Mayfair Maiden: Eighth Day of Christmas: A Lord Love A Lady Novella (Regency Cocky Gents Book 4)

by Annabelle Anders

  Miranda didn’t miss the question the marquess shot toward Peter, but when she went to take a step backward, he prevented her from doing so.

  “Indeed.” Peter squeezed her hand just enough so that she couldn’t flee.

  Perhaps it would have been better if he’d steered them in another direction, but such an evasive tactic simply wasn’t his way. “Mantis, Blackheart, may I present you to Lady Starling.”

  She shot him a reproving glance, well aware that one simply did not present a duke to a countess. He purposefully had not followed protocol. The trouble was, all three of them were well aware of the not-so-secretive affair their friend Chase had had with Miranda earlier that spring, and Peter felt the need to elevate her standing with them.

  To make this formal introduction, he was establishing that she’d moved on. He was insisting she be addressed with the respect any lady deserved.

  “My Lady.” The Duke of Blackheart bowed over her hand, and upon rising, glanced over at Peter and dipped his chin in an approving nod.

  “A pleasure, My Lady.” Mantis followed suit. When the viscount took a step backward Peter couldn’t help but notice the black and purple bruising around one of his eyes. Which reminded him…

  “I thought my brother was out of town?”

  “He is.” Greys lifted a brow with a glance in Miranda’s direction. And Miranda didn’t miss the look.

  “I’m going to examine the confectioner’s offerings.” She stared down at her hand, and Peter immediately released her this time. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Peter shot her a grateful look and after she disappeared into the shop, turned back to his friends.

  “This wasn’t from your brother.” Mantis ground out.

  “Compliments of Lady Felicity.” Greys supplied.

  “I called on her to ask if Lady Tabetha had confided her plans to her and before I could open my mouth, she did this.” Mantis dabbed his fingers near his eye.

  “What did you do to her?” Peter asked.

  “I have no idea.” Mantis was shaking his head. “There is no understanding women.”

  “It’s a beauty, don’t you think?” A smile danced on Greys’ mouth.

  “And it was all for naught, as Lady Tabetha didn’t tell anyone about her plans—not even her maid.” Blackheart apparently saw no amusement in any of this. “She’s leading your brother and hers on a merry chase—with the Duke of Culpepper.”

  “What a mess.” Peter only hoped Stone didn’t get too caught up in it.

  “Indeed,” Blackheart agreed.

  Peter made a low whistling sound. What was his brother going to do when he caught up with the defiant couple? “Not sure who I feel the sorriest for then, my brother or Culpepper.” Because Stone was likely to beat the impoverished duke to a pulp. And then he’d have Westerley’s sister to deal with. “Although, I was hoping he’d come to his senses…” Peter had seen the way his brother looked at Lady Tabetha. And although Stone insisted she was nothing more than an inconvenient annoyance, that he was only fulfilling his obligation, Peter had seen something else in his brother’s attentiveness.

  Blackheart nearly cracked a smile from where he stood, arms folded over his chest.

  “You do remember,” Greys held the handle of his cane with both hands, rocking back and forth on his feet, “that Chase and Lady Starling—”

  “That’s in the past.” Because of course, Peter remembered. How could he not? All three men seemed to be studying him. “What?” Peter asked, not appreciating this sudden scrutiny.

  “You’re due to join England’s most acclaimed cellist in a day and yet you aren’t locked up in your mother’s conservatory with your precious Rosa,” Greys observed.

  “Should we be concerned?” Blackheart lifted a brow.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” These gents no doubt would have his back in his weakest moments but they could also prove to be giant pains in the ass.

  “You have a look,” Mantis said.

  “A look?” Peter swiped his hair away from his face. “A gentleman can’t escort a lady down Bond Street on a sunny afternoon without his friends having cause for concern?”

  “Gentlemen can. You can’t,” Mantis said.

  Greys narrowed his eyes. “Especially not when the lady is the former lover of one of his closest friends.”

  Peter glanced over his shoulder, anxious that Miranda would overhear any of these fools’ comments.

  “Leave him be,” Blackheart said. Peter met the duke’s eyes gratefully. “Let us know if you hear of anyone defaming Lady Tabetha.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Spencer…” Blackheart narrowed his eyes. “Best of luck to you in Brighton.”

  Peter watched as the three men disappeared down the street, ambling along as though they owned the very pavement itself. Although a few years younger than them, he’d always been welcomed into their fold, like an honorary member of sorts. He was going to miss that.

  “Is everything all right with your brother?” Miranda asked.

  Peter hadn’t even heard her rejoin him. “Something of a tangle, but I’ve no doubt he and Westerley can sort it out.” But Peter didn’t want to spend the afternoon discussing his brother’s affairs. Not when he had less than a day left with this woman.

  “Shall we go back to the hotel now?” Not because he couldn’t wait to make love to her again. But because he needed to just… hold her.

  That sense of loss loomed far weightier than it had before they’d met up with the impertinent Lords. He stared down at Miranda. When he was old and gray, an apprenticing musicians himself, would he sit in his rocking chair and remember Miranda as the woman who could have been?

  “I’d like that.” She was never coy about what she wanted.

  Peter stepped onto the street and hailed a hackney.

  Chapter 6

  It Moves Me

  Night had long since fallen, and candles flickered in the room, casting shadows on the half-eaten tray of food as well as the two empty bottles of wine.

  This room had become a cocoon of sorts. A dream… a sanctuary where neither of them held back anything of themselves—physically or otherwise.

  A stinging plagued Miranda’s heart as she pressed her lips against the smooth skin of Peter’s shoulder, memorizing his taste. A little salty, spicy woods, soap, and something uniquely him. Her gaze settled on the leather case propped in the corner of the room.

  “You will play for me now?” She loved being in his arms but they were running out of time, and she desperately wanted to see this side of him. Perhaps it would help her understand his ultimate passion.

  He ran his hand down her bare arm. “I’m not certain the other guests will appreciate music floating up and down the corridor this late.”

  “You can play a lullaby.” She sat up, her hands still roaming his chest, but then forced herself to crawl out of the bed.

  When they’d entered the room several hours earlier, he’d been ravenous for her. It didn’t make sense. She’d always assumed familiarity would diminish the excitement of making love. And yet, with Peter, the more time they spent together, the more personal details they shared about their lives, both significant and insignificant, their hunger for one another only seemed to grow.

  The realization was incredible but also a little terrifying and almost had her contemplating leasing a house in Brighton so that she could be with him. It had her contemplating notions she’d all but given up on.

  He did not act like a man who was ready to be rid of her. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Peter climbed out of their bed and lovingly draped a blanket around her shoulders. “Sit here.” He guided her to the only comfortable chair in the room.

  As he opened the large leather case to reveal the shining instrument, she was reminded of times in the past when she’d watched him play with other musicians; at Westerly Crossings, the Willoughbys’ mansion, and then at a come-out hosted by the Duke of Bla
ckheart. She might as well have been admiring a handsome prince. Dressed in elegant evening wear, he had seemed so completely removed from her own existence, as though he’d lived in another world, in another time.

  Never in a thousand years would she have imagined seeing him like this, naked, his skin shining in the candlelight. And his hair was ruffled, springing from his head in places where she’d run her fingers through the lovely strands, the longer locks draping along his jaw.

  Watching him go through the ritual of preparing to play, she smiled and hugged her knees to her chest. She would memorize this moment.

  She couldn’t help but notice the tangible excitement that grew on his expression as he plucked at each of the strings and then turned a few nobs. Did his heart race the same as when he moved in and out of her?

  When he lowered himself into the same wooden chair where they’d made love the night before, a palpable energy filled the room.

  “Do you have any requests?” He tipped his head so a wayward lock of hair moved off his face. Miranda swallowed hard. So beautiful in every way. What could he possibly see in her? And yet the look in his eyes refuted her doubts.

  “I want to hear your favorite.”

  He blinked, his fingers running along the strings. “I’ve been practicing some incredibly difficult pieces Sir Bickford Crowden sent to me. And they are magnificent, a few of his own compositions.” He drew his bow across the thickest string, filling the room with a slow, rich note. “But as far as I’m concerned, nothing rivals Bach’s ‘First Cello Suite.’ It’s hardly the most difficult piece a cellist can learn, but…” He shook his head.

  “What?”

  “It moves me.”

  “Then that is what I wish to hear.” As she met his approving gaze this time, her heart shattered. Dear God, was this what falling in love felt like?

  He tucked the head of the instrument onto his shoulder, closed his eyes, then came to life with a vibrancy that reached inside and touched her very soul. As he coaxed the music with his bow and his fingers, he moved his head, adjusting to the sounds. Miranda stared at his parted lips, entranced while he filled the room with… emotions in the form of music.

  Time stood still until he drew the piece to an end with one long note, and he paused, staring at her.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “That was the first suite. I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Never.” Humbled, her voice caught. No wonder he’d been chosen by one of the world’s most applauded musicians.

  With a nod, he dove into the second suite and as he played, perspiration beaded on his brow and his chest. His bare feet remained planted on the floor, and his knees kept the instrument in check. Time ceased yet again, and she didn’t realize tears were streaming down her face until she tasted salt on her lips.

  But it wasn’t only the music that kept her enthralled. It was the man, his passion, his exuberance. And it seemed that the longer he played, the more he moved into that other world again. Far from her and every other human.

  He played longer this time, performing the entire piece.

  Physically, they were together in this room but in every other sense, he might as well have been playing on the moon.

  And when he ended on the final note, he was breathing heavily and seemed to require a moment to return to mundane life as everyone else in the world experienced it.

  He had labored at this passion for the past half an hour, or however long it had been, and after the room fell silent, she became aware of his breathing, the ticking of a clock on the mantle, and a carriage rumbling along the street outside the window.

  But of course, that was how he maintained his strength and physique. He’d told her that some days he practiced more than ten hours.

  “You will be Bickford-Crowden’s finest student.” It was all she could think to say. After tonight, she would gradually be relegated to a fond memory from his past.

  “I hope I don’t disappoint him.” He rose and, just as he’d done that first night they’d been together, lovingly replaced the cello into the case.

  She’s more than a possession. She’s my life… And for now, she owns my heart.

  He had not been exaggerating.

  “But enough for now.” He crossed the room and bent down, lifting her into the air as though she hardly weighed anything. “Tonight my only purpose is to coax music out of you.”

  When he lowered her to the bed, she didn’t hesitate to lift her face for his kiss. If his music had a taste, it was this—velvet and passion. The melody from Bach’s cello piece continued playing through her mind.

  “I can’t bear to leave you. Come with me to Brighton.” Heat brushed her jaw where he spoke against her skin.

  It was what she wanted to hear. But… “You don’t mean it.”

  “I do.” He’d pulled away to look into her eyes. “Marry me.”

  For a moment, the entire world fell away, and she could almost imagine spending her life in the embrace of this man’s love. She wanted to say yes to all of it. Yes to Brighton, yes to marriage, yes to Peter Spencer forever.

  “I know I sound crazy, but I don’t need months to know how I feel about you. And I don’t want to end it when we’ve only just begun. This is right. This is good.” He was on his elbows now, his gaze unwavering, looking determined and eager. “And you’ll never have to be alone again. We will be a family. You will have a family. I have an estate in Essex. And although it isn’t massive, it’s respectable. My father will be happy for me to settle down. Say yes, Miranda.”

  In her mind’s eye, she saw everything that could never be—children with eyes the color of the sky—running and playing, the two of them sitting in a drawing-room on a cold winter night, a fire burning in the hearth…

  And a distant look of longing in his eyes. Because sitting in the corner, Rosa seemed to taunt her.

  Greatness awaited him. He’d spent his life preparing to rise above the feats of normal human beings.

  “But you have your apprenticeship. And after that… You are being impulsive, foolish. We barely know one another.”

  The excitement in his eyes diminished slightly. Because she was right. Of course, she was right. She pressed her advantage. “You don’t know me. It would be a mistake, Peter.” She gestured toward the bed. She would make this easy for him. “To leap into marriage, just because of this…”

  “But I love you.” It was possible he’d even surprised himself with his declaration.

  “You don’t know me,” she repeated. Although hadn’t she just been imagining that she might be falling in love as well? “You can’t give up your dreams.”

  “I wouldn’t have to give them up.”

  “It’s impossible. After Brighton, Sir Bickford-Crowden will invite you to tour the Continent with him.” Peter moved his mouth as though he might argue with that, and she shot him a disbelieving look. “You know it is likely. I won’t take that from you.”

  “Come with me.” He was so full of optimism. For the first time since they’d begun this affair, she felt much, much older than him.

  It almost sounded possible. But she would become a burden. And after they tired of one another, she’d return to England even more of a fallen woman than she was now.

  His proposal had been made impulsively. He hadn’t meant it.

  “It’s too soon.” She clutched the sheet to her chest, needing to get out of that hotel room before she gave in to what he wanted. She wanted the fairy tale with him. Of course, she did, but it would be a mistake. Even if he abandoned his music, he’d want children. She’d failed Baldwin in that regard. She couldn’t bear to know the depths of that disappointment again.

  He sat up on his haunches, his skin glowing almost bronze in the candlelight. “I love you, Miranda. And I think you love me.”

  “It wouldn’t matter.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Your dreams are right before you. I would hate myself forever if I kept you from following them.” Because of course, she loved him.
How could she not love him?

  He stilled, staring across the room with an unseeing gaze. “I’m rushing you.”

  Miranda trailed her fingers down his chest. She was going to miss him dreadfully. How did a person go about falling out of love?

  “The apprenticeship ends December twentieth.” He broke into her thoughts.

  He seemed to be working something out in his mind, his eyes thoughtful, his jaw clenched. “I’ll meet you here, in this room, on Christmas Eve. If you don’t come, then I’ll accept that you don’t love me. If I’m not here, you’ll prove yourself right. But if we both come, then we’ll know…”

  “We’ll know what?” Because he couldn’t come… he would be preparing to go on tour.

  “That you and I are destined for one another.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at the romance of it. He was so beautiful, so talented, so inherently good and untarnished.

  “I won’t come.” She didn’t want him thinking he owed her anything. She didn’t want him to feel guilty when, while sitting with his family on Christmas Eve, he realized he’d forgotten all about her.

  “I will come.” And in his words, she heard something she hadn’t expected—certainty. “I’ll reserve this room, number eight, for Christmas Eve, of this year.”

  How could she deny him this? Such a foolish promise, though, might make their goodbye less final. To imagine this attachment they’d developed wasn’t on the cusp of breaking forever.

  Would making such a promise to him cause her more pain in the future? She wouldn’t come.

  She would not.

  But what if she did? And he didn’t? She couldn’t bear that.

  “Very well,” she said.

  Peter stuck out his arm and clasped her hand in his. But whereas she thought he was going to shake it, to seal their bargain, he instead pulled her back onto the bed.

  Because the future held only a glimmer of hope.