by Darcy Burke
A dull red flush crept up from Varga’s collar. “We’ll see who’s worthy of the title soon enough. I hope you have not grown too attached to it.”
His attention shifted, and Clara saw that Nicholas had come up beside Darien. Her brother’s gaze went first to Darien then to Varga, and his fingers wove restlessly together. Clearly he was as uncomfortable as she with the antagonism surging between the two musicians.
“Oh, look. It’s your pet composer,” Varga said. “I can’t say I had any taste for that piece of his. The beginning was remarkably… cloying.”
“See here.” Nicholas stepped forward, and Clara stifled a groan.
Her brother had no business trying to interfere. He was nothing but a mouse caught between two feral cats. Darien pulled Nicholas back, giving him a cautioning look, but it was too late.
Varga obviously knew weakness when he saw it, and he did not hesitate. “Yes, that style is far too romantic, though I’m sure it plays well here in Paris. The French have a weakness for the effeminate.”
Clara slanted a glance at Nicholas, concern squeezing her breath when she saw how pale he was. They were only words but, crafted to wound, they had hit uncomfortably near the mark.
Darien lifted a brow, though she could tell he was seething. “As usual, you have no ability to discern real talent. Your loss, as they say.”
“Ha!” There was no mirth in Varga’s voice. “Your loss, when we meet in Milan. Especially if you are pinning your hopes on this mollycoddle. Personally, I’m more intrigued with his sister. There’s a pretty piece for you, far better than the boy. But if you prefer the brother, there is no accounting—yaah!”
Varga’s hand flew up to guard his face, but he was not in time to stop Darien’s blow. He reeled back and the room pulsed with excitement, a crowd quickly forming about the two men.
“Monsieurs, no, no, I beg of you!” the marquise cried, interposing herself between the two men, her arms outspread. “We must not have violence.”
“Or if we do, let’s keep it away from the instruments,” someone called.
“Reynard.” Varga was breathing heavily, a red welt forming on his cheek. “You will answer for this.”
“But not tonight,” pleaded the marquise.
The muscled footmen Darien had spoken of earlier appeared. One clamped a meaty hand over Varga’s shoulder, obviously preventing him from attacking Darien.
Darien shook his cuffs down and gave a scathing look at the watchdog hovering at his own side. When he spoke his voice was cold.
“Keep your base thoughts to yourself, Varga. No one cares to hear them.” He pointedly turned away from his rival and bowed to their hostess. “Marquise, thank you for the memorable evening. I’m sorry it had to end on such a note. We will be taking our leave now.”
Her expression a touch wild around the eyes, the marquise nodded in return. “Bonsoir, and thank you.”
As Clara turned to follow Darien out the door, she could not help glancing at Anton Varga. He was watching his former master, the hatred in his expression so plain it made her skin prickle with dread.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rivals Come to Blows!
Witnesses report that Maestro Darien Reynard and Monsieur Anton Varga exchanged hostilities at the Marquise le Vayer’s salon last evening over the charming sister of composer Nicholas Becker. Such delicious troubles are sure to multiply as the men prepare for their grand duel in Milan!
-Le Salon Extraordinaire
Clara watched out the coach window as the French countryside rolled past, a stitchery of fields and stone walls. It was not so different from England, though the landscape was drier, the church steeples more ornate.
Sadly, she had already finished the novel she’d purchased in Paris. Perhaps Nicholas would lend her one of his volumes of poetry, though she feared she would not be able to immerse herself quite so satisfactorily in verse as she had in Mary Shelley’s latest tale.
In the corner across from her, Henri settled back against the leather cushions of the coach and heaved a sigh.
“Today we leave the soil of France, and I bid my country adieu.” He glanced at Darien. “I think, monsieur, the concerts were very well received. You will not find better audiences anywhere in Europe.”
“I agree that the French are without parallel,” Darien said. “The attitude of listening in the Conservatoire was remarkable—I could not have asked for better.”
Clara would find out if audiences differed soon enough—they were bound for Prussia and Austria before swinging south to Italy for the duel. She pulled her cashmere shawl closer around her shoulders. The thought of meeting Anton Varga again made her shiver.
“I’m glad we’re leaving,” Nicholas said. “I don’t want to stay in any country that has Varga within its borders.”
Unhappiness was clear in his expression, the way he hunched his shoulders forward. He had taken Varga’s insults quite badly, and the handbills printed by the man’s supporters, repeating his barbed words, served to wound Nicholas afresh. Girlishly Romantic! the headlines had shrieked. Stupefyingly Sweet, the ramblings of a mediocre mollycoddle. The harsh words seemed impossible for Nicholas to ignore.
Clara set her hand over her brother’s. She was worried, but every time she tried to voice her concerns he shrugged her away. The other night, after the concert in Reims, he’d locked himself in his room with a bottle of cheap cognac. In the morning he’d emerged hollow-eyed and wincing. She had said nothing, but fear for him wrapped cold tendrils about her heart.
“We will see Varga in Milan,” Darien said. “There’s no help for that. But hopefully not before.”
Henri folded his arms. “I think he will follow and make trouble for you wherever he can. Do not let down your guard.”
These words made Nicholas look even more miserable. He pulled his hand from beneath hers and turned to stare out the rain-smeared window.
Clara sighed. Only a small breath escaped her lips, but Darien glanced at her, sympathy clear in his deep green eyes. Ah, but she did not want his sympathy.
Emulating her brother, she turned her head to once again look out at the countryside. At least she was writing suitably gloomy pieces now. Her next one would be titled Ombra. Shadow.
***
“… and now, my favorite part of every performance…” Darien’s voice drifted to the wings as he began the introduction that would bring Nicholas on stage.
Clara hurried behind the curtains, panic beginning to spin in her chest. It was too dim to run, but her heart beat as quickly as if she were sprinting. Where was Nicholas? Why wasn’t he waiting backstage, as he always was by now? In less than a minute, Darien would announce his name—Nicholas Becker! It was the cue for her brother to step into the lights, take his place at the piano, and perform her newest composition with Darien Reynard.
Except that Nicholas was missing.
She stumbled as she entered the hallway leading to the dressing rooms. “Nicholas!” she hissed, but only dark silence greeted her.
No—not fully dark. A thin line of light shone from beneath his dressing-room door. Praying her brother was within, she ran to it and wrenched it open.
“Hurry!” she cried. “You must…”
Nicholas was there. She drew in a ragged breath, but panic welled again as she took in his state. His eyes were closed and he sprawled in the single armchair, a glass in his hand. An emptied cognac bottle lay on one side on the floor, and she kicked it away as she hurried to her brother.
“Nicholas—wake up!” She grasped his shoulder and shook, gently at first, then more roughly as he did not respond. “You must play. Get up, get up!”
At last his lids opened a fraction. He blinked, then closed his eyes again, mumbling inaudibly. His head sank back down to his chest, and further shaking could not rouse him.
Dear God. He had drunk himself insensible. There was no way he could perform.
The floor tipped beneath her, the inevitable slide into ruin just
underfoot. How quickly everything was lost.
Through the open door, Clara heard the wash of applause, sharp with expectancy. And—her stomach tightened at the thought—the King of Prussia was in the audience. Darien needed the noble’s support in Milan. A misstep here would spell failure.
No. She would not allow it.
She stepped into the hall and closed the door, then smoothed her hair back with both hands. If Nicholas could not play…
Then she must.
Fear clamped about her ribs, but she forced herself to hurry back toward the wings. She felt light-headed, as if she’d stumbled into a dream—a dream rapidly becoming nightmare.
The audience’s applause died completely away as they waited for Nicholas to appear. In that moment before the hushed murmurs of speculation could begin, Clara walked on stage. The footlights were blessedly bright, shielding the watching crowd from view. She gave Darien a wide-eyed glance, hoping desperately he could read her intent.
He locked gazes with her, his expression surprised. When it was clear Nicholas was not going to appear, Darien raised one eyebrow in question, and she gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. With a poise she could only admire, he settled his features and turned back to the audience.
“Our composer is unfortunately indisposed,” he said. “Please welcome his sister, Miss Clara Becker—a talented pianist in her own right—who will instead accompany me this evening!”
The response was polite, but she barely heard it. The first disaster had been averted. Now she merely had to play beautifully for Darien, without any preparation or rehearsal; and in front of the highest nobility of Prussia. At last she understood precisely how Nicholas had felt that evening at the Royal Pavilion, and her heart stretched in sympathy. And pain. But she could not think of her brother now. Only the music, only this moment.
Throat dry, she seated herself at the piano.
Her pulse was hammering so loudly she was not sure she could find the beat. She glanced at Darien once more, and he brought his violin up under his chin. His gaze met hers, nothing but confidence in his green eyes. Darien believed she could do this, and the knowledge lent her courage.
Leaning toward the keyboard, she began the introduction.
Ombra. The piece was full of shadows and silvery silences, the beginning a subtle interplay of long-held tones exchanged between the piano and violin. Her every sense was attuned to Darien as the music reached the first abyss—two beats of stillness they must hold for an identical interval before ascending again into the dark melodic waters. Clara held her breath, sensed that Darien held his… and the release was perfect, her hands on the keys matching note for note as Darien drew his bow across the strings.
She breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
Despite the complete lack of rehearsal, despite the fact she had not played often during their travels, this was her music. And Darien played beside her, strong and steady. Awareness shimmered in the air between them. Darien tossed long skeins of notes from his violin into the welcoming waves pouring beneath her fingers. The audience breathed softly as the spell of music wrapped them in mystery.
Something inside her soul broke open then, something Darien had begun with his kisses. Here, performing with him, it could not be denied. It was sweet and poignant, and suffused every note.
It was love.
Despite the secrets that must remain locked in her heart, this one had flown free.
She loved Darien Reynard. This was no naïve, star-struck emotion, but something complex and nuanced, something balanced between light and shadow, the way the music balanced between sound and silence.
She played then, her heart fixed on Darien as together they wove magic. More intimate even than their kisses, this musical passion was as close as they would ever come to physical passion. Every note joined with his, every beat echoed in her, and she gave herself up to it.
He watched her as they played, his dark hair falling across his forehead, a wild light in his eyes. Despite the simplicity of the piece, she had never heard him play better, the notes from his violin deep and yearning and vibrant. Tears rose in her throat when they reached the last stanza, the end of the music waiting and inevitable.
And then it was over. The crowd applauded, with a few cheers for punctuation. It was a warm enough reception, even though the audience had not received the Becker they’d been expecting.
Clara rose and took Darien’s offered hand.
“Well done,” he murmured. “Very well done.”
Together, they bowed, his bare palm warm against hers, his clasp solid. She tried to let go, to make him take a solo bow, but he would not release her, and so she received the acclaim with him in equal measure. It felt astonishingly good, as though she were basking in the warmth of a full summer sun. And though the audience might think they were clapping for Nicholas, she accepted her due, for the performance and for the composition.
Darien took her arm and led her from the stage.
“What of Nicholas?” he asked, as soon as they reached the wings
“He will be fine.” She felt her cheeks flame at her brother’s mortifying condition. “By morning, I expect.”
“You played wonderfully,” he said.
Hidden by the shadows, heedless of the applause surging behind them, he pulled her into his arms.
She went willingly, their joined music still echoing through her. His lips touching hers was simply the next movement—an inevitable extension of the intimacy they had experienced onstage. Clara set her hands on his shoulders and lifted herself onto her toes, pressing more deeply into the kiss. She could not help it, any more than she could help the music scribed in her soul. The feel of his arms around her was fierce and exhilarating, and she opened her mouth to his, taking his breath and giving hers in return.
“Reynard! Reynard!” It was clear the audience would not be denied an encore.
He lifted his head. “I must—”
“Yes,” she said. “Go back onstage.”
Still, neither of them seemed able to let go, their bodies melded tightly together in the dim light, shielded from view by the folds of curtains. Heat flared between them, and Clara wanted nothing more than to slip her hands under his coat, to get as close to this amazing, talented man as she could. This man who had partnered her perfectly in the music, as though their souls converged.
The rhythmic thud of feet on the floorboards added to the din, and Darien slowly opened his arms.
“Don’t go far,” he said, as if afraid of losing her.
“I’ll be with Nicholas.”
“Good. Your brother has some explaining to do.”
Darien gave her a smoldering look, full of promises and questions, then turned and strode back into the lights. A full-throated cheer went up as he retrieved his instrument, pacifying the beast of the crowd.
She watched him a moment more, hands cupping her elbows as desire tangled with fear. Would Nicholas be all right? Did Darien suspect? And most of all, would he kiss her again?
When Clara entered her brother’s dressing room, he was still unconscious. His gold hair was disarrayed, his cheeks flushed, and suddenly she saw the little boy her brother used to be, not the troubled man he had become.
“Dear Nicholas,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
She should not have pushed so hard for them to come to the Continent—but she had wanted it, the way a beggar craves a fire in midwinter. Even with all the reasons to go, there had been one compelling reason to remain in London. Her brother’s sanity. Seeing him sprawled and rumpled in his chair, lost in drink, reminded her how fragile he was. There had been almost no sign of his melancholy while they toured England, so she had convinced herself that he was well. That he was, indeed, cured—because she wanted it to be so.
Her throat tight with worry, Clara went to the washbasin and dampened a cloth, then gently washed Nicholas’s face. The notes of Darien’s encore drifted down the hall. Would the maestro demand they leave the tour? W
ouldn’t it be best if they did? Questions spun like whirlwinds through her, moving so quickly she could not grasp them, or even begin to answer.
She must wake Nicholas and get him back to the hotel. She smoothed her brother’s hair back and pulled his jacket into place. Applause sounded, like waves on a distant beach.
“Nicholas, please wake up. The concert is over.” She set a hand on his shoulder. “We need to go. Wake up.”
“Hnh,” he said, his eyelids flickering.
“I see.” Darien stood at the door. His voice was cold. “And what excuse does my composer have for drinking himself insensible and placing all of us in an impossible situation?”
Clara took a step toward him. “I—”
“Don’t bother. It was a rhetorical question.” Disapproval flashed in his eyes. “I’ll fetch the footmen to help with your brother. And I will have some explanations. From both of you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dare managed to hold his temper during the short coach ride back to the hotel—though he wanted to shake Nicholas until he came to his senses. And kiss Clara until she lost hers.
Damnation. This was why he did not tour with others. He had no control over Nicholas, and yet the man had far too much power over the outcome of the concerts.
So much for the master’s influence. Bitter laughter dried in Dare’s mouth.
He could not manage his composer. Worse yet, he couldn’t manage his own emotions where Clara was concerned. His doomed affair with Francesca Contini had taught him never to mix passion with music. It had been a painful lesson, indeed.
Why was he unable to remember it when Clara was in his arms?
A fortnight. That was all Dare needed, and the musical duel would be over and he would send the impossible Becker siblings back to England.
He clenched and unclenched his fists in rhythm with the horses’ hooves. Across from him, Clara was nearly invisible in the dimness. But though he could not see her, he was far too aware of her: the scent of lavender, the faint rustle of her skirts, the sheen of a stray bit of lamplight caught in her fair hair. The hot memory of his lips over hers.
