How much easier it would be if he could pack up his emotions and keep them in a secured container. He shook his head at the inanity while truth intruded to remind his heart waited. As each day passed, his soul prodded, the hour grew late.
He’d adored Charlotte from the moment his eyes found her, yet despite he’d executed the most ingenious business maneuver of a lifetime and acquired an ideal wife, the marriage contract left him desolate of satisfaction. He was unfamiliar with the result.
A cascade of precisely timed notes resonated through the hall to permeate his thoughtful reflection. As if they communicated on a level unmarred by indecision, the music syncopated the sentiment and reason at war within him.
All too soon the tempo changed and he fell in stride with each striking chord as it dominated the new rhythm and forced him forward. He arrived at the door of the music room and watched in silence, the pianoforte positioned near the large mullioned windows overlooking the gardens behind the house. Seated with her back to the door, Charlotte would never know the convenience allowed by the judicious placement of furniture. Her fingers caressed the keys, gentle yet purposed to produce the loveliest songs. Many a night he spent wondering how those slender fingers would feel lingered across his skin with the same scrupulous finesse.
The song came to a poignant flourish and he angled his body forward, his heartbeat quickened and interest enthralled. How absolutely fetching she appeared in the throes of concentration, cheeks flushed pink and delicate brows furrowed in attentiveness, though his view of her profile proved fleeting. The candlelit epergne atop the pianoforte lent a burnished glow to her silky brown hair, neatly arranged in a braided coronet. Would she object were he to remove the pins and thread his fingers through the lengths? Would she welcome a kiss placed to the graceful slope of her neck?
A sustained final note pierced through the haze of his admiration and he turned into the hall and made his way abovestairs. Still the questions resonated in kind to the vibrant remembrance of Charlotte’s musical composition. What if he’d charged into the room instead of forcing denial? What if he’d dared show without words how well and thoroughly he loved his wife?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANABELLE BRYANT holds a BA, MA, and is ABD in earning her PhD in Education. She has studied at Rutgers College and Kean University of New Jersey and is an avid traveler. When not in front of a classroom she can be found in front of her laptop writing Regency romance and pursuing daydreams. Visit her at www.anabellebryant.com.
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