An affaire du coeur. It was something she had never dreamed of engaging in. Indeed, after almost ten years of facing a marriage bed she would have happily avoided were it not for her desire to have a child, the very idea of pursuing a sexual relationship was foreign to Hero. Somehow, though, she knew that sharing a bed with Ian would not be abhorrent but rather extraordinary. The very thought thrilled her beyond measure. She wanted to touch him and have him touch her in return. She wanted an elusive something she knew he could give her.
If only she had the experience she was obviously lacking to relate her willingness to share those things with him.
If only she had the courage to simply say it aloud.
Because she wanted him as badly as she knew he wanted her. And without a doubt, he did want her. She could feel it in the way his heart beat in unison with hers, hear it in his labored breathing, feel it when his hands trembled. She just didn’t know what he was waiting for.
Ian was certain he was going slowly but surely insane. A slow seduction, he had decided. Were he to take it any slower, the frustration of his unmitigated hunger would be his end. Never had he wanted so badly. Just looking at Hero these past days was nearly enough to send him over the edge. Having her purring with delight in his arms yet knowing he would not, could not act on that desire had become a painful nightly torment.
With one hand absently swirling his brandy around the bowl of his snifter while the other propped his chin up, Ian sat in his armchair and stared up at her portrait above the fireplace … as he had many nights before. Lonelier nights before Hero had come to Cuilean.
Even before he had met her, she had fascinated him in a way that was beyond explanation or reason. It wasn’t just a portrait any longer, though it was still a work of exquisite art. Now, he looked at the portrait and saw Hero, her cleverness, her wit.
His future. His past.
Pushing out of the chair, Ian set his glass down on a nearby table and walked for the first time through the shadows, through his dressing room, and into the marchioness’s dressing room on the other side. Immediately, he was assailed by the scent of Hero’s perfume that against all likelihood still lingered in the air. He closed his eyes and inhaled before opening them once more.
Unlike the dark, masculine décor of the lord’s bedchamber and wardrobe, this room was decidedly feminine. The walls were a soft green with crisp white moldings and elaborate dentils. Adam had built in the wardrobes along two sides of the room, the white doors delicately carved with motifs of the hearth and home. A large window dressed with floral curtains dominated the third, overlooking the pleasure gardens to the south of the castle. A fireplace with a complimentary white mantel and a pink marble hearth filled the remaining wall, and beside it in the corner stood a large, oval, white ceramic bathtub, its copper pipes rising from the floor beyond it.
Ian imagined Hero there easily. He could see her humming to herself as she bathed, running a sponge over her legs as she raised them from the soapy water. Slowly, seductively.
Pulse quickening, Ian continued through the dressing room to the marchioness’s chamber. These were her rooms. He could see Hero’s influence in every detail and suddenly wondered if she missed the rooms she had inhabited for almost a decade.
The room was feminine and luxurious but practical as well. The décor of the dressing room was a direct compliment to that of the bedchamber. The walls were the same green, the curtains, moldings, and fireplace similar but far more elaborate. A plush Persian rug of green, gold, and rust covered the wood floors. Numerous gold-framed paintings filled the walls, a display of Hero’s love of art. An embroidery hoop stood next to a comfortable chair near the fireplace. All around the room were things that told the tale of Hero Conagham, but Ian noticed all those things only peripherally, for all his attention was ensnared by the bed that dominated the room.
It was a large four-posted rosewood bed with simple yet elegant carvings on the posts and headboard. A canopy arched above it dressed in a tailored green that matched with the walls, while the curtains and bed coverings matched as well, with pillows adding splashes of pattern and muted color. But for the fringe along the edge of the blanket folded at the foot of the bed, there were no frills and no lace to be seen. The room was simply elegant, as was Hero herself.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ian couldn’t help picturing Hero there. In that bed. Her bed. He wondered what side she slept on or whether she slept in the middle. He imagined sharing that bed with her, holding her in his arms after their passion was spent, and felt his arousal stir at the thought.
Images of her surrender haunted his nights. Her luscious skin brushing against his, her breasts in his hands, his mouth on her body, while his body demanded that he take, that he devour. She would be beautiful in her passion, he wagered. But was it meant to be his? Given the naiveté he had already noted, it left Ian wondering if he had read the signs of attraction wrongly. Was her kiss hesitant rather than tentative? Was her teasing playful banter rather than provocative flirtation?
For all his experience with the opposite sex, Ian had never been party to enticing repartee that was meant as nothing more than innocent wordplay. Bugger it all, between her natural reticence and innocence, Hero had a way of stirring a man’s uncertainties. Her frequent blushes and her shy glances— Had they led him to assume more than he should? God help him if she was merely being an accommodating guest, eager to please her host.
Obligation was the very last thing he desired from her.
No, Ian shook his head. Hero’s passions were evident. She wanted him, and perhaps it was that knowledge that made it harder for him to resist the urge to act. Knowing he could easily have her. What was he waiting for?
But Ian knew the answer before the thought finished echoing in his mind. Ian wanted not only her body but her heart as well. Her mind. For the first time in his life, he refused to take one without the rest.
Rolling his eyes skyward, Ian nearly choked on the thought, fighting the truth of it. Hero was coming to care for him, true. When he looked into her brilliant mosaic eyes, there was more than desire. There was affection growing. Respect. Perhaps even blossoming love.
Is that what he wanted, Ian asked himself. The thought would have nauseated him a month ago. He would have thought himself rattling the cage of insanity.
Ian wasn’t a romantic. No matter what the fairy tales said, love didn’t happen overnight or even in a week’s time. For a man who had never believed in it at all, the idea was ludicrous. After a sennight’s acquaintance, the very idea was preposterous. Lust and desire, for certain. Growing affection, reasonable. It was impossible not to be enthralled by a woman in possession of Hero’s intelligence, caring, and quiet humor.
He might have considered taking her for his wife, but did he truly want Hero’s love?
Cradling his head between his hands, Ian laughed in derision. Who was he fooling? The truer miracle would be in denying the inevitable. He had seen a great love between his parents before they died. He knew what it looked like.
It would be so incredibly easy if he allowed it.
“My lord?” a voice called from his own bedchamber, and Ian left the marchioness’s rooms, closing the doors behind him. It wouldn’t do at all to have his staff know that he had been in Hero’s old rooms. A reluctant grin lifted the corner of Ian’s mouth. Even to him, those moments seemed vaguely prurient, an invasion of her privacy, though Hero resided there no longer. “The dinner bell has sounded, my lord.”
Chapter Fifteen
The striking of a jarringly erroneous note made Hero lift her fingers from the keyboard with a cringe. Aware that both Ian and her father had turned with a surprised wince at the discordant note, she forced her attention back to the piano and abandoned Franz Liszt’s Dream of Love for Benjamin Carr’s much simpler Scotch ballad Thou Art Gone Awa’.
Hero had been playing the piano in the Blue Drawing Room for hours since dinner had ended while Ian and her father played cribbage. Her f
ingers were cramping but if she stopped, what excuse would she have to remain? It was getting late, surely too late for a polite evening’s gathering.
Tapping her foot impatiently, she glanced at the clock once more. Where was Cooper, she wondered for at least the tenth time. Her father’s night nurse should have been here at least an hour ago to fetch him. To lead the duke off to bed so that Hero might have her time with Ian. The only time in the course of the day she had him truly to herself.
If Cooper didn’t show up soon, Hero would surely sack him.
As if he knew the thoughts in her head, Cooper tapped on the door and entered. Hero was hard put not to throw her hands into the air and yell ‘Halleluiah,’ though she did whisper it under her breath.
“My apologies, my lady, for my tardiness,” the nurse said sheepishly.
Though Hero didn’t think the man looked at all apologetic, she was too anxious to have him gone to make a fuss over the matter. She bid her father a goodnight with a kiss and waited until the door closed behind them before turning back to Ian, clasping her hands tightly in front of her.
“Anxious, are we?” Ian teased as he ambled toward her with his hands hanging loosely in his pockets. He had loosened his cravat at some point and run a hand through his hair, giving him a relaxed, rumpled look that Hero loved. In the dim light cast by the gas sconces, Ian looked so incredibly handsome that Hero could hardly respond. Anxious? She wanted to be the one to run her fingers through that dark hair and stare up into those warm cocoa eyes.
“Not at all,” she responded primly, and Ian grinned wolfishly at her.
“No? I thought you were going to strangle the ivories at any moment.”
Humor laced his brogue but Hero didn’t feel that Ian was at all disappointed by the idea that she was anticipating their time alone. “It was a difficult piece.”
“You’re a difficult piece,” Ian replied.
Uncertain whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, Hero merely inclined her head and boldly asked. “Shall we take our evening stroll, my lord?”
“Much to my regret, it has begun to rain,” he answered.
Surprised, Hero turned to the windows to ascertain the truth for herself and within moments was inwardly cursing Cooper for his delay in the most unladylike terms.
“Perhaps there is an alternative, however,” Ian went on silkily. “If you’re not too tired?”
With her curiosity roused by his mysterious tone, Hero shook her head. “What do you have in mind?” The query startled her as it emerged from her lips, not so much because of the question itself but because of the ideas it brought to her mind. Was Ian going to suggest they retire together? Or perhaps she might lead him to her rooms, Hero thought boldly. She might whisper in his ear how she longed for his kiss and so much more.
Ian set her hand in the crook of his arm and led Hero into the hall. Much to her disappointment, he led her not to her room or his but to the stairs, urging her to descend. Stifling her frustration as they descended, Hero asked, “Where are we going?”
“Did you know that I have a music room?”
“I did,” she answered, wondering at the innocence of his chosen topic. “I take it, you did not?”
“No,” Ian said as he led her to the room below and to the left of the Round Drawing Room above. Dropping his arms, he indicated that she should precede him. “I discovered this just today.”
“It’s directly next to your study,” she pointed out.
“Makes it that much more surprising, doesn’t it?” The corner of Ian’s lips tilted in a decidedly roguish half-grin that made Hero’s heart skip.
“So many instruments. A pianoforte even finer than the one above. A harp, horns, and much more. But I am curious, what is that thing?” Ian tilted his head and Hero tore her gaze from him to study the orchestrion, taking a few deep, steadying breaths.
About four times as large as an upright piano with a heavily carved wooden shell, the orchestrion held a complete woodwind orchestra inside. Multiple horns fanned along the back like the pipes of an organ, but there were kettledrums, side drums, cymbals, tambourines, and even a triangle inside this model as well, explaining the clamorous sound it produced. “It is an orchestrion,” Hero explained. “The bellows power it. Those big cylinders hold the music. I believe there are ten songs on each one? In any case, the Queen and Prince Albert have one and Robert felt it a compliment to their good taste to acquire one as well.”
“It is a monstrosity.” Ian spoke the words softly, his tone at odds with the words. And he was not looking at it at all but rather at her.
“There is no other word better suited for it,” Hero agreed as he neared.
“But it is made to play music, aye?” he asked.
Ian’s eyes were dark and intense as he looked down at her, and Hero felt anticipation skitter across her. She felt unnerved and inexplicitly jumpy. “Yes but it is better suited to a larger venue.”
Ian looked oddly disappointed by that, so Hero ducked under his arm and crossed over to another wooden box that was set on a side table near the fireplace. This one was of smooth burly maple set with brass. Hero ran her hand over it lovingly before lifting the lid. “This one is perfectly suited to play in a room this size, though.”
Gooseflesh lifted on her skin as Hero felt Ian approach behind her until he was just inches away. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin, nearly feel the change in the air pressure between them with every breath he took. The tempo of her heart raced once more, quavering unsteadily in her chest until it felt as if her ribs encased a flock of butterflies.
“A music box?” he whispered into her ear.
“Yes,” she said as Ian reached around her to pick up one of the brass scrolls from their stand next to the box.
“Is this one a waltz?” he asked softly, his breath tickling the back of her neck, arousing her even more.
Hero released a shaky breath and took the scroll from him. She replaced it on the stand before reaching for another. “No, but this one is.”
“Play it for me?” he murmured, settling his hands on her shoulders.
She inserted the scroll and wound the box before turning to him as Strauss’s waltz Snowdrops or Schneeglöckchen softly filled the room. She hadn’t realized that it was so dark in the music room, with only one oil lamp left by the servants to light the room. Ian was cast in shadows, making it impossible to read his expression, but his deep brogue was thick. “I owe you a waltz in the moonlight, I believe.”
“It’s raining,” she pointed out.
“Does it matter?”
Her head was already shaking before Hero had a chance to respond. “No.”
Ian took her hand and led her with a twirl to the center of the small room. Placing his other hand at her waist, he began to move her in a languid waltz. Hero followed his lead, her hand lightly on his shoulder, the other on his forearm as he bent over her. “How is it that Shakespeare’s Claudio referred to his Hero?” he whispered in his seductive brogue as he moved against her. “Sweet? Lovely?”
“Fair, I think,” Hero said.
“Merely fair?” he asked. “That would not do at all for you, I think.”
“Am I not?” Her hand drifted up his shoulder until she was able to run her forefinger along the edge of his collar. His eyes locked with hers and his nostrils flared at the subtle contact.
“You are much more,” he murmured, his own hand rising from her waist until he brushed the underside of her breast with his thumb and Hero’s breath caught. “You, Hero, are so much more than fair.”
“Very sweet words,” Hero responded, lifting a finger to brush against his earlobe. “Very quixotic.”
Ian frowned. “Yet you seem oddly disappointed by them.”
“Not disappointed,” Hero countered. Merely impatient.
“Do women not desire sweet nothings and romance any longer?”
“I desire you,” Hero said then bit her lip. She couldn’t imagine where those words had
come from unless they rose from deep within her. Not that they weren’t true. They were. They were also boldly forward. “My apologies. I didn’t mean …”
Stopping in midstride, Ian’s hand tightened on her ribcage. “You don’t desire me?”
“No,” Hero stuttered, shaking her head. “I mean, I do. It’s just so … What are you waiting for, Ian?”
Hero bit her lip once again. Now that was bold. She could feel a flush flooding her cheeks.
“You might need to explain that to question,” Ian finally said tightly in a tone that sent Hero’s already fluttering nerves soaring. She tried to step out of his arms but he held her tight.
“Oh, dear.” Hero looked down, to the side. Anywhere but at Ian. She hadn’t meant to say anything and this was the reason why. She had no experience in seduction. No practice luring men to her bed. “You—you’ve been most charming this week.”
“Charming?” he repeated with raised brows.
“Yes,” she nodded. “And—and I’ve … enjoyed our evenings together very much. I simply wonder if perhaps I might have misinterpreted your intentions.”
“My intentions?” he parroted incredulously, his brogue becoming nearly incomprehensible. “Are ye not aware of my intentions, lass?”
“Well, I thought after what Papa said the other night that you felt as I did,” Hero stammered nervously. “That notion of living for the moment. Embracing opportunity.”
“Carpe diem?” Ian scowled. “’Tis not a day I want to seize, lass. I thought ye understood that.”
No, Hero didn’t understand that at all. She didn’t understand anything of what he was saying. Surely, he wanted her? Even if she had mistaken the intensity of their mutual attraction, even if his affections did not run as deeply as hers, Ian had still given every indication of desiring her person. “I thought you were seducing me.”
Ian laughed at that, running his hands up her body until he cradled her face gently between them. “Aye, lass, I was seducing ye but moreover I was trying to court ye as a woman should be courted.”
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