But she couldn’t contain the tears and cried louder and stronger.
At some point during her bawling, another sound entered her ears. At length, she quieted until only the soothing lullaby resonated on the roof.
Rees quit playing when she settled down.
“Are you all right, princess?”
“I’m fine.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked again, though he’d lost some of the heat in his voice.
She wasn’t about to admit the truth, that she had thought him a romantic fairytale creature, that she had faithfully listened to him play for weeks, that his music had touched her, comforted her.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said instead. “I wanted to see who was making so much noise.”
He placed the violin in its case and locked it. “I didn’t mean to keep you awake. I won’t make any more noise.”
He walked across the roof like an acrobat on a tightrope.
“Wait!” She hugged the chimney for support. “You can’t leave me here.”
“Hurry up, then.”
“I can’t! I’ll fall.”
He was already making his way down the skylight.
“Rees, please!”
She waited, heart in her throat.
At last he popped back through the skylight.
“Spoiled, rotten girl,” he muttered. “Give me your hand.”
She reached for his outstretched fingers. He grabbed her palm and squeezed until her bones ached, but she pinched her lips together to keep from protesting.
After guiding her across the roof, he all but shoved her down the skylight.
“Don’t go traipsing where you don’t belong,” he admonished for the second time that day, and since it was her house, she was piqued beyond words.
He picked up the violin case he had set on the floor and headed for his room.
“Wait.”
“What now?” he demanded in a whisper.
She looked around, then down at her feet, dirty and smeared with blood. “I’m bleeding.”
“So?”
“So I can’t leave behind bloody footprints. Papa will . . .”
She wasn’t sure what Papa would do, for she had never been in trouble.
“He should wring your neck,” Rees said sourly. “I doubt he will, though.”
“I should think not.”
Grumbling, he pulled her inside his room and shut the door. “Sit.”
A low burning lamp illuminated a chair in the corner of the small room, and she took the seat.
Rees set the instrument on the bed, then moved to the table where he soaked a towel in a bowl of water. He handed her the linen.
“Wash up. Quick. If your papa finds you in here, he’ll wring my neck. Never mind this is all your fault.”
She wiped the grime off her feet and legs, all the while inspecting the cramped space. Except for basic furniture, like a bed, table and chair, there was nothing in the room to make it comfortable, nothing to tell her anything about the boy—apart from the violin.
“Where did you get the violin?”
“I didn’t steal it,” he insisted.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Oh? I’m a cheat, but not a thief? It’s mine, princess. It’s always been mine.”
“I believe you,” she shot back.
He had to have owned the instrument for a long time, she reasoned, for he played it like a master, better than any of her music teachers. He must have practiced for years. He didn’t even need a music sheet in front of him. But she couldn’t tell him any of that, not after she’d called his beautiful music “noise.”
She said instead, “Who gave you the violin?”
He turned away from her. “It’s not your affair.”
“It’s a fine instrument. It must have cost a small fortune.”
“Stop snooping.”
“I have eyes, Rees. It is a fine instrument. Do you deny it?”
He faced her, cheeks flushed. “No, I don’t deny it. It’s the finest instrument ever made by the greatest maker. Better than Guarneri! Better than Stadivari!”
She was taken aback by his grand claim. “Who made it?”
“My grandfather.”
He turned away from her again as if he regretted telling her the truth, and she was sorry for that because she just wanted to talk with him.
“It’s time to go, princess.” He snatched the towel from her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Get out.”
“Unhand me!”
He opened the door and pushed her into the hallway.
“I was just trying to be civil, Rees.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” She couldn’t lie to avoid the embarrassing truth anymore. He had forced her into a corner. “Because I don’t have any friends.”
“And you want to be my friend?”
“I want to know more about the violin.”
“Why?”
She stomped her foot, then winced. It hurt like the dickens. “Because I lied again.”
“About what?”
“Your music isn’t noise. It’s—It’s wonderful.”
After making the admission, she lowered her gaze and waited. He didn’t shut the door in her face, though he still might. A few uneasy seconds later, he walked away from the door, leaving it ajar.
Her heart fluttered. She accepted the invitation and went back inside the room. This time, she sat on the bed, next to the violin case, while Rees stood in the corner beside the chair.
She had so many questions for him and promptly inquired, “How did you learn to . . . ?”
Her thought dissolved when she noticed his shoulders shaking. He had his back to her, but she was sure he was laughing—at her.
“What is so funny?”
“Not a thing, princess,” he said between sniggers.
She shot up from the bed and placed her hands on her hips. “Tell me at once!”
It took him several moments to reclaim his breath. “It must have hurt more than having a tooth pulled.”
“What must have hurt?”
“Admitting the truth. Humbling yourself.”
Her cheeks burned with indignation. “You’re a wicked boy, Rees. Wicked.”
She stormed from the room.
“Come back, princess,” he said softly, still chortling. “I won’t laugh anymore, I promise.”
She remained rooted to the spot, her fists bunched. But after a minute, she unclenched her hands and returned inside the room, not because he’d asked her to come back or because he’d promised to stop laughing, but because, for the first time in two weeks, he’d called her princess and it’d sounded like the endearment it was supposed to be.
She sat back down on the bed. “You’re a poor servant and an even poorer gentleman.”
He took the chair. “Am I?”
“A gentleman would never laugh at a lady.”
“Then I’m no gentleman, and I’m definitely a lousy servant.”
“But you are a good musician,” she admitted, somewhat grudgingly.
“I believe the word was ‘wonderful’.”
She was about to upbraid him for stepping out of bounds again when he smiled. He was funning with her, she realized, and since she’d never had a partner to banter with, she didn’t know it was so pleasurable.
Emily tried not to return his smile, tried instead to frown as a proper lady would, but she failed and her lips twitched into a grin.
Turning her head aside, she stared at the violin case. “May I have a closer look?”
His smile faded.
“I’ll be careful, I promise.”
Slowly he nodded.
She unlocked the case and opened the velvet lined lid. With a gentle touch, she lifted the instrument and turned it between her hands for a full view, surprised by its light weight. It was made in the French style with intricate carvings on the back. The scroll that should have been above the tuning pegs was replaced by a head—a boy’s head very s
imilar in appearance to Rees.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I know,” he said with a wealth of feeling.
She had assumed Old Rees a tradesman with a curiosity shop or such, not a brilliant craftsman. And she was embarrassed by her misjudgment.
Gingerly she placed the instrument back inside the case. “Your grandfather is a violin maker?”
“For more than forty years. I was never allowed to touch his creations, but one night, I plucked at the strings, then picked up the bow. He heard me, and he must have liked what he heard because he set to work on that violin the very next day—his greatest ever.”
“And you’ve never taken music lessons?”
He shook his head.
“But how can you play without lessons? Without music sheets?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is I can’t see the music if I look at notes on a page. It confuses me.”
It confused her to think of “seeing” music and playing without sheets. How did he know what strings to engage? What tempo to keep?
“So how do you play?”
“I just do, princess.”
Well, that was a very unsatisfying response.
“What happened to your grandfather?” she wondered next. “Why did he fall behind in the rent?”
“His hands are stiff with gout. He can’t make violins anymore. I used to look after the shop, keep it clean. But I’m not a violin maker.”
He sounded angry with himself, as if he’d failed his grandfather somehow.
“You love your grandfather very much.”
He seemed uncomfortable at the remark and didn’t answer her directly, instead he said, “I’m going to pay off his debt, then I’m going to become a famous violinist and play at the Royal Albert Hall. I want to play there and make my grandfather proud.”
He’d shared his dreams with her, his hope s, and she was warmed by the sensation of being welcomed into his intimate thoughts.
“I’m going to make my papa proud, too. I’m going to finishing school in a fortnight, then, when I return, I’ll be a proper lady and I’ll marry a titled gentleman.”
“Poor little princess.”
She frowned. “I’m not poor.”
“It’s not what I meant.” He stood up and opened the door for her. “It’s late. You should go.”
She hesitated, then asked, “You will still play, won’t you? On the roof?”
He nodded. “I’ll play.”
Her heart lifted at that. “Good night, Rees.”
“Good night, princess.”
She left the room and smiled.
She had made a friend.
CHAPTER 2
Spring
London, 1883
Grey Rees sat on the roof, watching the line of carriages parade down the street. One by one the loaded vehicles carried away the calculating mamas and their impoverished sons after a night of dancing. The aristocrats couldn’t afford to snub Wright any longer, for he had a rich, marriageable daughter, and they had empty coffers.
“I didn’t see you in the ballroom.”
He looked over his shoulder to find her poking through the skylight. She was still as impulsive as a child, thinking she could do anything and go anywhere.
“Get below,” he ordered. “You’ll break your neck.”
But she was already on the roof, and he hastened toward her to make sure she didn’t fall like she’d almost done five years ago.
Spoiled, rotten . . . beautiful girl.
She embraced him. He stiffened, then trembled at her warm touch. The lavender fragrance in her dark red hair filled his lungs. His chin dropped to her shoulder, and he almost returned the embrace. Almost. He quickly sensed the danger in that. Instead, he pulled away from her, still maintaining a hold of her arm. He didn’t trust her not to fall.
Emily didn’t appear surprised or hurt that he’d ended the greeting. She always hugged him when she came home on holiday, and he always pushed her away. It never stopped her from wrapping her arms around him, though he wished it were otherwise.
“Why didn’t you come below stairs?” she asked in a voice hoarse from too much laugher and flirtation.
His mood darkened even more. Wright had ordered all the servants to attend the ball, not to dance, but to watch their all-grown mistress take the hands—and hearts—of every eligible bachelor.
“What’s the matter?” she said after his prolonged silence. “Aren’t you happy to see me again?”
“I am,” he returned at last. “Welcome home, princess.”
She stroked his side whiskers. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
She laughed. “No, I haven’t.”
But she had. She had matured into a woman. She was standing on the roof in her stockings and day dress, her long hair tied with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. So simple and girl-like. But earlier that night she had entered the ballroom in a white sateen gown, her locks curled and pinned with diamond combs, her ears pierced and adorned with diamond drops.
A woman.
He had watched her from the gallery. He had watched the young men look at her with approval and desire before the sight had pained him, and he’d sought refuge on the roof.
Her smile softened. “You still miss him, don’t you?”
His chest tightened at the mention of his grandfather, who had died six months ago from an apoplexy. Along with him had died so many of Grey’s dreams and ambitions, for there was no meaningful audience without his grandfather, and now that Emily was a proper lady, he couldn’t play for her either, like when they were children.
Pushing aside his hopeless thoughts, Grey took her hand and pulled it away from his face. There was still his grandfather’s debt to repay. Even though the man was gone and very little money was left owing, Grey would stay at the Wright household until every last penny was returned in honor of his grandfather.
But who would he play for?
That wretched thought haunted him, weakened him. He steered Emily toward the skylight before he lost his composure.
“Will you play for me?” she whispered.
The note of excitement, even pleasure in her voice twisted his stomach. “No.”
“Oh, Rees! You mustn’t stop playing,” she beseeched as he stuffed her down the skylight. “You must fulfill your dream.”
His dream?
What good was his dream of playing at the Royal Albert Hall if his grandfather wasn’t in the audience? If Emily wasn’t in the audience? Or worse, if she was there with her lord-of-a-husband . . . and not with him?
His chest constricted even more at the impossible, unexpected new dream of being with her. Where had the desire come from? It must have approached him slowly, over the years when he and Emily had secretly written letters to each other, when she had come home for holidays, always changed, more lovely, always so happy to see him, to hear him play.
And now that she was home for good, finished with her schooling, how would he withstand his feelings for her?
“No,” he repeated more forcefully as he followed her down the ladder. “It isn’t safe on the roof.”
When he reached the ground, she was there, so close. “Then we’ll meet elsewhere. In private. I will hear you play, Rees.”
It was the words “in private” that disarmed him. She didn’t want to hear him play as part of an audience. She wanted to be the audience. Once such a request would not have troubled him, but so much about their relationship had changed over the years—at least for him. Already his heart beat so quick, his fingers trembled. What would happen between them in an even more secluded place? He wouldn’t be able to resist her touch. He’d ruin her.
“I have work to do,” he said, his voice strained. “I have a ballroom to clean.”
He turned and walked away, but her lavender perfume had already settled into the fibers of his clothes, and he still sensed her with every step he took. No physical distance could separate him from her, and wh
en she called out “I will hear you play,” he knew he was the wicked boy she’d so often accused him of being. He knew he would play for her.
~*~
Grey put all his energy into fixing the roof. A leak had sprung two days ago, and he’d set to work on the repairs from dawn until sunset. The difficult and dangerous job had placed him out of Emily’s reach, and for the most part, distracted him from thinking about her. But each night, as he entered his room and washed away the sweat and soot from his skin, he remembered her tantalizing promise—I will hear you play.
He shut his eyes. After years of strict schooling, why wasn’t she a prim and pompous lady? She had certainly fooled everyone into thinking she was one, arriving with a mountain of luggage, carting a dizzy-aged chaperone who liked to tip scotch into her tea when no one was spying. Emily had even hoodwinked her own father. But she showed Grey her true, spirited nature. Even now, a fire smoldered in his belly. And soon he wouldn’t be able to resist her.
Grey rolled his stiff shoulder muscles before stripping off his clothes and settling onto the bed. As soon as his back touched the mattress, he heard a ruffling noise.
He arched his spine and slipped a hand beneath him. His fingers touched paper and he pulled out a folded note. Since he hadn’t turned down the light, he flipped open the card and instantly recognized Emily’s handwriting. Even before he read the words, he knew what the lines would say, what temptation they would bring:
If you value your violin,
you will meet me in the music room.
—E
He didn’t know what burned his blood more—that she’d stolen his violin and was holding it hostage or that she’d taken such an extreme measure just to hear him play . . . to be alone with him.
He crushed the note in his fist. If she damaged the instrument because of her recklessness, he’d never forgive her.
Quickly he rolled off the bed and pulled on a clean pair of trousers and a shirt. He then checked under the bed, where he stored the violin, just to make sure it was missing, but he hadn’t much doubt. It took him half a second to confirm she’d flinched it.
“Spoiled, rotten girl,” he muttered, striding toward the music room in his bare feet. But even as he fumed, his heart pounded with unmatched anticipation.
The Princess and the Pauper Page 2
