll make our own fire.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “Turn around and let me help you out of your gown.”