by Darcy Burke
“Just ensuring we’re ready for an early evening,” he said.
“Oh, don’t go,” said a low, sweet voice behind him.
He closed his eyes briefly, then, with a deep breath, turned.
“Baron and Baronessa de Luca,” he said, bowing over Francesca’s hand. “What an unexpected pleasure. You look well.”
She was shorter than he’d recalled, but still lovely. Faint smile lines fanned from the corners of her eyes. Her husband stood at her elbow, his expression unruffled. Surely he knew of Francesca and Dare’s former liaison, but the knowledge did not seem to bother him. Of course, he was the one who married her.
“Darien,” she said, “no need for such formality. I am here to wish you the best of luck tomorrow. And is this the composer of whom we’ve heard so much?” Her gaze went to Nicholas and she held out her gloved hand.
Nicholas bowed, the tips of his ears pink. “I’m Nicholas Becker. It is an honor, baronessa.”
She gave her throaty laugh. “The master’s supporters have arrived in force, as you’ve no doubt noticed. I am looking forward to hearing your compositions tomorrow. And I’m certain Darien will retain his title.”
“I am, too,” Clara said, moving up to stand next to Dare. The scent of lavender soothed his senses.
“Allow me to introduce Miss Clara Becker,” Dare said.
“An honor,” Clara said, her voice cool and reserved. She dipped Francesca a slight curtsey.
Dare slanted a look at her, to see that her chin was lifted, her mouth firm. In the way of women, it seemed she recognized the former connection between Francesca and himself. Without thinking, he drew Clara’s arm through his.
One of Francesca’s elegant brows arched at the sight, and her expression turned thoughtful.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Becker,” Francesca said. “You are a fortunate woman, to keep such company.”
She put a slight emphasis on the word “keep,” so subtle that only Dare heard it. He tilted his head at Francesca, an unasked question.
“I know my own fortune well enough,” Clara said.
“Do you, I wonder?” Francesca’s gaze went to Dare. “I hope, maestro, that you succeed tomorrow. And in all things.”
“Come, my dear,” the baron said. “We do not want to keep Maestro Reynard or his company any longer. Good luck, signors.”
Francesca’s smile was indulgent as she laced her arm through her husband’s. “We shall be applauding loudly from the audience tomorrow. Buon notte.”
“Good night,” Dare said, but she was already turning away.
“She is correct,” Clara said. “We’d best be going.”
He folded his hand over hers and, with Nicholas following, led her from the emperor’s hall.
After the competition was finished, whatever the outcome, Dare was going to bring matters into the light. He was done with the secrets tangled between the three of them.
Without Clara, his life would be empty and cold beyond bearing. He glanced at her, and the constriction around his heart eased. She was music, and love, and he was the better for it.
Francesca’s words echoed through him. There was no doubt she’d been speaking of love, as well as fame. Could he succeed in all things?
He had every intention of doing so.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Clara did not glance behind her as they left the banquet room, though the hubbub of conversation followed them into the landscape-lined hall. She tilted her head up at Darien, and he must have seen the questions in her eyes, for he smiled faintly.
“The Baronessa de Luca,” he said, “was once known as Signora Contini.”
“The opera singer?” Nicholas asked. “The one who toured with you?”
“Yes, though she accompanied me for only a few months. Life on the road did not agree with her.”
There was the faintest catch in Darien’s voice, and Clara knew the story was not so simple. She suspected he and the singer had parted bitterly, after being more than colleagues. Was Signora Contini the reason he had initially opposed Clara’s presence on the tour?
What she had once thought was Darien’s arrogance masked a vulnerability he almost never showed, and certainly would not admit to. But she had seen through the layers he wrapped himself in, to the true man within. The man she loved.
Her heart clenched. Tonight would be their last night together.
Darien bid her good night and left her at her door, but the look he gave her sent a thin flame racing down her spine. She nodded imperceptibly. She would be ready.
Clara prepared for bed and dismissed the maid. Clad in her nightgown and a fanciful Chinese silk robe that Henri had insisted she purchase in Paris, she sat before the mirror, brushing out her hair. It shone in the low-burning lamplight, more luminous than the yellow silk she wore, and she felt beautiful. Beautiful and tragic, like any opera heroine.
But she must not let Darien know; must breathe no hint that their affair was ending, until after the duel was over. She would plunge herself into their lovemaking this night, seize every moment, every taste and caress, until tomorrow dawned.
Only an hour had passed before a single tap came at her door. She opened it, and Darien slipped in, quick and quiet as a shadow.
He took her in his arms without a word. The heat of their bodies pressing together blazed like the rising sun in Clara’s bones, like certainty and truth and home.
She could not bear it.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, lacing her fingers through his thick, dark hair.
Darien bent and took her mouth with his, his lips sensuous and firm, his tongue dipping in to touch hers. She opened her mouth, inviting him in. It was not enough.
After a moment she pulled back.
“Clara?” He searched her eyes.
She took his hand and led him into the bedroom. The sheet was turned down, the pillows plumped, the lamplight a cozy circle of gold on the bedside table.
“Lie down,” she said, pulling him to the edge of the bed.
His lips tilted into a rakish smile. “As my lady desires. Clothed, or naked?”
How daring did she feel? Despite the heat rushing to her face, she held his gaze. The master was hers to command.
“Naked.”
A devilish glint shone in his eyes. He slid his hand from hers, and slowly began undressing. Shoes first, and then his coat, folded and laid on a nearby chair. As was his habit at formal events, he wore a black shirt. Contrasted with his skin and hair, he was a study in darkness and bronze. She caught her breath. Darien.
His scarlet-embroidered waistcoat closed with gold buttons. Deliberately, he unfastened each one, then pulled his waistcoat off. His shirt followed, opening to reveal the taut planes of his chest. He shrugged the fabric off, baring his shoulders, and she nearly went to him to run her hands over that gleaming expanse of skin. But not yet.
Clara’s pulse thrummed in the hollow of her throat.
Still holding her gaze, he unfastened his trousers and let them drop, along with his underclothes. His manhood jutted out proudly, and she swallowed, shy at the sight of his arousal.
Shy, yet intrigued. When he set his mouth between her legs, it gave her such pleasure. Was the reverse true? She intended to find out.
“That’s a rather intriguing smile,” he said. “What are you thinking?”
“I’ll show you.”
She pulled back the coverlet and gestured to the soft expanse of sheets. Darien climbed into the bed, the play of muscles under his naked skin riveting, and lay on his back, arms folded beneath his head. For a long moment she simply looked at him—handsome and assured and masculine. And in her bed.
“Well? You know I’m not the patient sort,” he said, his mouth curving up on one side.
“I know.”
Slowly, she lifted the yellow silk robe and the thin cotton of her night gown beneath. He watched, leashed desire in his green eyes. But she did not undress. Instead, she bared her legs to the t
high, then climbed onto the bed and settled over him, one knee to either side of his hips. Her nightgown covered his nakedness, but she was all too aware of the heat emanating from every inch of his bare skin. Bracing her arms, she leaned over until the silk of her robe whispered against his skin. The pale curtain of her hair fell down, surrounding them.
She brushed her lips over his, keeping the caress light, tantalizing. She wanted to sear the memory of this night into both of them.
She wanted him never to forget her.
“Clara,” he breathed, running his fingers through her hair.
She lowered herself to lie on top of him, the silk of her robe providing a provocative barrier. Heat tingled at the juncture between her legs, and she slid up and down, savoring the sensation. Darien’s hands went to her shoulders and he pulled her into another kiss, his tongue hot and demanding, tangling with hers.
Every inch of her was alive, intoxicated by the feel of his body beneath hers. She pressed herself harder against him and he gave a low groan of pleasure.
At last she broke the kiss and sat up. His hands slipped over her breasts to play with her nipples, which were pushing against the fabric of her nightgown. The touch sent tiny sparks flaring through her.
“Undress,” he said.
His fingers tightened over her breasts, and she nearly complied, her skin aching to be naked beneath his hands—but she was not quite ready to relinquish her power.
“Wait,” she said, moving to his side. “Spread your legs.”
Heat flushed through her, that she would say such things. And that he would obey.
She ran a tentative finger down his shaft. It jumped at her touch, and she quickly pulled her hand back.
He laughed. “You’ve found my sensitive spot. Don’t stop.”
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she reached again. The skin of his manhood was so soft, yet covering a hard rigidity. He twitched again, but this time she let her finger continue stroking. It was good to know that he had a place on his body she could gently tease.
She wrapped her hand about the length of his shaft and he let out a low groan of pleasure. Lightly squeezing, she stroked up and down, and he moaned again.
One more experiment, and then she would give in to the rising desire pulsing through her.
“Close your eyes,” she said. She did not think she would be able to be so bold if he were watching.
As soon as his lids shut, she knelt between his thighs. Her hair brushed across his legs, over his shaft, and he shuddered with unmistakable pleasure. She swept her hair back and forth over his skin, delighting in teasing him. Then she leaned forward and placed her lips on the spot she had discovered.
“Ah, Clara.” His hands fisted the sheets.
When she touched him with her tongue, he moaned. She licked the velvet-smooth skin, kissing his shaft as she would kiss his mouth. After a moment, she grasped him with one hand and moved her mouth to the tip. A drop of moisture met her tongue, slightly salty, and she savored it as proof of his arousal.
She opened her lips and took him into her mouth, and he groaned in pleasure. Sliding him in and out between her lips, she felt him grow even more rigid, encompassed in the hot wetness of her mouth.
“Clara,” he gasped after a mere minute of this treatment. “You’re driving me mad.”
She smiled and sat up. “Good. Do you want me to stop?”
“No. Yes.” He let go of the sheets and reached for her. “I want you.”
His urgency sent hot waves through her center. She pulled off her nightgown and robe, then straddled him once more and slowly lowered herself. The tip of his manhood touched, then parted her, but she controlled the pace. And she intended it to be deliciously deliberate.
Darien caught his breath, his fingers closing convulsively over her bare shoulders, but he held still. She slid lower, letting his shaft stretch her wide. Even lower, until their bodies met, hip to hip.
She drew in a deep breath as her body became accustomed to his length, his hardness. Beneath her, she could feel him trembling with leashed desire.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“For you? Always.”
The answer drove a sliver of sorrow into her heart. Banishing it, she began to move up and down, enfolding him, surrounding him with her body. It felt very different, being on top. She caught a rhythm and he set his hands at her waist, urging her on.
They lost the beat, found it again, then lost it. Clara leaned forward. Before she could say a word, he wrapped himself about her and rolled them over.
He smiled down at her, that devilish grin she loved so well.
“Delightful as it was having you over me,” he said, “you were driving me to distraction. We can practice it again, another time.”
There would be no more times.
“Take me,” she said, grasping his shoulders.
His gaze holding hers, he began moving over her, sure and strong. The feel of his shaft sliding in and out made her breath speed. Heat built in her center, that delicious tension of need and desire winding through her.
No more thoughts, no more sadness. Only the plunge and pull of two bodies striving together, the mad dance to unheard music. The sweet pounding pleasure that surged over them both, a wave breaking, and breaking again.
She wrapped her arms around him as he stilled, and held on tight. The aftermath of fulfillment pulsed through her, each beat quieter than the last.
Then the last trembling echo of bliss slipped from her body, and was gone. Darien, her heart whispered, I love you. But her lips remained silent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Milano hums with excitement as the city prepares for the much-anticipated Grand Duel between Maestro Reynard and Signor Varga. Betting is heavy in the streets, with the odds slightly in Reynard’s favor. Florist shops have been denuded of their blossoms, and coveted tickets to the event are selling at several times their face value. Tonight there will be fireworks!
-Il Pettegolo
Clara woke, alone—as she would always wake. The cold sheets beside her held only the faintest scent of Darien, dissipating even as she clutched the pillows against her face. She rolled over and sought the soft darkness of sleep once more, unwilling to open her eyes and let the day fully begin.
Two hours later, head foggy with wisps of dreaming, she woke again. It was no use staying in bed any longer; she must rise and face what the future brought.
The maid fetched her a cup of morning chocolate and a light breakfast of pastries and fruit. Clara had little appetite. The food was tasteless in her mouth, but she made herself eat. She would not be able to support Nicholas, or keep up a façade for Darien, if she felt light-headed with hunger.
After she was dressed, she went and rapped on her brother’s door. There was no answer—likely he was already working with Darien. She nearly turned her steps to the maze of servant’s passages leading to their rehearsal room, but she did not think she would be able to watch him play without giving in to the tears pressing, hot and uncomfortable, against her chest.
Instead, she returned to her rooms and tried to compose a letter to him. She sat at the writing desk and stared at the cloud-flecked sky outside her window. The room was quiet, but for the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantel.
Pen in hand, she considered the creamy sheet of vellum, trying to think what to write as the ink dried on the nib. No words would come—but music would. A sweet, elegiac melody moved through her. With a heavy breath, she bent her head and began to scribe the notes of her farewell.
A half hour later, someone rapped loudly on her door.
“Clara?” Darien’s voice sounded through the thick wood.
“One moment!”
She shoved the composition under the other loose sheets of paper on the desk, smearing her most recently inked notes, then went and opened the door to Darien.
“Is Nicholas here?” he asked.
“I thought you were rehearsing.” The first whispe
r of worry coiled about her heart.
“He was supposed to meet me over an hour ago to run through the pieces for the competition.” Darien ran his hand through his dark hair, disheveling it. “We don’t have any time to waste.”
“He’s not in his rooms?” She stepped into the hallway, making for her brother’s suite.
Oh, Nicholas, not again. Please. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat.
“If he’s there, he’s not answering,” Darien said, following her. “And the door is locked.”
Clara tapped on her brother’s door and called his name. When he did not reply, she knocked harder. There was no response. She beat her fist against his door, refusing to give way to her rising panic.
“Stop.” Darien took her hand and frowned at her reddened knuckles.
“But—”
“Come.” Without releasing her hand, he led her down to his rooms.
As they entered his parlor, Peter Widmere left off pacing the ivory-hued carpet. She glimpsed Henri in the bedroom, brushing out one of Darien’s coats.
“Did you find Nicholas?” Peter asked.
“No. Fetch the palace guards to break down his door.” Darien’s voice was tight.
Clara felt dizzy with fear. Where was her brother?
“Is that really necessary?” Peter frowned.
“Yes.” There was no arguing with Darien’s tone. Without another word his agent left the room.
“I…” Clara swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “I don’t think Nicholas has done himself harm.”
She prayed the words were true.
“Perhaps not willingly,” Darien said, “but we’ve both seen what your brother is capable of.”
Tears pricked the corner of her eyes. “No. He would not have… He swore to me he had stopped drinking.”
Had her brother faltered and fallen, on the very eve of the duel? She had trusted him, believed in the strength of their bargain. Had Nicholas seen the truth—that she was desperately in love with Darien Reynard?
Darien had not released her hand. His clasp was warm over her chilled fingers.
