“Shall we place a wager?” Drake suggested.
“Ladies do not make wagers. More to the point, I do not wish you to feel a sore loser when you see that I’m right.” She smiled smugly, but at least she smiled.
Wouldn’t Charlotte be surprised after Lizbeth’s arrival, he thought, endlessly humored that the blossoming love affair between his cousin and her sister had been completely lost on his wife. While he had no doubt her sister would have headed straight for Northumberland at Charlotte’s request regardless, he did wonder if a hefty portion of Liz’s enthusiastic acceptance to the invitation was due to his cousin’s presence. A double-win of helping the sister and seeing Sebastian. Or Drake was a hopeless romantic to think so.
Charlotte was the eager one to change the subject this time. She asked, “The sonata on the pianoforte—who composed it? I didn’t recognize the style.”
The glass of brandy paused at his lips. He set the glass on the table.
“Did you like it?” he asked tentatively.
“It was coarse.”
And there it was, the dagger to the heart. Drake slumped in the chair.
“But I liked it,” she amended. “No, I more than liked it. I want to know how the composer crawled inside my heart. No one has a right to see any other person so intimately. It was incredibly vulgar, but…” She leaned forward, gripping the arm of his chair. Sotto voce she said, “I want more. Tell me, who is he? Do you have more of his music?”
His heart pounded.
“I do have more. Only if I may hear you play. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hear you play this particular collection of music. We could, dare I say, play a duet? The composer in question has written any number of violin pieces with piano accompaniment.”
She blushed. “I am hardly skilled enough for an audience, but I won’t say no. Tell me—who is the composer?”
Drake drummed his fingers against his leg, eyeing her hand still on the arm of his chair. Did he dare? Well, if not now, then when?
Pushing himself out of the chair, he offered his hand to Charlotte. “Come with me? I have something to show you.”
She stared at his proffered hand. “A name would suffice. Or are you planning to show me your collection of the composer’s work?” The words mixed curiosity with skepticism.
“Come.” He inclined his head towards the door.
Slipping her hand in his, she stood and followed him into the drawing room.
However much he would like to say she walked hand-in-hand with him through the house, the truth of it would more accurately be to say he tugged a reluctant woman behind him.
Outside of his study, he paused. He needed to gather his wits and be positive he was making the right decision. Once confessed, there was no turning back. Could he bare his soul to a near stranger who didn’t entirely trust him?
The music was controversial in theme and style, challenging convention. The music reflected him at his rawest, an outpouring of inner turmoil, which was hardly something he would want to share with another person. He may dream of sharing his music with the world, but he never planned to admit it was his own, rather the compositions of someone he patronized. Could he share all of this so easily with Charlotte?
“Tell me. Why did you like the sonata?” he asked, his free hand holding the door handle.
Her eyes brightened as she said, “It was unlike anything I’ve ever heard. While it tried my abilities, it was neither technical nor memorable, at least not in terms of melody. It was…how do I describe it? Rhythmic and emotional. I wanted to hate it, if I’m being honest. I felt every chord down to the pit of my stomach. I feel improprietous saying this, but the music spoke of my heart’s desires, as if the composer knew how I felt. As impossible as it sounds, the composer knew my sorrow.” Charlotte pressed her hand against her chest.
“Ever think the composer wasn’t writing how you felt, but rather how he felt?” Drake questioned.
“How absurd. Of course, he wrote how I felt. Why would a composer write about himself? A composer writes for the performer. I don’t know how he was able to capture such depth in the notes, but he did. He knew me, Drake. The notes were for me,” she insisted.
Drake chuckled. The sonata in question certainly had been for her, but not in the way she thought. He’d envisioned the piece accomplishing what his letter couldn’t, to explain how he felt about the misunderstanding and the sorrow that had ripped his heart.
The sonata was his way of communicating to Charlotte how he felt. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined she felt the same. To his chagrin, he realized instead of recognizing the music as a reflection of each other, they each saw it as a reflection of themselves. A sonata to bond them, yet they were both too self-centered to see it as anything but about themselves.
Drake laughed aloud at the irony. The music had touched her in ways he hadn’t expected. While she may not understand him from the music as he had hoped, he understood her better now. If what she said was true, then he knew how she felt. Oh, sweet Charlotte. If he could kiss away her heartache, he would. The trouble was, he was the cause of it.
“We are more alike than either of us anticipated, I declare.” Drake said. When she bristled, he added, “Don’t take offense. I mean it as a compliment. An observation. Despite our rough start, I believe we are well suited. I hope you’ll take to heart my offer of a truce.”
He squeezed her hand. She didn’t remove her hand from his, but she did look startled by the gesture.
“I’ll consider it. Now, are you going to show me the music or not?”
He grinned and opened the door to his study. In quick steps, they stood in front of the back bookshelf. A month’s worth of brandy he would have paid to have her expression memorialized on canvas when he opened the shelf to reveal the rounded room beyond.
He led her into his private music room and urged her inside to explore. She stood gaping rather than exploring as he lit the candelabras to flood the windowless room with light.
An old harpsichord stood in the middle of the space, the one that had taken residence in the Red Drawing Room until replaced with the more fashionable pianoforte. On top of its lid perched his violin. A music stand stood next to it, slender and gold, still holding the latest draft that had been troubling him for weeks. Bookshelves lined the curved walls with music scores and other texts. Towards the back of the room sat his desk, messily arrayed with scores, quills, ink bottles, and sand pots. With a grimace, he noticed one of the scores strewn out on the floor. If he had anticipated a guest, he would have tidied.
“What is this?” Charlotte broke the silence at last.
“This, my wife, is my music room.” He stepped forward, pulling the bookshelf closed now that the candles were lit.
Dashing past her to the harpsichord, he lifted his violin and bow to play, hoping to break the tension.
With a quick wink, he fingered a coiled melody, tightly wound at the base of the pegboard, a scurrying little theme before he pushed higher, releasing the coil to an impetuous and intensifying agitation. He glanced at her as his bow sputtered outbursts of brusque rhythms.
She stared at his violin, brows drawn together. With a pizzicato flourish, he lifted his violin from his chin and bowed dramatically. He had only played an improvised phrase, but it hopefully demonstrated enough of the same style from the sonata that she would recognize it.
“I don’t understand,” she said, staring at him from across the room.
Returning the instrument to the lid, he dashed back to her. “What’s there not to understand? This is my music room. I commissioned the construction when Mother forbade me from playing music in the house. She called it a waste of time, noise, the practice of commoners, effeminate, and a few other choice descriptions.” He gestured grandly around the room. “This is where I spend most of my nights, tucked away, flitting from one piece to
the next. I can never seem to focus on one work at a time, so I move from one to the next and back as inspiration strikes.”
Warm breath tickled his face as she exhaled a whoosh of air, as though his words knocked the wind out of her.
“You’re the composer?” she said, her question somewhat accusatory.
Drake smiled. “Yes. This room is where I compose. And at least half of these bookshelves are filled with my work. Some finished, most not.”
The color drained from her face. Drake’s smile wavered. Her reaction wasn’t building his confidence. She had admitted to liking the music, hadn’t she?
“I need to sit,” she said hoarsely.
With the flat of his palm on the small of her back, he led her to the harpsichord, sitting next to her when she took to the bench.
His thumb circled the muslin of her green dress. If he hadn’t felt the stiffness of her spine and known from previous experiences that the results would prove disastrous, he would kiss her to restore color to her cheeks. The whole of having her in the music room, of sharing his music, excited him. All his trepidation and hesitation fled, replaced with arousal to have her know his passion. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her. Here, she sat in his private room, looking lovely with her chestnut curls, her lip swollen from all the chewing it suffered, and her copper eyes.
Reprimanding his own reckless thoughts, he reminded himself not to behave rashly with her, but instead to woo her. Physical contact was not the way to her heart no matter that his blood raged through his veins.
“Well? What do you think?” he asked, hoping to change the direction of his thoughts.
Shaking her head, she asked, “Why hide this? Why not tell me?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I worried you might not like my music. Or might not care. You could have mocked me. You could have laughed at me or belittled me.” He shrugged, his smile sliding downwards. “Given the fear of rumors, I’ve habituated the secrecy. It’s my hobby, no one else’s. The room, also, provides a retreat from the rest of the house, allowing me to vent frustrations when needed.”
“You’re in here at night?” She turned her head to see him, looking almost startled to see him sitting by her.
“Yes. I’m in here, not out at a soirée or with another woman. I’m in here,” he said, his words morendo in tone.
“Oh,” she exhaled the word in another whoosh of air. “But the sonata. Who wrote the sonata?”
“I did.” His thumb continued to draw circles on her vertebrae.
“You.” She echoed. “You composed the sonata.”
Nodding, he splayed his hand so he could rub her lower back with all fingers, pressing the tips to feel her frame beneath the fabric. Slow down, he told himself. Woo her.
“Would you like to see more of my work? Perhaps play?” He indicated to the harpsichord behind them.
Still looking at him with a touch of wonderment, she gave her curls a little shake. He was more than disappointed. All of this and she didn’t want to see or play the music? Well, damn.
“No, not now.” She took her lower lip between her teeth. “No, right now, I’d like to kiss you.”
His heart thumped so hard against his ribcage he wondered if she heard it. Before she changed her mind, he leaned towards her, only to find her hand against his chest, stopping him.
“You misunderstand. I don’t want you to kiss me,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow, horribly confused.
“I want to kiss you. I want to kiss the composer who spoke to my soul, but only on the condition that you not kiss me back,” she instructed, slipping her hand up his chest, over his cravat, and around to the back of his neck.
With fingers tightening around his hair, she pulled him forward, brushing her lips against his.
He didn’t move. His eyes remained open, watching her as she closed hers and licked his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. He fought his instinct to return the kiss, to reach out and embrace her. His body responded to her, aflame with desire, but he sat as still as he could, allowing her to explore his mouth with her own and twirl her fingers around his hair.
She pressed her mouth against his and tasted him as though he were fresh fruit. He let her control his mouth, remaining passive, submissive. She pushed her tongue against his lips until they parted, then she tapped against his tongue, lifted it, and pulled it into her mouth to suckle it. By God, he was a happy man being kissed by this novice seductress. A happy man indeed.
That evening, Drake enjoyed a brandy with his cousin, the two men relaxing in the study after dinner. To his chagrin, Charlotte’s kiss flashed in his memory at unexpected moments of his conversation with Sebastian, distracting him.
“You promise to send notice as soon as she arrives?” Sebastian asked for the fifth time.
Drake waved his hand and nodded, then reached for his glass, warming it in his hands while saying, “Only if you promise to propose, old man. You very nearly let her get away.”
His cousin grunted, his dark eyes glowering. “She won’t want me. I can’t fool myself into thinking she’ll welcome my advances. I don’t deserve her, and that’s the truth of it.”
“You’re right, of course. You don’t deserve her,” Drake agreed, smiling mischievously over his glass as he smelled the dark liquid. “I suppose I needn’t bother sending a servant to announce she’s arrived if you’re not going to take action.”
“So help me, I will throttle you if you don’t tell me when she’s here.” Sebastian actually growled at him.
“Make up your mind! It’s all nonsense anyway. She looks at you as if you were a ripe peach. I say marry her and be done with it, but if you’d rather pout and wallow in misery, at least spend the next month tupping the woman before you lose your chance. A good romp in the field would do you some good,” Drake chuckled.
“You have no shame, Drake,” Sebastian replied, but Drake saw the twinkle in his cousin’s eyes.
No harm came from a little matchmaking, Drake decided. And suddenly an idea formed. Two ideas, actually. The corners of his mouth curled up. The next month should prove most interesting if he had his way. He needed the cooperation of Charlotte’s aunt Hazel, in some small part the willingness of his mother to grant a favor, and his own cunning. Yes, this month he’d play matchmaker, both for his cousin and for himself. With any luck, both sisters would be bedded, wedded, and dare he say, loved.
Chapter 18
The manor twittered with excitement. Charlotte’s anticipation spread like wildfire amongst the staff, all eagerly awaiting a peek at Charlotte’s family.
Charlotte’s own delight couldn’t be solely attributed to her family’s arrival, though. Partial credit went to Drake. The day of the nuncheon had been a pivotal day for her. Knowing she couldn’t entirely trust words over actions, she planned to watch his behavior to assure herself he had spoken candidly. All the same, his words had meant a great deal. For the first time, at last, he showed a genuine interest in spending time with her.
She wanted to speak to her aunt before she made any moves, said anything more, or even made plans for further interactions with Drake. Nothing had changed yet between them, but she had hope for the first time, as though she stood on the precipice of change. The air was ripe with possibilities, an almost palpable excitement at the dinner table each evening.
During their talk, she had felt it possible to build a friendship with her husband and from there, a romance. She was helplessly in love with the idea of his composing music, and oh, such music! Drake had always seemed such a shallow person, yet he had composed music of depth that reached into her heart, spoke to her soul. That man, The Composer, could have her mind, body, and soul. That man was neither shallow nor self-absorbed.
How could she reconcile these two so very different people—the vain Drake with the soulful composer? Drake walked through the world with an air of superi
ority, knowing all women he encountered would prostrate themselves at his feet in swoons of adoration and all men would envy his fashionable good looks and easy manners, not to mention his title. But the man who composed the sonata experienced the world as a chaos of emotions, at times fearful, even sorrowful, and other times hopeful.
In her present state of mind, she saw Drake and the man who composed as two different people. Drake, a pompous dandy who was so intimidated by his own mother that he could very well be called a milksop, and The Composer, a passionate and courageous man who would stop at nothing to show the woman he loved the ends of the earth if she so desired.
The two men would have to merge for her somehow, but her husband differed so greatly from the other man, she couldn’t connect the two with ease. When she looked at her husband, she saw Drake, but when she closed her eyes, she felt The Composer. Whoever The Composer was, he excited her, thrilled her until her toes curled. If a friendship did develop with Drake, perhaps she could more easily see qualities of both men in the single person.
Admittedly, she wanted more time with The Composer. He understood her emotionally and physically. The sonata had spoken of her inner conflicts and yearning. The person who wrote that piece knew the fear of failure, intimidating expectations, the sorrow of solitude, all while desiring love, admiration, and recognition.
He even understood her well enough to be kissed. All the worries of what kissing could lead to and all the anxieties of a demanding kiss that expected too much and tried to possess her melted away when she had kissed The Composer. He understood her most basic need and welcomed her affection. If only she could see Drake in this manner. If only he could understand her as The Composer did. Time with Drake, communication with him, and her aunt’s advice were the keys to happiness, she was positive.
Three days before Aunt Hazel and Lizbeth arrived, Charlotte found a new sonata on the pianoforte, a piece full of hope and desire, the phrases pausing in anticipation of a climax before plunging into another variation of the theme, always building to a climax that never happened, illustrating the aspiration-filled expectation of pure hope and want.
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