by Darcy Burke
If she stayed, if she let Darien make love to her… what would her family, and society, think?
Her fingers tightened over his shoulders. Blast respectability. She was done with denial, finished with self-sacrifice. Why should she constrain herself when that very evening Nicholas had indulged himself without a care for her, and put the entire tour in jeopardy?
What she was doing now only endangered her heart. No, not even that, for she had lost it to Darien Reynard long since. This would be another secret to carry, but one that filled her with light instead of shadow.
He watched her, hunger in his eyes. Clara pulled in a deep, shivery breath. This night was hers to choose.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes.” She pulled him down over her.
The tip of him pressed at her center. Slowly he moved forward, his maleness against her soft feminine parts, opening, parting her.
She had to remember to breathe through the awkward mystery of it. There was a brief, tearing pain, and then he filled her. Filled her and kept pressing in, so large, so long that she did not know how she could possibly take any more of him. Yet somehow they fit. Their hips touched and he held himself still above her. His face was set with concentration and a fierce self-control.
His gaze met hers, full of warmth, and she released her breath. Her body relaxed, too, the tightness easing, though the wonder remained. This was how it felt to be joined, man to woman. She tilted her hips, exploring the sensation. It was a bit uncomfortable, though her body seemed to be adjusting quickly.
Then he began to move, slowly, carefully, the slickness of desire mounting as he slid out. In. Out.
The fullness of every stroke made her catch her breath, but not in pain or even discomfort. No, this was something different, something uncharted and elusive. She felt as though they were on a river cloaked in mist, traveling together toward a destination she only half understood. Still, he knew the way.
It was evident in his assured touches. She was under the hand of the master, her body an instrument made of breath and skin and passion. A sweet, subtle tension curled inside her, echoes of the delight he had induced when he’d touched her with his fingers.
The feeling rose and rose, up from where he entered her. She teetered on the brink of a vast, thundering mystery. The boat of their bodies had come to an endless plunge of waterfall.
She clung to his shoulders, eyes fixed on his, and fell over the edge.
The current seized her, thrust her headlong into sensation, a glittering sheet of water and air and pure noise. It was like standing in the center of a cacophony of drums, the rhythm shaking her apart until she hardly knew where her body ended and Darien’s began.
She cried out in pleasure that was nearly pain, and he arched over her. A shiver gripped him and he let out a deep moan. The skin beneath her hands was pricked with gooseflesh as she smoothed the plane of his back with her palms.
At last his shuddering ceased, and Clara breathed out a sigh. They had reached the still, quiet pool at the end of the river, though she would not emerge unscathed from that journey.
She was changed, forever.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Shocking Substitution!
Listeners were surprised last evening when, instead of composer Nicholas Becker, his sister took the stage to accompany Master Darien Reynard. Consternation turned to contentment as Miss Becker proved herself of sufficient musical skill. Still, one wonders what befell her brother to prompt such an unexpected replacement…
-Der Frankfurter Korrespondent
Clara woke with her usual moment of disorientation, blinking at the unfamiliar drapes and framed paintings on the wall. Another hotel, yes… in Prussia. She stretched, savoring the softness of fine linens against her bare feet.
Then the knowledge of what she had done last night burst inside her, brilliant and blinding.
She and Darien had made love. The physical memory of passion washed over her, leaving her senses tingling. She’d traded her virtue for a taste of paradise, and she was not sorry.
Although she was afraid.
Everything was irrevocably changed. Secrets webbed her in every direction, binding her in a tangle she could not see how to unravel.
How could she possibly face Darien across the breakfast table? Worse yet, how could she face Nicholas?
She wanted to pull the brocade coverlet over her head and spend the rest of the morning there, hiding in the dark cave of her bed, replaying the glorious night and grappling with her conscience. But she could not leave Nicholas to deal with Darien alone.
Exhaling deeply, she flung off the covers and rang for the hotel’s maid to come assist her in dressing. She’d had ample opportunity during the course of the last few months to perfect the art of concealing her thoughts and emotions, though the events of last night would put her façade sorely to the test.
When she entered the private dining parlor, Nicholas jumped to his feet. In the cold morning light he looked weary beyond words, and so young. The two years between them suddenly felt like twenty.
“Nicholas,” she said, his name catching in her throat.
He twisted his napkin violently, then dropped his gaze to the blue figured carpet beneath their feet.
“I am sorry,” he said. “And so ashamed.”
She went to his side and touched his arm. “I forgive you.”
It was that simple—and that fraught.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
Clara darted a glance at the yellow-liveried servant standing by the door. His face was impassive, but she would never make the mistake of thinking he was so much furniture, the way the nobility and upper classes seemed to do.
“We enjoy our breakfast,” she said firmly, although enjoyment was not a likely state for either of them.
At least Darien had not yet come down to eat.
The servant brought her a plate of coddled eggs and toast, though she had no appetite. Across the table from her, Nicholas buttered his toast, then set it down, untouched. The clink of silver on china was their only conversation. She took a bite of toast, the crunch too loud in the silence, while Nicholas chased bits of egg about his plate with his fork. The egg always escaped.
Clara knew she ought to say something, but no words came. Her tea was warm, and she wrapped her chilled fingers around the cup, little caring that the brew was too weak.
“Clara.” At last Nicholas leaned forward, his voice low. “Do you think… Is Master Reynard going to dispatch us back to England?”
“He told me he will not.” She kept her voice steady, though her cheeks were warm—no doubt stained with color. “The musical duel is so near, he could not send us home even if he wished to. No one else could perfect Il Diavolo in time.”
Her brother pushed his uneaten breakfast away. “I cannot—”
“You will.” Darien strode into the room, his voice stern.
The servant flurried into motion, pulling out a chair then pouring the maestro’s customary cup of coffee and setting it at the head of the table. Within moments, a plate filled with eggs and sausage from the chafing dishes followed.
Darien sat and fixed Nicholas with an implacable look. “Whatever your failings, Nicholas Becker, we have no choice but to go forward. You will continue touring with me. You will play every performance, to the absolute best of your musical abilities. And,” with a violent movement he speared a bit of sausage, “you will never have a repetition of last night’s inexcusable behavior. Is that clear?”
Nicholas dipped his head. “Yes, Master Reynard. I am very sorry.”
“You’re fortunate your sister was there to save the evening from disaster.” Darien’s tone was chilly. “She deserves your apology in full measure.”
Her brother looked at her, his expression so drenched in misery that Clara could not keep from rising. She circled the table and set a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve forgiven him,” she said to Darien. How could she not, wh
en she was guilty of even worse?
“We depart in one hour,” Darien said. “Be ready.”
He did not glance at either of them as he set about consuming his breakfast. Clearly it would take time before he forgave Nicholas. If ever.
“Excuse me, Clara. Master Reynard.” Nicholas covered her hand briefly with his cold fingers, then pushed his chair back and stood. Shoulders bowed, he left the room.
Clara curled her fingers over the back of his empty chair and looked at Darien. His green eyes snared hers, his words to Nicholas echoing between them.
Last night’s inexcusable behavior. Did he think the same of her?
After their passion was sated he had taken her silently back through the halls to her suite. She had made sure to collect her reticule from his settee, trusting he had forgotten his curiosity about its contents. In the dark hallway outside her door he pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, then slipped away. They had exchanged no promises, no whispered words of yes and tomorrow and more.
She was teetering on the edge of calamity; her brother’s mistakes, and her own, sharp as knives within her. What had she done? She had traded her innocence—gladly, thoughtlessly—for a night of perfect pleasure in the master’s arms. What was left to her?
“Clara.” He uttered her name like a caress. “Thank you for last night. You were wonderful.”
The servant might think he meant her piano playing, but she heard the deeper currents behind Darien’s words. The heat in his eyes lured her, a moth to his flame. How could what she had felt last night be wrong? She smoothed her palms across the mahogany chair back.
“You were, as well.” She held his gaze, though her body flushed with memory.
His sensuous mouth tilted into a half smile. “We will play again.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Perhaps this evening, then.” His eyes were full of desire, and promises.
Clara’s heart flew into a giddy spiral of joy, her earlier fear obliterated. No matter what else transpired, she would have this passion with Darien.
It was all she had that was truly hers. It was enough.
***
Dare and Nicholas performed in Leipzig that night. The concert went well enough, despite Nicholas’s subdued demeanor, though the music did not come close to matching the glory of the previous evening.
Thoughts of Clara burned in Dare’s pulse. When they returned to the hotel, he bade his composer good night, then paced impatiently in his suite. As soon as Nicholas had safely retired, Dare slipped to Clara’s rooms and tapped lightly on her door.
She opened it at once and he stepped in, locking the door behind him. The soft pink and green of her gown set off her coloring, the rich fabrics underscoring the cream of her skin, the silk of her hair.
“You look beautiful,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Delectable.”
She smiled and laced her fingers about his neck. Lowering his lips to hers, he plundered her mouth, while his fingers plucked hairpins from her hair. Tonight, he intended to take his time, and show her far more of what could pass between a man and a woman.
Hair loosened from her coiffure, she took a step back and glanced at her half-open bedroom door.
“I’m… not sure how to go about this,” she said.
“Then I will teach you. Come.”
Taking her hand, he led her into the bedroom. Banked coals in the hearth warmed the room, and a lamp shone beside the turned-down bed, burnishing the pale sheets to gold. He set her on the linens and bent to loosen the buttons on her elegant boots.
“Darien.” There was laughter in her voice. “I can take off my own shoes.”
“Let me.”
He wanted to open her like a precious gift, slowly peel back the coverings until she was revealed. The urgency that drove him still burned, though he banked it to a smolder. Time enough to build it into a raging fever. He intended them both to enjoy every step of that journey.
Her feet were cased in silk stockings. Dare took a foot in each hand, fingers wrapping around her arches. Her skirts and petticoats were disheveled, showing trim ankles and a glimpse of her calves.
She half sat, bracing herself up on her elbows, and tilted her head at him. The quizzical expression on her face made him smile.
“What, you’re expecting me to throw myself on you and devour you whole?” An untamed part of him leapt up at the thought, like a wild wolf, but he forced it back down.
“I…” Her cheeks flushed.
“When a starving man sits at a lavish banquet, he does not gorge himself. No. He samples.”
He moved his hands to her ankles, slowly sliding his palms over the warm silk. Farther up, to her knees. The soft fabric of her skirts folded, giving way before his advancing hands. She watched him, her lips parted with arousal, as he reached her garters. They were tied with pale green ribbons. He let his fingertips skim, just grazing the naked skin of her thigh. It was a delightful boundary, the edge between covered and uncovered. He would let it stand a bit longer.
“He savors,” Dare said, bending to place a kiss on her ankle.
Then the side of her knee. Just below her garters, on the softness of her stocking. No lips against her bare, warm skin—not yet.
She drew in a breath and her thighs parted slightly, inviting. The sweet, musky scent of her arousal drifted to him, and his cock tightened against his trousers. Under the pretext of stroking her stockings, he opened her legs, each pass of his hands pressing her wider.
“He tastes.”
Now he let himself put his mouth on her naked skin, his tongue licking above the garters. She fell back against the pillows with a gasp. Pushing her skirts even higher, he explored the delicious softness of her thigh, trailing kisses up to the lace-edged line of her drawers. Another boundary that would soon fall. Anticipation wound tight inside him at the thought of all the ways he wanted to savor her.
He stepped back just to look at her—her glorious hair unbound, her legs exposed and wanton, the shoulder of her dress still slipped down, the enticing edge of her nipple revealed. She was beautiful and sensual, moonlight and starlight. And she was his.
“Turn over,” he said.
“Why?”
So many possibilities, but one perfect reason. “So I can unbutton your dress.”
She turned and pillowed her head on her arms. Her skirts bunched beneath her, her hair a sweep of palest gold across her back.
He kicked off his shoes, then lay down on the bed beside her. Her hair was fine and silken, reaching nearly to her waist. A wealth of softness. He caressed it, spread his hands and let the locks slip between his fingers. The fragrance of lavender-water mingled with the secret scent of her, and he found himself breathing in heavily, as if he could absorb her with every sense.
Brushing her hair aside, he began to undo the row of pearl buttons running down her back. There were over two dozen, but he took his time, watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed, letting the hungry fire inside him simmer.
“Aren’t you finished yet?” She looked back over her shoulder.
“So impatient.” He gave her a smile. “All in good time. The banquet, remember?”
She made a little pout, an expression he had never seen on her before. He knew her face when she was serene, or anxious, or sometimes smiling. But this endearing, half-teasing look nearly brought him to his knees.
“When is it my turn at the table?” She made as if to rise, and he set his hand on her back.
“When mine is over.” He anticipated it would take hours. “Lie still.”
She tossed her head, but obeyed, and another thrill of desire went through him. He opened her gown, pushing it past her shoulders and midway down her arms. The fine material of her chemise followed, bunching at the edges of the corset, revealing more of her exquisite skin. Her corset concealed her lower back, but he bent and pressed kisses along her exposed spine. Moving up to the base of her neck, he nipped her lightly and felt her shiver with p
leasure.
“Sit up,” he said.
When she did, turning to face him, her gown slipped down to her waist. The corset curved beneath her breasts, pressing them up invitingly, and he could not refuse. He set his hands at her waist, lowered his head, and feasted. His mouth moved first over one nipple, coaxing it to tightness, then the other. Back and forth, until she was gasping, her hands fisted in his hair.
When he stopped, her nipples were peaked and rosy. So beautiful. He could spend years on her breasts alone—but more awaited.
Her gown pulled off easily, and her petticoats followed, tumbling to the floor. She sat, her hair pushed back, clad only in her undergarments. Feminine, and sensual beyond words. She met his gaze boldly, and smiled. The wolf inside him howled and leaped. He needed her, with a fierceness that could not be denied.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Clara’s heartbeat sped, even as languorous heat spread through her. Darien watched her with heavy-lidded eyes, his touch nearly making her swoon. He still wore his concert clothes, his cravat loosened, his coat open.
“I think you’re overdressed for the occasion, Master Reynard,” she said.
It was titillating, using his formal title while she sat before him half clothed, her unbound hair caressing her back.
He must have thought so, too, for the fire in his eyes rose.
“I think you are not undressed enough,” he said. “Come here and let me unlace you.”
She rose, her fine cotton chemise whispering against her legs, and a moment later she was in his embrace again. Whatever his intentions of corset unlacing, it seemed that kisses were of paramount importance. His tongue traced her lips, his hands were warm against her naked shoulders, and she felt as though she were melting under the force of his heat.
Darien’s tongue dipped into her mouth, and she opened to him, let her tongue touch his. Sparks of desire coursed through her, the place between her legs damp. She pressed closer to him and felt the hardness of his member against her belly—that mysterious male part that somehow had fit into her own body.
