Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  Lillian arranged the two sheets of music on the stand and began to play a ballad, one simply arranged for a beginner. Her hands glided across the keyboard, giving the simple tune a modicum of emotion that most her age would not possess.

  “Oh, well done,” he exclaimed.

  “You liked it, Papa?” His daughter turned to him, pride shining from her open face.

  “Very much, poppet. You have a feel for the music.”

  “She does indeed,” Miss Dunwood added.

  Lillian turned toward the woman. “Are you really my music teacher?” she asked, as if she hadn’t believed it before.

  “That is exactly what I am,” Miss Dunwood answered.

  Alec’s daughter threw herself into her father’s arms with a force that made him take a step back. “Thank you, Papa. I’ve longed for music. How did you know?”

  How did I not? Guilt flooded him.

  He hired Miss Dunwood to make his own life easier. It appeared he had satisfied his daughter’s deepest desire quite by accident. Her rush of happy chatter didn’t help his regrets. Studying the woman who responded to Lillian’s flood of questions, he caught a fleeting glimpse of his magical creature of the cathedral.

  The prim and controlled Miss Dunwood clasped her hands, and asked if he had sheet music she might review.

  “Of course!” A closed cabinet, plain and unassuming, stood against the wall; his lute hung above, while a music stand stood beside the cabinet. A few sheets of music rested on top. Following his gaze, Miss Dunwood approached and picked up the sheets on top.

  “Those are the ones Mama liked,” Lillian told her.

  The music tutor nodded. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and sifted through the collection of simple Scottish ballads. “Is there anymore? Scales? Etudes for students?”

  “Of course!” He opened the cabinet and Ann’s eyes went wide. Sheets of music filled every shelf. When she darted a glance at him, he grinned. “I’m sure there are study materials in there somewhere.” He pulled a handful from the second shelf.

  “Herr Beethoven,” she whispered, awe vibrating in her voice. She reached out a hand to caress the sheet on top.

  The magical creature peered out at him.

  “That’s Papa’s music. He doesn’t play anymore,” Lillian grumbled.

  “Perhaps he would like to show us?” the siren of his dreams suggested.

  He couldn’t refuse. He pulled an allegro movement from the handful of sheets and sat to play. His wide-eyed daughter joined him on the bench. He laid his hands on the keys and memory took over. He began with a crashing cord, moved into melody, and climbed to a crescendo only to fall and rise again. He lost himself in the music, with its great lows and enormous highs, ending on another series of dramatic chords. He raised his hands, breathing heavily, and looked across at the shining eyes of the woman who stared back, a sympathetic soul who understood the force of music.

  He had not been mistaken about the passion buried in Ann Dunwood, and now he understood the key to unlock it.

  “Strong music, Papa. Mama said ladies don’t play such things.” Longing vibrated in his daughter’s words. “But I like it. Is it acceptable for me to like such music?”

  Ann’s face colored, and he watched her fold back into the demure music teacher. Sorrow etched her features.

  “Not only may you like Beethoven, my darling, but if you pay attention to Miss Dunwood, someday you may play his music. Alec wasn’t certain which person found his words the most shocking, Ann Dunwood or his daughter. “In fact, I suspect Miss Dunwood could demonstrate right now, if she chooses.”

  “But Mama said ladies don’t,” Lillian attempted firmness, but he heard a crumb of doubt in her tone.

  “Perhaps your mother simply preferred her ballads, Miss Lillian. We are each entitled to our preference,” the woman said.

  Do I hear a note of defiance in her voice?

  He hoped so. He firmly hoped so.

  ***

  It won’t help this child to call her mother an idiot. Nor will I show her what sort of music a lady might play. Not yet. Not today.

  “Can you show me which piece was your mother’s favorite?” Ann asked.

  Lillian obliged, looking less uncertain, to Ann’s relief. She sorted through the sheet music that had lain on top of the cabinet. Ann refused to allow herself to reach for the doors and peer at the treasures within. The child handed her a sheet.

  “She especially liked this one,” Lillian told her.

  Ann sat on the piano bench and studied the sheet. The insipid ballad, a sad lament, called for minor keys and a steady pace. She turned and played it through.

  “Mama played it slower,” Lillian said. Ann’s heart sank, only to lift a moment later when the girl went on, “But I like your way better. Can you teach me to play it?”

  “I can and I will, but we will have to work on the basics, as well.”

  “Basics?”

  “Scales, chords, nimble fingers all matter. Those are the tools you use to create music.”

  The child nodded. “Mama started to teach me a scale.”

  “We will build on what your mother did then,” Ann said, holding her breath.

  The girl’s thin shoulders relaxed. “Yes, Mama would like that. I can learn.”

  “The harder you work, the better you will play,” Ann said.

  “In that case, I will work very, very hard.” Her eyes shot open at a thought. “But Papa said he plans to take the piano to Kirkwall!”

  “He does,” Ann told her, shooting a glance at the man who watched the byplay with an inscrutable expression. “I think you are going to have to come with it if you want to learn to play.”

  A silence followed, fraught with conflict, broken only when Lillian said, “The house is small, Papa. Robbie and Alex will disrupt your work.”

  “I have plans for the two of them, as well, Lillian. We’ll keep them busy and out of your hair. They will be learning Latin.”

  A slow smile came over the girl’s face. “Latin? I’m going to tell them.” She ran off with a sly grin.

  Sir Alec studied Ann until she wanted to hide, but she held herself steady. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I think you worked a miracle.”

  Ann glanced at the ballads and Beethoven sheet music strewn on top of the piano. “I’m not sure I am the one who did.”

  Chapter Six

  The last notes of the little etude ended sweetly. The gaze Sir Alec bestowed on his daughter proved to be equally sweet. He had interrupted their lesson, drawn, he said, by the excellence of the musician. Lillian sat straighter under her father’s attention. The little girl glowed when he praised her and kissed her head.

  His approval warmed Ann to her toes, as well, when he turned those stormy deep blue eyes on her. What was it about the man?

  “Well done! Your mother would be proud,” Ann told her pupil, once Sir Alec left with claims of work. Her heart swelled at the girl’s obvious pleasure, not only in the piece she had played for her father, but for mastering sharps and flats in a single try. Lillian learned pieces quickly by ear but seemed delighted to uncover the secrets hidden in notation, as well.

  “Miss Dunwood, would you play Mama’s favorite again?”

  Ann did so with pleasure and then helped Lillian pick out the melody line. Ann shifted the melody down a key and added some chords, only to stop at Lillian’s fierce frown.

  “That isn’t how Mama played it,” Lillian said.

  “Did your mother play often?” Ann asked. Did she like music? The question hovered on the tip of Ann’s tongue. The woman either lacked knowledge or disliked the piano. Given Sir Alec’s brilliant playing, her daughter’s description of her mother’s choices struck Ann as discordant.

  No one had taken time to recognize the girl’s talent. Ann knew many men left the education of daughters in their wife’s hands. In this case, however, the mother either lacked the skill or the inclination to nurture the treasure right in front of her.
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  Why had Sir Alec failed to notice? Had he attempted to interest his wife unsuccessfully? Had he withdrawn from her disinterest in music? Had he withdrawn in other ways, as well? His wife bore three children; they couldn’t have lived entirely apart.

  One can be physically close and still worlds apart. If true, the thought filled her with sadness for all of them. No wonder the girl starved for his attention.

  Ann gave herself a shake. She had no business ruminating over the state of Sir Alexander Bradshaw’s marriage.

  The afternoon sun shone through the window. “Shall we dress for a walk? You promised to show me the rabbits, and we best hurry before dark.”

  While Lillian scurried off to change to half boots and fetch her cloak, Ann took a moment to tidy up. She sorted the sheets of music and caught sight of one of the compositions Sir Alec had pulled from the cabinet. She grabbed those to return them to the cabinet, intending to stuff them in and go in search of her own wraps.

  When she opened the cabinet, however, she found the papers so tightly packed that they had expanded to fill the spot here the sheets in her hand had been. Ann stared at the bounty of music and breathed deeply, as if she could inhale harmony rather than paper dust.

  “Don’t be a ninny, Ann,” she murmured, drawing herself up. She set the Beethoven sheets on top Lucy Bradshaw’s ballads rather than risk stuffing them in with the rest and fought the urge to empty the shelves and see what treasures the cabinet held. She snapped the cabinet doors shut, ran a loving hand over the papers on top, and strode toward the hall, knowing deep in her heart she would not be able to stay away.

  ***

  Alec approached the music room, drawn by a river of sound. The Moonlight Sonata flowed under the door, down the hall, and into his study long after the children and the servants had turned in; he followed the music. How could he not? The door opened on silent hinges. He slipped into the music room and stood with his back to the closed door while the miraculous creature from the cathedral poured out the lament of the first movement. Emotion left him no room for thought.

  She moved smoothly to the allegretto without pause, its gentle rise making his heart dance. As he was lulled into a serene state, she flung herself into the third movement, and the driving rhythm and a lightning-fast melody took his breath away. Or perhaps the passion flooding from the woman’s body to the keyboard to his ears did so. He couldn’t be certain. He could only gasp for breath when she brought the sonata to a heartbreaking conclusion, her deep sigh battering his chest.

  “Brilliant, Miss Dunwood! Bravo.”

  She leapt to her feet, chest heaving, and knocked the bench over in her agitation. “Sir Alec,” she gasped, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  In the power of her playing, the conventional bun that bound her hair had broken loose. The resulting nimbus of curls glowed in the candlelight. The demure imposter had disappeared.

  That same light glowed in her eyes, but even as he watched, it started to dim. “Sir Alec, I—”

  “Please don’t apologize.” He couldn’t bear it. He did not want to see that light fade. “You—your playing, I mean. It’s magnificent. Don’t ever apologize. It has been so long since I heard it played well. Orkney is far from the great capitals. Fiddles and fifes are fine enough, but this”—he waved an arm to encompass the room, the instruments, and the woman whose playing stunned him—“this is magic.”

  She colored, but he watched her body relax. Even the hands held at her waist lost their white knuckled intensity. She lifted her face and, miracle of miracles, smiled at him.

  “Your pianoforte is the magic. And you play, as well. I heard you this afternoon,” she said.

  He returned her smile. “It’s been several years. Memory came back.”

  They regarded each other for long moments before her eyes darted off to the corners of the room and she gave herself a shake.

  “I’m sorry I disturbed your peace this evening. I’ll be more careful in the future,” she murmured, attempting to slip around him toward the door.

  “Miss Dunwood, wait. Please.” She paused, looking back warily. “I—” His mouth went dry and he struggled to swallow. “That is, would you please do me a favor?”

  Her brows rose, but she did not answer.

  “There are Beethoven duets. Would you play with me?”

  She seemed to withdraw into herself before looking back at the piano, longing naked in her eyes. “The sonata?” she asked at last, her voice husky.

  “I thought perhaps…” His mind raced. “The variations in C?”

  She nodded. “Do you have the sheet music?”

  He carried the candelabra to the cabinet, hoping the piece hadn’t been moved. It hadn’t. Why would he think otherwise? He bought it for Lucy when he still hoped she would take an interest. She had not, and so it remained where they had abandoned it.

  He found Ann seated on the bench watching, and sat at her side.

  They studied the music together for moments, falling into a partnership and discussing difficult passages. She keyed a melody line. He ran through one part, loosening his hands. He knew the music once; had learned it in hope. She seemed to pick her part up quickly. They made one false start, corrected, and circled back to the beginning. Ann Dunwood, he saw, had lost all her wariness, absorbed as she was in the challenge of the music. Parts proved to be too much, split second timing too difficult. With unspoken agreement, they went back over the difficult parts, hands bouncing off keys. She might not know the piece, he realized, but she understood the composer and fearlessly attacked.

  Halfway through, their playing became entangled, until Alec broke off laughing, bowing his head to the piano. Ann convulsed, as if his laughter infected her with madness. They laughed until tears ran.

  “How could we—” she began, gasping for air.

  “The arrogance of it!” he replied.

  “Maybe with a year of practice,” she said, catching her breath.

  “A year? Surely a month or two would suffice,” he asserted.

  She beamed at him; he thought it the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. When she opened her mouth to reply, the luscious line of her lower lip drew him. He froze, unable to pull his gaze away.

  She closed her mouth slowly, and he leaned forward longing to kiss, his common sense in full retreat.

  When she licked her lower lip, he was lost. He closed the distance until their breaths mingled.

  “Sir Alec?” she murmured before he touched his lips to hers.

  “Alec,” he said against her mouth, moving his lips and touching hers with his tongue. She didn’t pull away. He moved back mere inches, enough to look for any sign of distress. Her wide, expectant eyes sent him back for more.

  Just a taste, he thought.

  When she opened for him, he was lost. He pushed the bench back from the piano and pulled her into his lap, one arm about her shoulders anchoring her to him, the other caressing her waist and hip.

  She gripped his shoulders, holding on as if for life. Her untutored responses to his kisses sent a warning through him, but he ignored it. When the hand at her waist slipped up to cup one breast, she stiffened, and he pulled it away, lifting his head to look at her again. She whimpered and shivered in his arms, leaning her mouth toward his, but he pulled her against his shoulder.

  He dropped his head to hers, reveling in the silken feel of her hair. “I should apologize.”

  She pulled herself up. “No, I—”

  She didn’t object when he pulled her back. “Don’t. You’re a beautiful woman and a brilliant musician. I refuse to regret kissing you.” They sat together for long moments, her head nestled against his shoulder and his arm around her waist, until he kissed her neck and set her back on the bench.

  “I think I best leave now.” He rose, caressed her cheek with one hand, and left. She followed him with large, sad eyes and not one word.

  The click of the door shutting behind him left him bereft.

  A gentleman woul
d have escorted her to her room, he thought, But it is a good thing you didn’t; you would never have been able to leave her at the door.

  As Alec walked away, shame washed over him. He had taken advantage of a guest in his own house, a single woman dependent on him. He had no excuse other than the music. It bewitched him.

  He returned to his study and the work strewed across his desk, work that no longer interested him. He began to return Sir Stirling James’s proposals to his valise, when he noticed the folded piece of paper Sir Stirling had tucked in with them. “Bradshaw” was scrawled across the top in Stirling’s characteristic hand. He opened the missive.

  Bradshaw,

  Take care lest you overlook what is right under your nose.

  —S.J.

  He didn’t mean salt, did he?

  Alec thought back on their conversation over dinner: Ed’s insistence he needed a wife, the comments from his sister, Sir Stirling’s knowing looks.

  He wondered if his refusal to consider remarriage owed more to defying his sister than his own needs. Did I really think I needed a quiet, biddable girl? I had that in Lucy, God rest her generous heart. He had been a fool.

  Perhaps Ed had the right of it. Perhaps Alec needed to stop blaming himself for his dissatisfaction with his marriage and get on with life. Perhaps he needed to listen to Sir Stirling James and notice what was right in front of him.

  He grinned into the dark corners of his study. He’d done more than notice in the music room this night. An honorable—and happy—course lay in front of him if only he would seize it.

  Alec leaned back in his chair. His businesslike brain began to plan, once he understood his objective. He was certain about his first task. Ann Dunwood was his employee and dependent on him. No advances he made could be honorable under that circumstance. He had to remove temptation from his house while he still had a shred of honor left. Once he had her safely back in Kirkwall in Maud Salter’s care, he would be free to pursue her.