by Darcy Burke
Upon finishing, Henri swept them a bow full of flourishes. Clara’s hands stung from her applause, but the valet certainly deserved it. The innkeeper’s wife hastened to bring him a new mug of ale, then handed it over like a blushing maiden.
“’Tis as good as being in London. Or Paris at that!” She glanced at her husband. “Who’d have thought, John? Our very own parlor, turned into a concert hall. But you, sir.” She directed her crescent smile at Darien. “Do you sing as well? I saw you carry in a case of some kind.”
“I do not sing—”
“And thank heaven for that,” Henri said, rolling his eyes.
“—but I will play. In fact,” Darien looked at Nicholas, “what do you think of attempting Il Diavolo?”
Clara saw the convulsive movement as Nicholas swallowed, and then her brother straightened his shoulders. “Very well. I will forgive your mistakes, if you will forgive mine.”
“Agreed.” Darien rose. “Let me fetch my violin and the music. We shall master this piece yet.”
“Come, come,” Henri said, gesturing to their hosts as Darien exited the room. “No need to stand in your own doorway like unwelcome guests. Be seated, and you will hear something marvelous.”
“Or hopefully something not too dreadful,” Nicholas said under his breath. “I owe you a particularly evil turn for this, Clara.”
Giving him a bright smile, she stood and stepped away from the piano bench. “You hardly need me at your elbow, then. I’ll just make myself comfortable. Good luck!”
He narrowed his eyes at her, but before he could say anything more, Darien had returned, case in one hand and his mahogany music stand tucked under his arm. After unpacking his violin, Darien arranged his music, then glanced at Clara.
“There’s a particularly tricky page turn midway through, Miss Becker. If you would be so kind? I will signal you.”
“Certainly.” She knew the exact place. It had either been cramp another line at the bottom of an already over-full page, or put in an awkward turn. Perhaps someday she would re-transcribe the piece to avoid it, but not just yet.
The maestro took his time tuning his instrument, although with the keyboard slightly out of true it was more a question of finding the least egregious notes. At last he seemed satisfied. He nodded to Nicholas, and Clara settled back into her overstuffed chair. The little parlor was the perfect setting to perform such a difficult piece for the first time, and she was glad of it for her brother’s sake. The peat fire gave off a comforting, smoky smell and the oil-fed lamps shed a warmer, more inviting light than the harsher gaslights used at their performances.
Nicholas raised his hands and brought them down in the first crashing, delicious chord. The violin shot off into the melody, an arrow’s volley of sharp-tipped notes that flew up, and up, and up. Darien Reynard had his eyes closed, of all things. Had he memorized the piece? Certainly his fingers danced unerringly, despite being perched so high up on the fingerboard. To Clara’s relief, he opened his eyes as the music moved into the spiccato section. She was not certain she would be able to forgive him if he had already learned the whole of Il Diavolo by heart.
This was the part she had heard him working on, over and over. The bow flew on and off the strings in a percussive dance, while the left hand had to stretch and reach for intervals no sane composer would demand. An eleventh. A thirteenth; surely courting the devil into the piece with that one. Clara bit her lip as Darien missed one note, then another. But it was not mirth she was holding back, to her surprise, but a fierce desire that he succeed.
Dark hair fell over one eye as he strove with the music, concentration etched in the set of his lips, the line of his jaw. Then he lifted his head and met her gaze, and the intensity in his eyes seared her. Good lord. It was a wonder the sheets of paper had not ignited under that look. Il Diavolo indeed.
But that was the signal for the page turn. She had been waiting; indeed, she’d had to keep herself from jumping up too early. It would not do to let the maestro know how very familiar she was with the music.
She came to stand beside him, careful to give his bow enough room, and felt the heat rising off his body. She had not been so close since their kiss, and her skin tingled with the memory of it, sudden sparks coursing all through her.
With a deft touch, she turned the page. The paper did not betray the trembling of memory. Would anyone else’s kiss have swept her with such a tumult of sensation? Somehow she did not think so. Her body was attuned to Darien Reynard, no matter how she might deny it. He was the bow, she the string, set in motion by his proximity. The anger she had polished like a shield fell away, leaving her exposed to the raw fact of her own yearning. It was hopeless, disastrous, and there was nothing she could do.
Swallowing, she moved back into the cooler spaces of air that did not hold his warmth. Back to her chair, back to listening to the tangle of melody he and Nicholas strove to unravel. The innkeeper and his wife sat, eyes wide, as the music soared, stumbled, soared again—but Henri, to Clara’s discomfort, was watching her, a flicker of sympathy in his bright gaze.
Surely he had seen dozens of women react thus to Darien Reynard. She clasped her hands in her lap and pointedly turned her attention to Nicholas, who did all he could with the piano part. But that was harder still. Her fingers twitched when he missed a series of chords, and the muscles in her legs were tense, as though they would leap up and propel her to the keyboard.
Better to watch Darien and let him weave his dark spell around her than to let her body betray her deep knowledge of the music. At least her fascination with him was nothing out of the ordinary, though her brother would not be pleased if he noted it. Happily, both he and Darien were absorbed in wrestling with the devil.
By the time they reached the cadenza, Clara was lost in the piece, too. Would she never tire of hearing Darien play her music? Another secret thrill went through her as she watched him. The notes sparked off his instrument, the bow zigging and zagging in a wild stitchery of melody. It was exultant, and primal, and she caught her breath as he and Nicholas came careening into the very last chord.
“Bravo!” She was on her feet in an instant, applauding so fiercely her wrists ached from it. She was not sorry she had written so difficult a piece; not when it spurred the performers to such heights.
Henri and their hosts stood as well, and between the four of them they made a satisfying enough noise. The innkeeper even essayed a rough “ho!” of approval, while his wife dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron between bouts of applause.
Darien, a wide grin on his face, clapped Nicholas on the shoulder. “Well done! Il Diavolo shall be vanquished yet.”
“Yes.” Nicholas actually returned the maestro’s smile. “Though you nearly left me behind in the scherzo section. I hadn’t anticipated such… velocity.”
“Very good,” Henri said, nodding. “Very good indeed. This calls for something celebratory, and I have just the thing.” He turned to the innkeeper. “Sir, if you would fetch some small glasses. I don’t suppose you keep any snifters about?”
The innkeeper shook his head, and Darien raised his brows.
“You are breaking out La Compte?” he asked. “Henri, we are honored.”
The valet gave a sniff. “This is an occasion that warrants it. I shall return in a moment.” He followed the innkeeper out of the room.
“Isn’t that a rather expensive cognac?” Nicholas turned to Darien. “You travel with your own supply?”
“No, it is Henri’s. Saved for only special circumstances. It’s a rare privilege that he’s bringing it out now.” Darien tucked his violin away. “But then, abandoning all humbleness, I do think we deserve it.”
Nicholas gave a muffled snort of laughter. “You are not known for your humility, sir.”
A barb, though leavened with humor. Clara shot her brother a glance. She had heard enough from Nicholas these past weeks about Darien Reynard’s failings.
Henri hastened back into the parlo
r, a greenish-black bottle cradled in his arms.
“The greatest violinist in all Europe should not be humble,” he declared, clearly having caught Nicholas’s comment. “Indeed, false modesty sits well on no one. But now, let us have a toast.”
The innkeeper set out six glasses, and Henri deftly poured two inches of cognac into each. Not a single drop was lost, and the valet re-corked his bottle with a look of satisfaction.
“To greatness.” Henri raised his glass.
Clara followed the gesture with the others, then lifted the glass to her mouth. The intense fumes served as a warning, and she took a careful swallow, the alcohol tingling against her lips with a pleasant heat.
“Ah.” Darien held his cognac to the light. “This never ceases to surprise me. Thank you, Henri.”
“It is very good,” Nicholas said. “I haven’t much of a taste for cognac, but still…”
Henri looked pleased, though his nostrils flared for a moment. “This is not any cognac, you understand, but a bottle of ’11, recognized by connoisseurs to be the very finest vintage.”
“Aye.” The innkeeper nodded. “I had a bottle of ’08 once, but ’twas not nearly so smooth.”
“Did you?” Henri turned to the man, a light of appreciation in his eyes, and they wandered over to the bar to discuss obscure vineyards.
The wife shook her head. “Ah, and now they’ll go on like that for hours, if I know my man. But thank you, all. ’Twas a fine evening, indeed. I’ll not soon forget it.”
“It truly was our pleasure,” Darien said, and Clara heard the sincerity in his tone.
“Indeed.” Nicholas nodded.
Clara tried not to comment on his agreement. Perhaps the two men could finally reconcile during this last week of the tour. A pity it could not have happened earlier. She took another sip of cognac, the liquid burning a spicy trail down her throat. She turned to her brother just as he took a step forward, and collided with his arm.
“Blast.” Nicholas glanced at his waistcoat, now splashed with the remainder of his cognac.
“Oh dear. I am sorry,” she said.
“Don’t let Henri see you waste his liqueur so carelessly.” There was a note of laughter in Darien’s voice.
“Perhaps I can wring it out, back into the glass.” Her brother’s tone was dry. “Though I doubt it would improve the flavor. If you will excuse me.”
The innkeeper’s wife took his empty glass. “I’ll just wash this out, then. A pity, it is.”
Clara couldn’t decide if she meant the damage to Nicholas’s clothing, or the loss of fine cognac.
“Miss Becker, a moment.” Darien set one hand on her arm as she turned to follow her brother.
Her pulse leaped at his touch.
“Yes?” The word came out rather breathless.
He took a step closer, which did not help matters. Clara felt as though she were a moon, pulled helplessly into his orbit. Too close—perilously close.
“I wanted to commend your musicianship. You are very talented.”
More than he would ever guess. “I grew up in a musical household, as you know.”
“That does not always confer depth of musicality. You’ve an innate gift.”
“Thank you.”
Knowledge of her deception twisted in her, hard-edged and uncomfortable. She tried to move away, but his hand was still on her, firm and compelling.
“Wait.” His mossy green eyes caught hers, a curious vulnerability in their depths. “I owe you a sincere apology. Long overdue, in fact.”
“You owe me nothing.” Must he be so contrite, and rob her of her last defenses?
His fingers rubbed up and down her arm, the touch shocking, even through the fine wool of her dress. He seemed unaware of the motion, of what his touch did to her. Her senses skewed crazily, and she fought not to lean toward him.
“Clara, I was wrong to kiss you, we both know that. But you must understand that afterward, I acted as I felt I must. I am sorry if I have seemed… cold.” He pressed his lips together, his gaze searching her face.
She closed her eyes a moment and took a deep breath, flavored with cognac and Darien’s cologne.
“Master Reynard.” Formality would have to serve her now, since her anger at him had fled completely. “There can be nothing between us. Please, don’t pretend otherwise.”
Dear heaven, how she wished it could be different. But too many obstacles lay between them; the enormity of her lie the tallest mountain of all.
“Nothing?” His voice was low now, smoky and persuasive. “Not even… friendship?”
Friendship? With Darien Reynard? It would be like befriending a fire, or a feral wolf, and she did not think she was capable of it. Indeed, she was already half in love with the man—a truth she could no longer avoid. It was a state that precluded something as simple as friendship.
“I don’t— ”
“Consider it.” He slid his hand down and closed his fingers over hers, then lifted her hand to his mouth.
The press of his lips against the back of her hand nearly made her knees give way. Damn him, she was in enough turmoil as it was. She could not afford to plunge back into those early daydreams she had nurtured. Not with the tensions between him and her brother, not with the memory of their disastrous kiss still flaring brightly through her.
“I would be pleased if we could be friends, Miss Becker.”
There was no answer she could make that would not sear her. She dropped him a mute curtsey and retreated, the back of her hand burning. She glanced down at it, surprised he had not left a mark on her pale skin.
Instead he had only burned a kiss into her soul—invisible, and inescapable.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Musical Evening Beyond Compare~
The night after their well-received performance in the city, Master Darien Reynard on violin and Mr. Nicholas Becker on piano delighted listeners at the Duke of Hamilton’s estate. Their Mozart was delightful, but the duo’s rendering of Mr. Becker’s composition, Seascape, was truly sublime. A rare musical genius has moved through our midst, and we are the richer for it.
-Edinburgh Edict
“Master Reynard?” Clara tapped on the dressing room door, still buoyed by the notes of the concert he had finished. The music swirled through her, lending her joy, and hope.
The door opened and Darien gestured her inside. “Miss Becker. An unexpected pleasure.”
He smiled at her, and she tried to ignore the fact he’d removed his dark coat and undone his cravat. The white fabric of his shirt made his skin seem darker, his hair soft midnight. Did he have Mediterranean blood? She had not thought to wonder before. He was simply Darien Reynard. But even the greatest violinist of the day had to come from somewhere.
She was not here, however, to ask about his origins.
“Master Reynard…” Oh, this should not be so difficult. She lifted her gaze to his and put all her sincerity behind the next words. “I wanted to thank you. Your generosity, you’ve done so much for us—”
“I need no thanks, though I’m happy I could provide some assistance to your family. Still, with Nicholas’s talent, it was more than an even trade.”
Nicholas’s talent. Clara swallowed and half turned from the maestro. She was not sure he understood how very dire their circumstances had been, or that he’d saved them from a life of certain destitution.
The small room was crowded with flowers, the smell of orange blossoms permeating the air with sweetness. Orchids and anemones embraced and tangled in a wanton display. She followed one meandering vine of ivy and tried to collect her thoughts. It seemed her thanks were unnecessary, but she’d had to offer them.
“It was an excellent concert,” she said at last. “Cambridge likes you very well. I don’t know when I’ve seen so many bouquets. They must have plundered their hothouses.”
He laughed. “When we play on the Continent, then you’ll see bouquets to exclaim over. Sometimes there’s hardly room for me in th
e dressing room. Luckily, I’ve never been prone to sneezing fits.”
“The Continent?” She swung back to face him. “But we return to London tomorrow. The tour is over.”
“This tour, yes. I have every intention of bringing your brother, and yourself, if you wish it, along with me on the next one. We need not depart immediately, but—”
“We cannot come.” She hugged her arms about herself. “Nicholas could not…”
She made herself stop before she blurted out too much. Her brother was immeasurably relieved to be returning home. He had told her at great length how good it would be to set aside the mask of Nicholas Becker, composer. The deception had been exhausting him; she could see it every time he took his bow before a standing ovation, every time he accepted praise for something that was none of his doing. They could not continue touring with Darien. How soon until her brother faltered? She feared the black melancholy even now hovered over him, waiting to descend.
Yet as Nicholas’s smiles began to come more freely, her own had begun to fade. What did she have to return to? Certainly, she would be glad to have the burden lifted from Nicholas, relieved to shed the constant worry her notebooks would be discovered. She would be free to compose without having to lock herself in her room.
It had used to be enough.
She glanced at Darien. He watched her, a frown creased between his dark brows. “Of course you will come,” he said. “The competition in Italy is only two months away. Nicholas must be there.”
“I don’t think you will be able to convince him of that.”
The frown moved down to Darien’s mouth. “Does he still hate me so much, then? I had thought he’d forgiven me at last. Our rehearsals and performances are going so well, I would not have guessed it.”
How could she possibly explain? “It is not that he dislikes you—”
“Clara.” Darien stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. “Be honest. What can I do about Nicholas? You know your brother well. You must tell me.”
Shadows hovered in his eyes. Under his intent gaze, her secrets trembled close to the surface.
