by Emma Wildes
something he agreed to often. Occasionally he did so for his family, at his grandmother’s request,
and he’d played for his mother’s small, discreet wedding to her Italian count. Lazzaro had wanted
Vivaldi, naturally, and it had been Robert’s pleasure, the Italian master being one of his favorites.
And when his mother came to him afterwards with tears in her eyes and hugged him fiercely,
looking so young and lovely in her wedding finery he felt a little misty himself, for he loved her
and it was moving to see her happy again after the devastating loss of his father.
“Imagine London’s premier rake, he who is purportedly addicted to lovely ladies and the turn of a
card, a magnet for scandal, playing at a country house party in a duet with a virginal young miss
just to please his sister-in-law.”
Damien’s caustic observation interrupted Robert’s thoughts. He glanced up at his brother, who
had strolled up and stood next to him. “No one will believe it,” Robert answered, “so I am quite
safe in keeping my notoriety secure.”
Damien’s expression was bland, but that was hardly something new. “I find it rather hard to
believe, myself. Tell me, is there something about an entrancing pair of aqua eyes that moves you
to your present generosity with your talent? Brianna told me she was delighted Rebecca was able
to persuade you to play. I distinctly heard you imply to Colton that Brianna had asked you to
perform. In fact, you outright lied, which is not like you. Nor is playing before an audience. Since
the delectable Miss Marston is a common denominator in both unusual occurrences, it has me
wondering.”
It was too close to the mark for comfort and Robert gave his brother a black look. “Doesn’t
pitting your wits against Bonaparte give you enough to worry about? Surely my personal life
can’t compare to that level of intrigue.”
“Alas, Bonaparte is far away. You, however, are right here.” Damien chuckled, just a small
sound.
The trouble was, there was something about a pair of aqua eyes that made Robert do impulsive,
irrational things like dash about in moonlit gardens, damn it all.
As guests began to take their seats, arranged in the corner of the huge room around the dais that
held the pianoforte, he shook off his thoughts. He’d play the blasted set with Rebecca because
he’d given his word, though he was glad she had suggested he practice it first. The piece was
unfamiliar, but intriguing for all that.
The sheet music one of the footmen had brought him that morning was handwritten, transcribed
no doubt, but the composer’s name had been left off when it was copied. He would make it a
point to ask her after their little concert was over. The almost haunting quality of the notes had
surprised him, for it was soft yet powerful, lyrical and moving. There was no question but he had
never heard it before, and he had a wide repertoire, so it was puzzling. The style was unique,
precise—brilliant.
“She looks extraordinarily lovely tonight, doesn’t she?” Damien’s question was quiet,
speculative.
“Yes.” Robert hoped his voice sounded normal, but had a feeling it didn’t.
Rebecca entered the room with her parents, naturally. Arrested by her appearance, he stood to the
side, for a minute unable to move. Her gleaming dark hair was upswept but only loosely, so a few
strategic curls danced along the graceful line of her neck. Her gown was made of some silvery
gauzy material, gathered fashionably under her full breasts. She walked demurely between her
father and mother, and the latter said something to which she responded with a small nod. Then
she walked up to the dais and sat down at the pianoforte and gazed expectantly around the room,
finally spotting him standing there with Damien.
It was a little hard to be inconspicuous when holding a cello, even when hovering in a doorway.
Robert inclined his head, not in acknowledgement of her arrival but in homage to her stunning
beauty this evening.
She didn’t need to know that, did she?
Her tentative smile in return made him want to curse out loud, surely not a polite thing to do in a
room full of his sister-in-law’s guests. But he had begun to admire her smile too much for his
own good, like some sappy suitor who would pen volumes of odes and other doggerel to the
luscious curve of those lips.
Time to get this over with.
He walked across the room and the individual conversations fell silent, some out of polite
attention, but most, he guessed, out of surprise at his intent to perform. He glanced around,
making sure all of the ladies were already seated, and took the chair provided.
He was close enough, devil take it, to smell a hint of her perfume.
Quickly he placed the sheet music on the stand, checked his bow, and glanced at Rebecca to
indicate his readiness. Her slender hands lifted and she took in a breath.
And began to play.
About two bars in, he realized the depth of his earlier insult. She played like an angel, her touch
delicate, and the beautiful notes made the small audience fade completely into the background.
He waited for his part to begin, bow lifted, and when the first long note came from the strings of
his instrument, soft and mellow, he had to admit he was transported to a place where no one else
listened, no one else breathed the same air, no one else existed except for the woman next to him
and the music they shared.
He hadn’t even realized the piece was near the end until the last quivering note died. Robert tore
his gaze from the music in front of him and turned his head to see Rebecca still bent over the
keyboard, very still, her face almost like someone in a dream. Then their audience burst into
applause, flattering in its volume, and it was over.
He could now escape. It should fill him with joy.
It didn’t. He’d rather sit and play again.
Still, they hadn’t discussed more than one piece so he rose, graciously bent over her hand, and
because he really couldn’t think of anything to say, left the dais to take his place in the audience.
To his dismay, the open chair was next to the youngest Miss Campbell. When he sat down, she
fluttered her hands, and beamed. “Well done, Lord Robert. I had no idea you played so well.”
She giggled. “I actually had no idea you played.”
God save him from giggling females. Robert smiled, listening intently as Rebecca began another
piece.
He didn’t recognize that sonata either. Or the next. Near the end, she played some Mozart and
Scarlatti, but most of her performance consisted of music he’d never heard. All of her
performance was brilliant.
After it was over and she rose, becomingly flushed by the enthusiastic response, it was time for
them all to move to the dining room. He was forced to offer to escort Miss Campbell, who stood
and looked at him expectantly.
Then, to make matters much worse, he found himself seated next to Rebecca’s mother at the long
table. Lady Marston’s disapproval of him was so thinly veiled he should have found it amusing,
but somehow it irritated him intensely. She did grudgingly compliment him on his performance,
the disbelief in her tone probably an echo of what he would hear once when he returned to
London.
When he
said something about Rebecca’s extraordinary talent, she looked dismissive and waved
a hand. “A pastime, of course. All proper young ladies should be able to play adequately.”
“Adequately?” The word came out in a strangled protest before he could help it. Maybe it was the
glass of wine he’d just downed in a single gulp. “Madam, she’s remarkable as well as beautiful.
The composer would weep with joy if he’d heard his work so eloquently executed.”
He would have done well not to speak so vehemently, but the woman’s detachment annoyed him.
Rebecca’s mother looked at him with sudden cool speculation in her eyes, as if suddenly seeing
him not just as a young man with a dubious reputation, but maybe an active danger. He had to
wonder what her husband had—and hadn’t—told her.
She murmured, “Thank you, my lord. I’ll convey your appreciation of her skills on the pianoforte
to my daughter.”
In other words, Robert must not tell Rebecca in person. What the devil did he expect, Robert
asked himself. Even if he and Sir Benedict had a cordial acquaintance, half the eligible bachelors
in London had asked for her hand and been turned away. Her parents were obviously selective,
and so they should be. Rebecca Marston offered anything a man could want in a wife. Beauty,
poise, accomplishment. Then there was that unconsciously seductive smile . . .
If a man wanted a wife.
It hardly mattered. He didn’t. Not now, not at his age, not when his life was all his own.
He didn’t.
Did he?
He’d been too sinfully handsome, too close in such limited company, too him. Rebecca could still
hear the lilting strains of someone else playing her music for the first time, see the sensitive touch
of his long fingers on the strings of his cello, the intense look of concentration on his face, the
sweep of his bow.
Someone else playing her music. Not just someone else. Robert. However difficult the situation
of her infatuation might be, at least she would always have the secret joy of hearing him play her
notes, of him joining her in something so personal, so intimate; in a sense, she felt as if they were
lovers.
For it was clear he loved music. It had been there in his face, in his mesmerizing blue eyes, in his
posture and the beautiful way he’d played.
Had she sensed it in him from their first meeting? Maybe this soulful, unlikely communion is
what had drawn her to the notorious Robert Northfield in the first place.
Before their performance she’d been infatuated. By his good looks, his intoxicating smile, the air
of confident, sensual male.
But through her music . . . her second love . . . now she was truly lost.
The volume sat in her hands, still unopened. Rebecca perched on the edge of the bed in her
nightdress and robe, a low lamp burning for reading light. She gingerly touched the thin leather
cover of Lady Rothburg’s Advice and lifted it, then randomly selected a passage from the middle
of the book. If there was a chance at a possible true romance, this might be it.
. . . isn’t so much ticklish as acutely sensitive. Cup the sacs of his ballocks gently in your palm
and lightly touch the skin behind them with a stroking finger. I promise a most gratifying reaction
to this caress. . . .
Rebecca snapped the book shut with a low gasp, the knock on her bedroom door making her
jump. She glanced at the ornate clock on the mantel of the fireplace and wondered who might be
wandering the halls at this hour as she hurriedly shoved the book under her pillow. Her maid had
already been dismissed, and so she tightened the belt on her dressing gown and went to answer it.
Thank goodness, it was only Brianna, still clad in her elegant evening gown. “I rather hoped
you’d still be awake.”
“Yes, I was reading.” Rebecca gave a self-conscious laugh and relaxed. She’d never thought
before of touching a man’s genitals—other than Greek statues, she hadn’t even seen a nude male
—and good heavens, was the rest of the book like that?
“I see.” Brianna’s mouth twitched in knowing amusement. “That accounts for your somewhat
guilty look, I suppose. May I come in for a moment? I promise to not stay long.”
“Of course you may.” Rebecca stepped back in invitation, always glad of her friend’s company.
As girls, they had often stayed over at each other’s homes, and, in the summer especially, were
inseparable. At times they took their lessons from their governesses together, which was a great
advantage for Rebecca, for it had been Brianna’s governess who had a family background in
music and had taught her not only to play, but also some music theory and the more technical
aspects. After she had exceeded Miss Langford’s store of knowledge, Rebecca had begged for a
music teacher of her own. Her parents had been more than happy to find one and indulge her love
of what they considered something every accomplished young lady should be able to do. It
wasn’t until she began devoting hours upon hours every day to not just playing but composing
music that they became alarmed.
Young women should be able to play a pretty tune, but only men composed music. That was her
parents’ attitude. It was an intellectual task and hardly suitable for the upper echelon of society.
Composers were like painters and sculptors. These might be artistic endeavors, but still for the
working class.
Brianna came in and perched on the edge of the bed, looking very much like the mischievous girl
Rebecca remembered from her youth, with that expression on her face that meant they had gotten
away with something that might not have met with parental approval. “Well, how are you
feeling? It was a triumph. Everyone adored your performance this evening. They talked about it
all through dinner, and more than one person asked me to beg you to play for us again.”
“Is this part where you say ‘I told you so’? I suppose you are entitled. If it wasn’t for you, you
and Bella would remain my captive audience of two.” Rebecca went over and gave her friend a
quick, fierce hug. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. How many hostesses can say the talented Rebecca Marston played for their
country house party and was a smashing success?” Brianna smiled. “It is a true coup. I am the
one who owes you. Besides, how on earth did you ever get Robert to agree to play too? That
event will go down in the history books. I imagine the two of you will be besieged with requests
once the word gets about London.”
The two of you. Like they were a pair. It was an illusion, but Rebecca liked the sound of it.
She sank down next to Brianna and laughed. “I used an age-tested method. Guilt. He made the
observation—one I secretly agree with—that some young ladies should never be allowed to
desecrate music in public. When I explained to him I would be performing, he was appalled at his
blunder. I shamelessly extracted his agreement to a duet as penance.”
“Well, I thought it was spectacular.” Brianna squeezed her hand. “Perfect. Colton assures me
Robert likes to keep his musical talent a secret, so I thank you for your little spot of blackmail.”
“He’s very good.”
“Indeed. It isn’t what one would expect from a man with his . . . well, let’s just say his reputation
centers more on his talen
ts in other areas,” Brianna said dryly. “There is more substance to him
than meets the eye, as this evening proves. He is very good friends with his brothers, and you can
tell he is fond of his grandmother. He teases her constantly, and she dotes on him in her own
dignified way.”
The last thing Rebecca needed was for someone to extol his virtues. She switched the subject
back to her music. “I would be happy to play again, but I shall probably have to promise my
parents to confine myself to Mozart and Bach. I am not sure if he realized how many of the
pieces I’d written, but my father knew some of them were mine. I caught a hint of disapproval
across the dinner table.”
It was irksome that at nearly twenty-one years of age she had to answer to him for almost every
choice she made in life, but that was how things were for all young ladies of her class. From
father to husband, always at the bidding of some domineering male. Not even Brianna, with the
prestige of being married to a very wealthy Peer of the Realm, had any real independence, though
she’d confided that her husband had for no apparent reason told her recently he would no longer
monitor her expenses and she could spend her allowance as she wished.
“I don’t want to be the cause of any conflict, so play whatever you wish.” Brianna rose and
yawned. “Oh dear, I am so tired lately. It must be the country air. After the chat with you and
Bella this afternoon, I took a nap. I was so surprised, for I thought to lie down for a minute and
just rest a little. I never have been able to fall asleep during the day for some reason. Perhaps I’d
better say good night.”
“I imagine your husband would appreciate your company.” Rebecca grinned.
“I hope so.” Brianna smiled back, a shimmer of laughter in her eyes. “I am certainly working on
keeping it that way.”
“If the Duke should ever find out you bought that book—”
“He won’t. Why should he? Besides, isn’t it marvelous?”
Since she hadn’t had a chance but to read that one wicked paragraph, Rebecca hedged. “I just
don’t think he’d approve.”
“He can be a bit imperious now and then, but I refuse to worry about any consequences for
purchasing the book.” Brianna told her. “I will see you in the morning.”
