She just barely held back a sigh. After all, for three days straight now he had made good on his promise.
Or at least, he’d tried.
He’d tried harder than she would have thought he was capable of trying. For a gentleman who’d made a name for himself as a lazy ne’er-do-well, he was shockingly devoted to this cause.
She grimaced as she followed his gaze to her fingers, which were rather stumpy as her aunt had helpfully pointed out over supper the night before.
She moved her hands from his critical gaze now, wiping them on her skirts. As always, the moment she lifted her hands to play, the metronome ticking away above her head and her new tutor hovering behind her, her silly palms grew clammy. Her fingers felt frozen. And her heart…
Well, her heart seemed to be in competition with the metronome, racing faster and faster until it left that relentless even ticking in the dust.
“This is not working.” His words were gruff and quiet, but they struck her like a bolt of lightning.
She jumped out of her seat, panic rising up her throat. “Please do not give up on me.”
His eyes widened but she’d known this moment was coming—it always came eventually. Even Miss Grayson’s kind old music instructor had patted her hand gently and told her she was a lost cause.
Not in so many words, of course, but the meaning was the same.
“Pru, we cannot—”
“Please.” She clasped her clammy hands together pleadingly. Her pride raged. Her sense of fairness rebelled. But she’d been bracing herself for this moment for the last few days and had promised herself that she would not let him go without a fight.
For, whether she wished to admit it or not, she needed his help.
Badly.
It might be in vain, but she had to at least try not to humiliate herself in front of her aunt and her would-be husband. If her aunt was correct, and entertaining was so vitally important to Mr. Benedict then she needed to be up to snuff.
Or at least passable.
At this point, she would settle for passable.
“I assure you, I have been working diligently on the exercises you gave me,” she started, the words coming a bit easier now that her pride was well and truly trampled beneath her feet. She’d rehearsed what she’d say when the time came when Damian decided she was beyond saving and threatened to quit. “I have been working every minute of the day and—”
“That is precisely the problem.”
She blinked up at him. “Er...pardon?”
He pressed his lips together, his nostrils flaring with irritation. “I said, that is your problem.”
“My problem? But you told me to practice and everyone knows that practice makes perfect.”
“Who told you that lie?”
She was only moderately relieved to see that his irritation was giving way to his usual amusement. Even if it was at her expense, she preferred this teasing, mocking Damian. When he was serious—or worse, sympathetic—she knew not what to make of him.
“First of all,” he continued, his arms crossed as he looked down his nose at her. “Perfection does not exist in the world of music.” He lifted a hand to jab a finger in her direction. “That is your second problem.”
Her brows came up. “I have two problems now?”
His sigh was exaggerated. “Pru, you have more problems than I can count, but for now, I am merely concerned with the problems that are making this—” He jabbed a finger toward the pianoforte, “sound like an instrument of torture.”
“I-why that-I never...” Her blustery protests trailed off meekly as her gaze once more fell on the dreaded keys. It had sounded rather like something was being tormented.
Probably the composer’s soul.
Her lips twitched upward at her own self-deprecating joke. Gallows humor at its finest because her failure to master an instrument could very well mean the death of her future.
She scowled down at her fingers at that thought.
Surely not. Of course her aunt said as much, but her aunt was nothing if not extreme. If Prudence had failed to master embroidery then she supposed embellished handkerchiefs would be the defining factor in Mr. Benedict’s quest for a wife.
No, her aunt expected perfection—she demanded it. And Prudence had always done her best to deliver, but in this regard…
She sighed as her hands rested on the keys, making a discordant sound that was somehow superior to her entire performance. “I suppose you’re right. I am hopeless.”
“Who said that?” The anger in his voice had her looking up. He crossed his arms again. “Who on earth told you that you were hopeless?”
“Well, you said that I had—”
“You have problems, yes. Obviously.” He frowned and shook his head. “Really, Pru, were you always prone to such melodrama?”
She bit her lip as she studied him. “So you are not quitting then?”
His brows arched up high, his eyes widening in shock or horror, or perhaps both. “Quitting? Me? Never.” One corner of his mouth hitched up in a lopsided little smile that was at once familiar and utterly new.
Or at least, the sensation it brought about in her was entirely new.
“You have it all wrong, Pru. I’m not about to quit.” He headed toward the glass doors leading to the garden. “Not when I’ve only just begun.”
She hurried after him, glancing back anxiously at the still-open doors. It was one thing to be playing music alone with the door open and servants forever hurrying in and out to keep an eye on them. But now he was leading her away from the house, into the thicket of trees.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Away.”
“Away from what?” She quickened her steps to catch up to him. “Away from good sense, perhaps? It’s freezing out here.”
“Tomorrow I shall remember to bring you a cloak, but for today we don’t have much time and not a minute to waste.”
“For what?” Her breathing was growing ragged and she hated that he wasn’t even slightly out of breath when he smiled down at her.
“For the real learning to begin.”
His grin was utterly wicked as he strode ahead until they were out of sight of the main house.
“For the real learning to begin,” she muttered under her breath. How on earth did he manage to make that sound so ominous?
They reached a clearing and he stopped so suddenly she ran smack into his back. He whipped around and caught her as she stumbled back, keeping her from falling on her backside, not that one more humiliation mattered at this point.
The man she’d despised since she was a child was a firsthand witness to her worst failure...what was another fall at his feet?
Despair threatened and she swallowed it down with a frown. “What are you about, Damian?”
He smirked at her use of his given name. After countless prods and teasing she’d finally caved to the improper use of their given names and it seemed to bring him no end of joy.
He didn’t drop his grip from her arms, not even when she tugged. He made a tsking sound, that was part chiding, part soothing—the sort of sound she suspected he made when his horse was scared during a storm.
She frowned at the thought. “Why are you shushing me?”
“I merely want you to relax.” He tugged her closer, wrapping an arm about her waist.
She pulled her upper body away as far as his embrace would allow, her heart surging up into her throat at this intimate contact. He was so close his scent enveloped her and his body seemed to swallow her whole. “I would be far more relaxed if you were to release me,” she said as she pushed against his chest.
He narrowed his eyes. “Calm yourself, Pru, you have my word that I am not attempting to take liberties.”
“Then what are you—oh!” His free hand grabbed hers and held it up. And all at once they were waltzing.
Or he was attempting to, at least. He was moving in time to some tune she could not hear and she was stumbling alo
ng with him because...where else could she go?
Like a rag doll in his arms, she flailed wildly until he stopped with a sigh. “Listen, Pru. That is all you are required to do for this portion of your lesson.”
She stared up at him in the silence that was this thicket of trees. He had lost his mind. No doubt too many spirits over the years. Too much revelry had led this formerly sane yet wicked rogue to lose his sanity.
It was a shame, really. Particularly since he was holding her in his arms.
His eyes were lit with something she couldn’t explain. Fanaticism, perhaps, or maybe just passion. Whatever it was, it felt foreign to her. She’d never been one for passion, just logic.
“Are you listening, Pru?” he asked, his voice hushed. Reverent.
“Listening? To what?”
He started to move again, and this time she managed to keep pace, but just barely. “The music, Pru, listen for the music.”
She blinked dazedly. Music? Listening? What was he on about? He was teasing her. She ought to be angry.
She definitely should not feel like swooning again. She’d eaten breakfast this morning, there was absolutely no reason for her to feel dizzy.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered.
Her eyelids fluttered a few times but she fought the urge to obey his command. What was wrong with her?
“Just close them, Pru.” It was his little smile of understanding that convinced her to finally relent and shut her eyes.
His smile seemed to say ‘I know you think I’m a lunatic, but I promise I have my reasons.’
When she’d started to be able to read so much into a smile, she didn’t know.
“Trust me,” he whispered near her ear.
She frowned because...she did. To a certain extent, at least. Her body might have felt lit from within at the intimate touch, and his scent and his voice were doing odd things to her head, but she was not afraid.
And she supposed any normal lady would be.
But then again, he knew better than most that she was not normal. Nor was she fun or passionate or witty or anything else that would appeal to a wicked man like Damian.
“Do you hear it now?” he asked.
She huffed, ignoring the buzz she felt throughout her body when he talked so close to her ear like that. “Hear what?” She strained her ears. Did he truly hear something or was he playing tricks on her again?
She remembered the servants talking this morning. A fair was coming to town a few days hence. The center of town was miles away but she supposed it was possible that his sensitive ears could pick up on some performers rehearsing.
She furrowed her brow and concentrated but all she could hear was the whistle of wind in the trees overhead and the grass whispering beneath their feet. If she listened very closely she could even hear her own pulse.
Her hand in his was guided between them. Resting her hand on his chest his fingers covered hers and began to pat hers in time to a beat.
To her beat.
To their beat.
She blinked her eyes open in surprise. He was beating a tune in time with their heartbeats. The little smile he wore held no taunting and no mockery.
It was almost...sweet. Gentle. “Do you feel that?” he asked. “That is rhythm.”
She nodded slowly, her steps matching his as she felt the beat, on her hand and in her chest. Concentrating on the feel of it so much so that it seemed to swell around her, to fill the air between them.
“Close your eyes.” This time his command was a whisper and she didn’t hesitate. “Now do you hear it?”
Confusion and frustration had her brows drawing down, her lips pursing. “Hear what? All I hear is the wind and the grass.”
“Precisely.” His voice was so low, as though he didn’t want to disturb this so-called music.
Her eyes popped open. “It’s not music, just background noise.”
His lips twitched upward and as he spun her into a new dance step she did as he asked. For countless moments they spun and whirled and danced in time with the rhythm he’d set out and just when she was ready to throw her hands up and quit, she caught it.
A hint of a melody that seemed to be playing in time with their dancing. It was the wind. It was the grass. It was that combined with the sound of her skirts rustling and his breathing and the soft tap of his fingers on her hand.
She held her breath lest she lose it, but as she screwed her eyes shut he made that tsking sound again, pulling her in closer until she was resting against his body.
So very improper and yet she felt like he was telling her something without words. Relax, his body seemed to say. Be easy, his arms told her.
And so she loosened the tight furrowed brow and let her pinched lips part. She let herself relax into the sounds that swirled about them, creating a sort of melody of their own, and the rhythm that was pulsing so strongly now it was a wonder she’d never noticed it before.
“Music is always around you,” he said, his voice blending into the moment rather than calling her out of it. With his low tone and the rumble of his chest, his voice was another note in the web that seemed to be surrounding her, hypnotizing her.
“It’s around you, it’s everywhere…” His voice was little more than a whisper. “It’s inside you, even now. Do you feel it?”
Her yes came out on a breath that was little more than a sigh. Her body felt light and for the first time in her life, dancing didn’t feel like a tedious chore but like something out of a dream. Effortless and weightless and….delightful.
Her eyelids fluttered open and reality returned all at once.
His eyes were right there, his nose was nearly brushing hers. His lips were…
She drew back with a gasp.
His lips were so close they’d nearly been kissing.
The moment she broke out of his embrace, the music stopped. The rhythm was ruined by her galloping heartbeat that drowned out all else.
He took a step toward her. “Pru…” Again with that tone like he was speaking to a spooked horse.
She glared at him. That tone was insulting.
He sighed and stopped moving toward her. “We’ll continue tomorrow then, shall we?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, and she didn’t give one. She was too busy hurrying back to the house before her aunt discovered that she was missing.
Chapter Six
Damian’s uncle gave him the sort of disapproving look he was well used to, and it so closely resembled Pru’s permanent expression that it gave him pause.
“Must you leave again?” his uncle demanded. The solicitor and the estate manager were already waiting in his uncle’s office, waiting to discuss his uncle’s holdings. “When you inherit one day—”
“If I inherit,” he corrected, as he always did.
His uncle pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. Damian found himself thinking of Pru and the way she’d looked with her eyes shut. Every part of her being straining to hear music.
When she’d heard it…
His lungs hitched even now at the memory of her expression. Of the delight that had transformed her features and made her come alive in his arms.
That was the magic of music, he’d wished to say. But it was early days yet, and he and Pru had much work ahead of them.
He edged toward the front door. “Miss Pottermouth is waiting, I’m afraid.”
His uncle frowned. “So, you are still teaching her, then?”
“Of course. I made a commitment.”
His uncle’s face was a picture of a man torn. Damian could understand why. For nearly a decade, ever since he’d arrived on his uncle’s doorstep, his good, kind, formidable uncle had been trying to teach him the meaning of commitment and hard work and responsibility etcetera, etcetera.
But in all those countless lectures, he’d likely never intended for Damian’s sense of obligation to be used like this. Even though he was the son of a younger brother and one cast out of society, at that, his
uncle still held hopes that he would be the heir of his dreams.
But Damian had no such hopes, and in some regards he thought he knew his uncle better than he knew himself.
The marquess had not given up on life and love quite as thoroughly as he might pretend.
His uncle just needed to realize that.
He slipped out the door before his uncle could figure out a way to argue that while making a commitment to teach a young lady was nice and all, it was not as important as taking the reins of his uncle’s estate.
Learning to be a proper young lord was nearly as important to him as learning to be the perfect wife was to Prudence.
He made a sort of growling noise that made his horse whinny and shy away from him when he went to ride. “Sorry, Bert,” he muttered to the old stallion he’d had since he was a teenager.
He couldn’t stop brooding on the ride over, however. Between her great aunt’s aggressive, cruel remarks even in front of him, or the way she’d all but pleaded with him to help her, Prudence was rapidly becoming a concern.
He was worried about her, and he’d never worried about anyone before. Not since his parents died, at least. Once they’d left him he didn’t have to fear what people said because it wouldn’t get back to his mother and he wouldn’t have to see her pain.
But now…
Well, now he felt that concern again. Even now, riding over on a beautiful cloudless day, all he could think about was what sort of hurtful comments her aunt might have made today.
Something about her weight, no doubt. He gripped the reins tighter as anger made his heart pound furiously. He’d overheard her the day before. And the day before that.
The Dowager Demon seemed to have little care for who heard her cruel and thoughtless remarks.
Her inaccurate remarks. Yesterday morning when he’d arrived, he’d overheard her telling Prudence that no gentleman worth his salt would want a cow for a wife.
If her aunt thought that any man would be turned off by the sight of curves in all the places women ought to have curves, then the old woman didn’t know the first thing about the male species.
The School of Charm: Books 1-5 Page 45
