by Eloisa James
Disgraceful thoughts about long fingers drifted through her mind, and a feeling curled through her that she’d never experienced before. Well, how could it have? Surrounded as she was by boorish gentlemen whose idea of music consisted of drunkenly shouting out hunting songs after gorging themselves on beef.
This musician was an entirely different sort . . . powerful, gorgeous, inspired.
When the concerto ended, her mother sprang to her feet. Lady Bellingworth could never understand why her daughter was so entranced by music; she saw it, at best, as a necessary background for dancing.
“Wasn’t that delightful!” she said insincerely. “I must compliment the duchess.” She bustled away.
Cecilia was too dazed by the performance to move. She didn’t care for that particular piece, but tonight the concerto’s floating gracefulness had been deepened, even darkened, by an altogether masculine potency.
Her tutor labeled Mozart’s music an “eternally sunny day.” Not so, at least in this pianist’s hands.
Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . if she stayed where she was, the musician might come to greet her.
It would be vastly improper. Her mother would faint at the idea of speaking to a hired man who accosted a lady.
It was worth a try. Maybe if she smiled at him again . . .
Josie stood up, so Cecilia necessarily joined her. It turned out that the gentlemen were crowding through the door, now that the musical entertainment had concluded.
“There’s Garret,” Josie said with satisfaction.
Cecilia followed her gaze and discovered that the Earl of Mayne was looking at his wife with a glance so intense that it made Cecilia shiver. He lowered his chin, clearly issuing a command to his wife to join him.
Josie just laughed, so Cecilia nudged her. “What are you doing?” she whispered behind her fan. “I think your husband wants you.”
“Yes, he does.” Josie gave her a very naughty smile.
“I didn’t mean it that way!”
“We’ve been married for over a year, and milord is still having some trouble absorbing the fact that he must come to me, rather than the other way around.” She shrugged. “What’s more, I’m hungry, and Garret won’t wish to go to dinner. You’ll see; he’ll have some excuse or other for why we need to retire before joining the rest of you at the table. My husband is turning into a proper recluse. I expect he’ll want to start sleeping above the stables one of these days.”
“It’s true that I’ve scarcely seen you since you married. I was so glad to hear that you’d be at this party. I’ve missed you.”
Cecilia’s tone wasn’t judgmental, but Josie looked apologetic. “Garret isn’t interested in taking up his seat in Lords, so the season doesn’t have much importance for us. He’s rebuilding his stables, and I find it so interesting too, and . . . well, I have to admit to finding balls tedious.”
“As do I,” Cecilia confessed. “I always thought you disliked them because we were wallflowers. That’s why I hated the season: because hardly anyone asked me to dance.”
“That was part of it,” Josie said. “But I’m also bored by evenings when the chatter grows so deafening, and you’re expected to stay for hours without talking of anything interesting.”
“Yet house parties offer interesting conversation?” Cecilia asked, wondering if Josie would be obliged to drop her as a friend if she caused a scandal.
Perhaps not. Josie and her husband didn’t seem to care much for society’s restrictions.
Josie nodded. “Garret wants to persuade His Grace into breeding Argo to one of our mares. The late duke was most conservative in that respect, but no one knows how his son will manage the ducal stables.”
“The earl is learning his lesson; here he comes,” Cecilia said, catching sight of the Earl of Mayne threading his way through the chairs even as footmen hastily gathered them up. The look in his eyes as he moved toward Josie was so intent that Cecilia got a lump in her throat.
“Dear me,” Josie said. She turned to Cecilia and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I haven’t seen my husband since breakfast and I think . . .”
“I see exactly what you mean,” Cecilia said, laughing.
“Tomorrow morning we must have a long talk.”
“Absolutely,” Cecilia said, kissing her back, while she wondered how long it took to brew a scandal. Would she still be in the house in the morning, or would her mother have already whisked her off to the country?
The Earl of Mayne bowed magnificently before the two of them. “Miss Bellingworth, it is a pleasure.” Then he turned to Josie. “Ormond is completely negligent regarding his stables!” He sounded outraged.
“He won’t allow you to breed Selkie with Argo?” Josie said, obviously disappointed.
“To the contrary,” Mayne growled. “He said I can buy Argo and the whole stables if I wish. Told me to name my own price. I cannot understand the man.”
“He was always awful,” Cecilia said, sotto voce, because, after all, it was a terribly rude thing to say about one’s host. “I know him quite well as our mothers are close friends.”
“Awful?” Josie said, turning to her, eyes widening. “Really? But I thought you—”
“He’s not awful,” her husband said, at the same moment. “He’s a decent chap.”
“I apologize,” Cecilia said, taken aback. Perhaps Ormond had changed, because the boy she remembered wouldn’t have commanded the earl’s respect.
“Stop that,” Josie said, pinching her husband. “Don’t be rude to Cecilia. It’s quite likely that she knows a different side of the duke, one that he doesn’t show to gentlemen. You know that men can be horrid to ladies and fine among the fellows.”
Cecilia realized that the earl was looking at her—really looking at her—for the first time. There wasn’t any desire in his eyes, not at all. But she did see a sort of general male appreciation.
“That is entirely possible,” he admitted, nodding. “If you’ll forgive the presumption, Miss Bellingworth, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ormond lost his head around you.”
Then he wrapped his arm around his wife, and dropped a kiss on her nose. He murmured something, and Josie turned to Cecilia with an apologetic grin, her eyes dancing. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to excuse me, darling. My husband wishes to discuss the possibility of buying the Ormond stables.”
“I completely understand,” Cecilia said gravely.
“I believe there will be dancing now, before a late supper. I’ll see you then.”
“I fear that you underestimate the complications of the subject,” the earl said, with a perfectly straight face. “We shall have to retire to our room in order to address the question in a thorough manner. We shan’t be done in time for even a very late supper.”
Josie laughed, and Cecilia felt a thump of longing at the idea of having a spouse who adored her so much that he pulled her away from a party to . . . well, to be alone with her.
“The duke has offered me first pick of his horses,” Mayne continued. “Any number of men would jump at the chance. I want to give His Grace a list in the morning before someone else realizes his slapdash attitude toward his stables.”
“I completely understand,” Cecilia said, dropping a curtsy. “Good evening, my lord. Josie.”
Josie leaned over and whispered, “I saw that flirtation, Cecilia. Bravo!”
Cecilia blinked at her. Josie was funny, wry, and often the liveliest person in a room. But she wouldn’t have thought that her friend would encourage ruination, precisely.
After all, it would influence Cecilia’s entire life. She might never marry, nor have children. And yet the lightning-quick decision felt right in her bones. She did not want to give up even one more year of her life to ballrooms and insipid conversation, even if her new clothing did gain her a suitor or two.
Seeing how absorbed Josie and her husband were by their stables confirmed her conclusion. She had thought that she could be happy if she simply had someone to
dance with during a ball. But it wasn’t dancing that she wanted, not really.
She wanted some to make music with.
But if that wasn’t possible—and it wasn’t; no gentleman was interested in music—then she wanted time for herself.
Time for music.
Chapter 4
The footmen were clearing away the last of the chairs as Cecilia made her way to the side of the room. It seemed there was to be dancing, as Josie had said, so her new shoes would be put to the test.
She rather thought she wouldn’t spend this dance sitting at the edge of the room, given the admiring glances she was receiving from gentlemen. Even those who had previously considered her no more interesting than wallpaper were giving her the glad eye, as her governess would have said.
She turned about to see what the musicians were doing and discovered the pianist was coming up behind her shoulder.
One didn’t curtsy to servants. Yet somehow her knee almost bent in response to his smile. She spoke first, since they hadn’t been introduced, not that one had to be introduced to a musician. “Your playing was exquisite.”
“I was inspired.”
“Ah.” Cecilia tried to think of something else to say, but she hadn’t much practice with flirtation.
“Do you like the piece?” he asked.
Navy blue was an unusual color for eyes, Cecilia decided. Most people with blue eyes had—She pulled herself back together.
“I do not usually like Mozart’s Concerto in C. The rondo is disappointing, I think.”
All of a sudden, his large body became entirely still.
Likely she’d insulted him.
She hurried into speech. “The opening movement is magnificent, but it’s rather like Concerto no. 18, don’t you think? Both rondos are uninspired. But your performance of it was magnificent.”
He shook himself, rather like a dog coming in from the rain. “You surprise me. What did you—what did you think about my performance?”
Cecilia paused. She wasn’t sure how to describe his style. “You didn’t add anything,” she said finally, “except perhaps smallest and minutest of variations in the rondo?”
He nodded.
“Well, you remained true to Mozart’s intention, but at the same time you made the piece fresh. I particularly enjoyed the moments when you allowed the music to be rough without pathos, if that makes sense.”
“I was aiming for rustic but not sentimental,” he said, nodding. “When did you not enjoy it?”
“I wouldn’t say I felt a lack of appreciation at any point,” she hedged.
“But?” His eyes were so intent that she was starting to feel a bit breathless.
“Well, you play very seriously. I think you might overlook some irony, some of the privacy.”
“Privacy,” he said, his brows knitting together.
She nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her; he was staring at the floor, likely replaying the rondo in his head.
Then he looked up. “I’ll have to think about it.” The look in his eyes sent an instant ache down her legs.
He was definitely about to say or do something improper. All she had to do was gain her mother’s attention and she’d be well on the way to a scandal. Unfortunately, Petunia was nowhere to be seen.
“I gather that you are a musician,” he said, disappointing her.
“I would like to be a musician,” Cecilia corrected him. “If it weren’t improper.”
“I suppose that being a lady does curtail one’s activities,” he offered.
The party was eddying around them, and no one seemed to have noticed that Cecilia Bellingworth was in a disgracefully close conversation with an itinerant musician. It was rather irritating.
“You have no idea,” she said. “The pianoforte is considered appropriate, but not more than a few hours of practice a day, except in the summer when I am allowed to play as much as I wish. We leave for the country after this party as it concludes the season. I’ve been looking forward to it for months.”
He looked surprised. Men were always surprised when it dawned on them that women didn’t have their opportunities.
She would have thought that a professional musician might have a better understanding of the limitations society can place on people due to their births.
“Do you like the pianoforte?” he asked, cocking his head as if he were really interested.
“Yes and no,” she said, deciding to take his question seriously. “I truly like to play the violin, but my mother dismissed my tutor a few years ago.”
“Raised arms,” he said, surprising her. “Quite improper.” His eyes didn’t go below her chin, but apparently he had already assessed her bosom.
“Exactly.” She had to get this seduction going, but somehow she couldn’t think how to do it.
Men were supposed to do this instinctively—one might even say obsessively—but he showed no sign of being on the verge of a shocking suggestion.
“What about the guitar?” he asked. “My mother plays the guitar, and so do my sisters.”
“I would need a tutor.” She stole a glance at him from under her lashes. Maybe he would offer his “services.”
“I could recommend the same man who taught my sisters.”
“That would be wonderful,” Cecilia said, starting to feel a little depressed. He wasn’t responding to any of her lures, if you could even call them that.
There was a sound from the top of the room; the musicians were returning to their seats and tuning their instruments.
Her mother appeared at her shoulder, accompanied by the Duchess of Ormond.
Caught!
Surely there would be—
Her Grace was smiling. “I see that my son has found you, Cecilia. I’m so proud of his talent.” She turned to Lady Bellingworth. “I know it’s most unusual, but—”
Her voice faded from Cecilia’s ears.
She was staring at the Duke of Ormond . . . not a professional musician with no appreciation of rank or proper behavior.
How could that be? She’d last seen the future duke at fifteen. He had been a pudgy tease with bad skin and . . .
Theo had grown to be taller than most men. His shoulders were broad and his skin was unblemished, other than being slightly more golden brown than that of most gentlemen.
He obviously grasped the fact that she had had no idea who he was. He grinned at her with a deep wicked joy. “And here I thought that all the insects I bestowed upon you had made me unforgettable,” he observed.
“In your own particular way,” Cecilia retorted. “May I inquire whether you have a grasshopper hidden around your person?”
“No, but only because I hadn’t time to prepare. Seeing you was a lovely surprise.”
She couldn’t help it; a smile trembled at the corner of her lips. “Why on earth did you toss all those insects in my direction?”
“I’m hopeless at resisting temptation.”
Even now, she gave a shiver at the memory of the scrabbling little legs. “I particularly hated those grasshoppers. It was so horrid of you.”
“I’m sorry,” Theo said, looking as if he meant it. “But you see, whenever I dropped an insect down your dress, you would scream. When we were young, I just liked to get your notice. When you were older, you would scream . . . and shiver all over, just as you did just now.”
“It was disgusting. Of course I screamed!”
At that, his eyes did go below her chin, and her gaze followed him to where her breasts plumped above her bodice.
She gasped. “You—you reprobate!”
He leaned closer. So quietly that only she could hear him, he said: “Fair warning, Cecilia. I decided early in my life to spend my life trying to make you shiver . . . in every way I can. I’m far more learned in that skill than I was as a boy. These days I have no need for a grasshopper.”
She felt his breath on her ear and—sure enough—caught herself trembling. He held her eyes for a moment, and then tu
rned and bowed to her mother. “May I have the honor of Miss Bellingworth’s hand for this dance?”
He was the duke; this was his house party; he was asking for the very first dance. The moment he took her hand in his and led her onto the dance floor, everyone would think . . .
Something.
Her conclusion seemed so implausible that she couldn’t even put it into words. She was a wallflower. A failure on the marriage market. Of course, he didn’t know that. He’d been abroad.
Her mother had no objections, needless to say.
The musicians struck the first notes of an Austrian waltz. The duke took her hand, and everything in Cecilia’s body tightened. Heat raced through her with the same wild exultation she felt when listening to music.
It wasn’t until they were spinning as lightly as a seed puff on the wind, her skirts twirling around her ankles and showing off her shoes, that she knew exactly what everyone was thinking.
It was in the duke’s face, after all.
Theo was looking down at her with the absolute absorption with which she’d seen the Earl of Mayne regard his wife. As if . . .
“Cecilia,” he said, so quietly that only a seductive thread of sound reached her ears. “I taught my sisters to play the guitar.”
She gave a little gasp. “So when you said you would recommend the same tutor, you were offering your services!”
“I would be happy to teach you to play.” His heavy-lidded gaze sent a thrill down her spine. “With your approval, my lady, I could ask your mother if she would allow me the privilege.”
The question had nothing to do with guitars. It had to do with a lifetime of music, spent with a man who turned Mozart’s notes into a thunderstorm.
His eyes searched hers and there was desire there, but also reverence.
Cecilia couldn’t say a word. She was as startled as if—as if a boy with clear, dark blue eyes had dropped something that wiggled down her bodice.
This was entirely a different kind of shiver.
It made the Duke of Ormond grin as if she’d said yes to his offer of lessons. “But first I should like you to teach me to play that rondo ‘privately.’”
