Always, his eye went to Chiara. Tonight, she sat among the pastel-gowned girls, dressed in her red gown once more. Tonight, she was a rose among daisies, a guitar in hand—a somewhat new and unconventional instrument compared to the traditional choices of piano, violins and Miss Peckworth’s flute. It only heightened his already considerable interest in her.
Virginia Peckworth performed first. Sutton took care to show attention, but his thoughts never strayed from Chiara. It had been a day since she’d tucked up her skirts and waded through the water, since she’d walked on the island barefoot, since her eyes had gone wide with awe in the cave, since she’d clutched the gosling to her, determined to save it. Since he’d kissed her.
Alexandra Darnley on her violin was next. Sutton redirected his thoughts long enough to notice she played a simple folk song. Then he was back at it, still debating whether he should have kissed Chiara or not. He refused to regret it. They’d both enjoyed it, both wanted it when all was said and done. They’d been holding their curiosities at bay since they’d met and now those curiosities had been satisfied. However, other curiosities, other hungers had been awakened in their place. The kiss had solved nothing.
The other performers paraded past the piano, rendering their performances, the evening slipping into a blur of songs, one after another. The only performance that held any interest for him was Chiara’s. She and Eliza were the last two to play. Eliza stood before the guests, dressed in a pale pink, with a confidence he’d not seen her display before this evening. He understood. Tonight, she was offering him the best of her. Never mind that she was quieter than the other girls, never mind she did not want to marry him. It was not her choice. She knew what was at stake for her family and knew tonight was her best chance. For once, she would be superior to all the other girls. It increased Sutton’s resolve to write to Burbage. A girl ought not to be put to such use for family against her will. She raised her bow and began to play, brilliantly, flawlessly, performing Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in E flat with such perfection that when it ended the guests came to their feet. His mother caught his eye and raised an enquiring brow as if to say Perhaps she’s the one. She has some fire in her, after all.
Suddenly, Sutton wished Chiara had played before her. He feared her piece would be anticlimactic now. How could anything compare? But Chiara rose with her guitar, drawing all eyes to her red dress as she came forward, undaunted by Eliza Fenworth’s performance. Then again, why should she be intimidated? She was the only one among them, himself included, who had nothing to lose.
* * *
Elidh had nothing left to lose as she plucked the plaintive, opening notes of another Vivaldi piece, the Adagio in D minor. She let the notes draw the audience to her, provocative in their simplicity, inviting the audience to lose themselves in the music’s dreamy spell, inviting Sutton. He was in agony tonight. She could tell by the smile on his face as he’d talked with Miss Fenworth. Eliza Fenworth was not the source of his agony, though. The party was taking its toll on him and her heart ached. She knew something akin to how that toll felt. She was paying, too, for a kiss she should not have stolen, a boat ride she should not have taken, a stroll in the gallery she should not have allowed, a walk in the woods she should not have accepted.
Whatever objectivity she’d once hoped to maintain for this mad scheme of her father’s had been undone subtly and slowly over the last days until it lay unavoidably naked before her in its truth. She liked Sutton Keynes. Perhaps even more than liked him. It was the last and worst thing that could happen. She had not wanted to like him, to know him. I am just a man. His words whispered through her mind. And what a man he was; a man who saved goslings and walked barefoot on beaches, who was awed by ancient drawings in a cave, a man who was socially far above the daughter of an actress and a washed-up playwright who could barely afford rooms on Bermondsey Street among dock workers.
She glanced Sutton’s way, letting her eyes linger and lock with his for a brief moment. The music was working its magic, the languorous tones seductive, full of longing as she caressed each one from the strings. She could see its effect on his face. It was what she loved about the Adagio; it could be a lover’s seduction, a mother’s lullaby, or a mournful farewell depending on how one played it, depending on how one needed it. She’d needed it in all ways, once, after her mother died. The piece might not have the overt technical sophistication of Eliza’s violin concerto, but it had emotional depth.
The key changed and the tenor of the piece altered, becoming, deeper, darker, more mysterious. She allowed herself another glance in Sutton’s direction. What she saw nearly undid her. There was no escaping the look of intense rapture on his face. His eyes were closed now, the tiniest furrow creased his brow as if drinking in the music brought him a special kind of pleasure–pain that he could not resist. She knew. When it came to him, she could not resist it either. Perhaps he kept his eyes shut because it was too dangerous to do otherwise. What would she see if he opened them? What would he see?
Elidh finished the last lingering notes of the Adagio and moved into the overtly provocative rhythm of a gypsy song, the fast, strumming chords conjuring up images of campfires and starlit seductions. Then she began to dance as she played. How could one not? It was impossible to be still to such a tune, made for swaying hips and dancing feet. Sutton’s eyes were open and on her now, closed in reflection no longer. She had everyone’s eyes, in fact. Elidh gave full vent to the emotion of the dance, letting it wipe away her worries, her cares. For a few moments she was free. Was this how her mother had felt on stage, a queen in her gowns? As if the world could not touch her here? She gave herself, body and soul, over to the music, each riff faster, more frantic than the last.
There was silence when she finished. The audience was mesmerised, perhaps shocked. But she beamed at them, breathless and warm with a bead of sweat glistening at her temple, her hair coming down from Rosie’s careful pins. Then Sutton rose and the applause began, ending only when the tea cart rolled in to signal the close of the evening. That was her cue to exit. Elidh used its arrival to escape to the balcony and cooler air. Now, it was her turn to close her eyes, to give over to reflection and savour the remnants of elation and cool evening air on hot cheeks.
She did not hear the French doors open behind her. Nor did she notice his presence until Sutton’s sleeve brushed against her as he leaned at the railing. ‘If you ever tire of being a princess you can always be a travelling minstrel.’ For a moment she didn’t hear the joke in his voice. The remark was too close to reality. Her first thought was fear—driven by the thought that somehow he knew.
‘Sorry, not funny, I suppose.’ Sutton misunderstood her stare. ‘You can no more lay down your burdens than I can. Yet, tonight I did for a while when you played and I think you did, too.’ He reached for her hand. Touching and talking had become almost second nature to them. How had that happened? How had she let that happen?
‘Sutton, you should be inside wooing the other girls,’ Elidh warned, too aware that she had claimed the lion’s share of his attentions these last two days. ‘Your guests won’t believe my father and I are simply here for the experience. They’ll think I’m determined to steal you for myself.’ It was too easy in the moment to get caught up in him, to forget the promises she’d made privately to keep herself apart from the game.
‘They feel threatened by you?’ Sutton chuckled, but he didn’t release her hand.
‘I understand how they must see things. For a girl not hunting the fortune, I’ve had more opportunities to claim it than they have had. They’re keeping score and they’re not appreciative.’ Tonight’s performance wouldn’t help in that regard. ‘You don’t want to give them the wrong impression.’
‘I think I already have,’ Sutton confessed, looking out over the gardens, his gaze tinged with reflection, his voice laced with the hint of regret. ‘Not with you, of course. I didn’t mean to imply that. I meant that I
’ve given them the wrong impression of me.’ His grip on her hand tightened. ‘Sometimes I feel as if my uncle’s fortune will swallow me whole and, if it doesn’t, marriage to any of these girls will finish the job. The irony of it is that I have no one to blame but myself.’
Elidh squeezed his hand in silent sympathy. She knew exactly how that felt.
Chapter Twelve
Sutton was serious. He honestly saw the situation as his fault. Elidh could see the frustrated tension in the beautiful lines of his profile. Whatever peace her music had brought him, it was gone now. ‘How can you blame yourself? You didn’t design your uncle’s will.’
‘No, but I planned the party. I made the conditions of my marriage clear. Logically, it all made sense. I needed to gather all the eligible girls in one place, efficiently, quickly. I knew they would come. The money would bring them. I knew that, too. I knew the money would attract them, not the man. How could it be otherwise? Rationally, I understood that. I invited them knowing all of this and now I resent them for adhering to my plan.’ He leaned on the balustrade. ‘I’d not be the first to marry for convenience, yet I find myself in a conundrum. I am a scientist, a man of logic, or so I thought. But this week, I’ve come to see myself as a man of contradictions. I built a plan on logic, but it has failed me.’
‘Why is that?’ she ventured cautiously, thrilling to what the answer might be, and fearing it, too.
‘When I look at you, Chiara, I find I want more than what logic can give me.’
‘You hardly know me.’ It was a weak defence. Her insides were jelly, quivering with the knowledge that she had undone this man. Only in her dreams had she ever imagined such a moment and she let it linger too long. Sutton took advantage of her pause.
‘True, but I’d like to know you.’ It was a heady and dangerous proposition. ‘I want you to tell me, point-blank, Chiara, that what’s between us is not a game.’ He was challenging her, forcing her to confess the attraction was not his alone. She groped for middle ground. She could not deny the attraction outright. He would know it was a lie and he would press on, but she could not encourage his subtle advance.
‘Why? What for, Sutton? Nothing can come of it. You still have to choose a bride and I will move on with my travels.’
‘Perhaps for that very reason. Maybe I want to have something to hold against the days that will come? Maybe you do, too? Otherwise, I’ll need you to explain to me why you looked at me the way you did while you played tonight.’
‘Are you suggesting an affaire?’ Elidh threw the words like a bucket of cold water, hoping to scandalise him sober, out of this nonsense and into reason. But the words were laced with a wicked temptation of their own. Why not say yes? When would she ever feel this way again about someone? When would she ever know someone like him? Perhaps he was right; they would have something to hold on to, a keepsake. An affaire implied there would be an ending, that recognised she would leave.
‘I believe you’re the one doing that,’ Sutton replied, voice dropping low and husky, the air around them charged with a tension that crackled with intensity. Was she really contemplating such a thing? She had to stop this; making rules and breaking them with her flimsy justifications just to get what she wanted in the moment, forgetting that the moment wasn’t real and neither were the circumstances. Everything about this house party was manufactured, designed to engineer romantic feelings, to move him towards such a decision.
‘However, I will answer your hypothetical question for the sake of argument, or curiosity,’ Sutton drawled, his voice at her ear making her shiver. ‘An affaire is rather sordid. You should know by now I am a discreet man, Chiara, and a respectful one. I would never presume to dishonour you.’
‘And yet, what you suggest is not much different—that there’s a way to be together and yet not be together. But I don’t see it, Sutton. Under the circumstances, we cannot simply be just friends. You are a man with a fortune, hunting a bride, and I am a princess.’ Would he be so mortified about dishonouring her if she was plain Elidh Easton, a woman who was far below him in station? ‘I fear I’ve become a distraction for you.’
He ran his thumb over her knuckles. ‘I forget our positions sometimes. To me, you are just Chiara. I prefer to see you without your title, perhaps because I prefer people see me without my fortune, even though I am discovering daily how difficult it is for them to do just that.’
If ever there was a moment to confess, this was it and, oh, how she was tempted to lay down the disguise and spill her secret at his feet. To blurt out the words, ‘I am Elidh Easton and have no claim to nobility,’ would solve all her problems concerning him. It would put her beyond him, the temptation of Sutton Keynes removed for good. He could not consider her then, nor would he want to. In fact, he’d help her pack. At least then the danger she posed to his fortune would be gone. But not the danger he posed to her heart. She supposed it might be too late for that.
‘Is there no chance, then? To get to know you?’ Sutton returned the conversation to the original question. She should give him a direct no and find some way to avoid him from here on out, but he was stroking her cheek, tipping her chin up to meet his gaze, his eyes on her lips, and the moment blurred. ‘All I am asking for is your time. Surely that’s no great threat to whatever you’re trying to protect?’ He paused and considered her for a long moment, a thought coming to him, clouding his eyes. Oh-oh, her heart seemed to thump. ‘But perhaps you resist on moral grounds? Is that it, Chiara? Do you resist whatever is between us because you feel disloyal to someone else? A secret love at home in Fossano? I know I asked that day on the island if you were engaged in a dynastic alliance. Since then, it has occurred to me, I might have asked the question incorrectly.’
She shook her head. She could tell the truth in this at least. ‘No, I am not engaged elsewhere, officially or otherwise. Neither are my affections, not unless you count the gosling in my room.’ She tried for humour, wondering suddenly if a lie might have served her better. A fictional betrothal might have achieved the distance she needed.
‘Then why do I sense resistance, Chiara? I confess I’ve racked my brain trying to come up with a reason.’
‘Because nothing here is real! Perhaps not even what you find intriguing about me. For fourteen days, everyone’s world is narrowed down on the singular pursuit of a husband, or, in your case, a bride. Every activity, every interaction is aimed at that goal. Every walk, every game—archery, croquet, musical performances—all of it is designed with that goal in mind. Nothing is real, you said so yourself.’
‘I am real. You are real. We are real, at least to each other,’ Sutton argued quietly but firmly. ‘This is real.’ He reached for her then, his hand turning her face to his, his intentions clear.
‘Sutton,’ she breathed his name as his mouth took hers in a long sweet kiss reminiscent of the Adagio with its lingering notes. But it was more than that. It was a marking, a claiming. Elidh shivered despite the warmth of his presence. Il bacio della morte. The kiss of death. A Judas kiss.
One kiss changed everything, including the atmosphere in the music room when they re-entered. Expressions communicated disapproval and distrust without words when Elidh stepped inside, Sutton behind her. She realised, too late, the illusion of privacy beyond those French doors. The glass panes blocked the sound of conversation, but they did not block the sight. The entire interaction had been visible for anyone who cared to look and apparently everyone had. Elidh felt her face flush, the final confirmation anyone needed if they’d doubted. She hated the thought of such a private, perfect moment having an audience.
Yet, the press of his mouth against hers lingered on her lips. It took all her willpower to resist tracing them with her finger, to touch where he’d touched. Isabelle Bradley pierced her with a stare that called her a liar in all but words as she passed on her way to the tea cart. Reactions warred inside her. Part of her wanted to run, but part
of her refused to be ashamed. A princess would not be cowed by a middle-ranking nobleman’s daughter.
But you’re not a princess—not really...not any more than you are pretty. Both are illusions. Take away the pins and the silks and what is left?
Elidh held her head high and took a teacup from the cart, making it clear to any onlooker that she was going to stay and enjoy her tea. She wasn’t alone. Her father came to her side and smiled at her, fondness lighting his eyes. ‘You look so much like your mother tonight. She could command a room like no other woman I knew. I think you have come into your own.’ The compliment disappointed her. She didn’t want to be her mother or a princess in order to be noticed, to be liked—by her father, by Sutton. She just wanted to be herself. But their attentions, it seemed, were contingent. Her father nodded to Lord Wharton as he passed. Wharton’s eyes were coldly polite. Battle lines were drawn, to her regret. She knew what her father was thinking—that she was the front runner, that he was close to winning his largest gamble. ‘Now, drink your tea, my dear, and smile like this doesn’t scare the hell out of you. That’s what I am doing.’
‘You? Prince Lorenzo Balare di Fossano? Scared?’ she whispered. Perhaps there was still time to talk him into leaving right now. Only her heart wasn’t in it, it was too busy savouring the grand moments of the evening and forgetting the danger each moment was wrapped in.
* * *
The two of them said nothing more until they were back in her room, the door closed behind them. They took up their usual places: her father on the tufted stool at her vanity, she cross-legged on the big bed, the gosling on her lap, Rosie on the window seat. The three of them stared at each other, gathering their thoughts in the silence.
Tempted By His Secret Cinderella (Allied At The Altar Book 3) Page 11
