by Eloisa James
“Do you like the piece?” he asked.
Navy blue was an unusual color for eyes, Cecilia decided. Most people with blue eyes had—She pulled herself back together.
“I do not usually like Mozart’s Concerto in C. The rondo is disappointing, I think.”
All of a sudden, his large body became entirely still.
Likely she’d insulted him.
She hurried into speech. “The opening movement is magnificent, but it’s rather like Concerto no. 18, don’t you think? Both rondos are uninspired. But your performance of it was magnificent.”
He shook himself, rather like a dog coming in from the rain. “You surprise me. What did you—what did you think about my performance?”
Cecilia paused. She wasn’t sure how to describe his style. “You didn’t add anything,” she said finally, “except perhaps smallest and minutest of variations in the rondo?”
He nodded.
“Well, you remained true to Mozart’s intention, but at the same time you made the piece fresh. I particularly enjoyed the moments when you allowed the music to be rough without pathos, if that makes sense.”
“I was aiming for rustic but not sentimental,” he said, nodding. “When did you not enjoy it?”
“I wouldn’t say I felt a lack of appreciation at any point,” she hedged.
“But?” His eyes were so intent that she was starting to feel a bit breathless.
“Well, you play very seriously. I think you might overlook some irony, some of the privacy.”
“Privacy,” he said, his brows knitting together.
She nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her; he was staring at the floor, likely replaying the rondo in his head.
Then he looked up. “I’ll have to think about it.” The look in his eyes sent an instant ache down her legs.
He was definitely about to say or do something improper. All she had to do was gain her mother’s attention and she’d be well on the way to a scandal. Unfortunately, Petunia was nowhere to be seen.
“I gather that you are a musician,” he said, disappointing her.
“I would like to be a musician,” Cecilia corrected him. “If it weren’t improper.”
“I suppose that being a lady does curtail one’s activities,” he offered.
The party was eddying around them, and no one seemed to have noticed that Cecilia Bellingworth was in a disgracefully close conversation with an itinerant musician. It was rather irritating.
“You have no idea,” she said. “The pianoforte is considered appropriate, but not more than a few hours of practice a day, except in the summer when I am allowed to play as much as I wish. We leave for the country after this party as it concludes the season. I’ve been looking forward to it for months.”
He looked surprised. Men were always surprised when it dawned on them that women didn’t have their opportunities.
She would have thought that a professional musician might have a better understanding of the limitations society can place on people due to their births.
“Do you like the pianoforte?” he asked, cocking his head as if he were really interested.
“Yes and no,” she said, deciding to take his question seriously. “I truly like to play the violin, but my mother dismissed my tutor a few years ago.”
“Raised arms,” he said, surprising her. “Quite improper.” His eyes didn’t go below her chin, but apparently he had already assessed her bosom.
“Exactly.” She had to get this seduction going, but somehow she couldn’t think how to do it.
Men were supposed to do this instinctively—one might even say obsessively—but he showed no sign of being on the verge of a shocking suggestion.
“What about the guitar?” he asked. “My mother plays the guitar, and so do my sisters.”
“I would need a tutor.” She stole a glance at him from under her lashes. Maybe he would offer his “services.”
“I could recommend the same man who taught my sisters.”
“That would be wonderful,” Cecilia said, starting to feel a little depressed. He wasn’t responding to any of her lures, if you could even call them that.
There was a sound from the top of the room; the musicians were returning to their seats and tuning their instruments.
Her mother appeared at her shoulder, accompanied by the Duchess of Ormond.
Caught!
Surely there would be—
Her Grace was smiling. “I see that my son has found you, Cecilia. I’m so proud of his talent.” She turned to Lady Bellingworth. “I know it’s most unusual, but—”
Her voice faded from Cecilia’s ears.
She was staring at the Duke of Ormond . . . not a professional musician with no appreciation of rank or proper behavior.
How could that be? She’d last seen the future duke at fifteen. He had been a pudgy tease with bad skin and . . .
Theo had grown to be taller than most men. His shoulders were broad and his skin was unblemished, other than being slightly more golden brown than that of most gentlemen.
He obviously grasped the fact that she had had no idea who he was. He grinned at her with a deep wicked joy. “And here I thought that all the insects I bestowed upon you had made me unforgettable,” he observed.
“In your own particular way,” Cecilia retorted. “May I inquire whether you have a grasshopper hidden around your person?”
“No, but only because I hadn’t time to prepare. Seeing you was a lovely surprise.”
She couldn’t help it; a smile trembled at the corner of her lips. “Why on earth did you toss all those insects in my direction?”
“I’m hopeless at resisting temptation.”
Even now, she gave a shiver at the memory of the scrabbling little legs. “I particularly hated those grasshoppers. It was so horrid of you.”
“I’m sorry,” Theo said, looking as if he meant it. “But you see, whenever I dropped an insect down your dress, you would scream. When we were young, I just liked to get your notice. When you were older, you would scream . . . and shiver all over, just as you did just now.”
“It was disgusting. Of course I screamed!”
At that, his eyes did go below her chin, and her gaze followed him to where her breasts plumped above her bodice.
She gasped. “You—you reprobate!”
He leaned closer. So quietly that only she could hear him, he said: “Fair warning, Cecilia. I decided early in my life to spend my life trying to make you shiver . . . in every way I can. I’m far more learned in that skill than I was as a boy. These days I have no need for a grasshopper.”
She felt his breath on her ear and—sure enough—caught herself trembling. He held her eyes for a moment, and then turned and bowed to her mother. “May I have the honor of Miss Bellingworth’s hand for this dance?”
He was the duke; this was his house party; he was asking for the very first dance. The moment he took her hand in his and led her onto the dance floor, everyone would think . . .
Something.
Her conclusion seemed so implausible that she couldn’t even put it into words. She was a wallflower. A failure on the marriage market. Of course, he didn’t know that. He’d been abroad.
Her mother had no objections, needless to say.
The musicians struck the first notes of an Austrian waltz. The duke took her hand, and everything in Cecilia’s body tightened. Heat raced through her with the same wild exultation she felt when listening to music.
It wasn’t until they were spinning as lightly as a seed puff on the wind, her skirts twirling around her ankles and showing off her shoes, that she knew exactly what everyone was thinking.
It was in the duke’s face, after all.
Theo was looking down at her with the absolute absorption with which she’d seen the Earl of Mayne regard his wife. As if . . .
“Cecilia,” he said, so quietly that only a seductive thread of sound reached her ears. “I taught my sisters to play the guitar.”
She gave a little gasp. “So when you said you would recommend the same tutor, you were offering your services!”
“I would be happy to teach you to play.” His heavy-lidded gaze sent a thrill down her spine. “With your approval, my lady, I could ask your mother if she would allow me the privilege.”
The question had nothing to do with guitars. It had to do with a lifetime of music, spent with a man who turned Mozart’s notes into a thunderstorm.
His eyes searched hers and there was desire there, but also reverence.
Cecilia couldn’t say a word. She was as startled as if—as if a boy with clear, dark blue eyes had dropped something that wiggled down her bodice.
This was entirely a different kind of shiver.
It made the Duke of Ormond grin as if she’d said yes to his offer of lessons. “But first I should like you to teach me to play that rondo ‘privately.’”
The music drew to a close.
Cecilia curtsied, feeling like an odd sort of Cinderella. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said, watching as he bowed and kissed her hand. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Perhaps I might meet you here tomorrow,” he said, nodding to the grand piano.
“I suppose . . . Yes. What time?” Cecilia said. Her mind was whirling.
“Six in the morning.”
Her eyes widened.
“I would not wish us to be interrupted,” he said blandly.
She couldn’t meet him at a time when her maid wouldn’t be awake, either to dress her, or act as a chaperone. But perhaps if she gave Betsy that blue ribbon she’d been admiring—
Theo glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve changed my mind, Miss Bellingworth.”
Behind him, Cecilia saw her mother approaching, a couple of gentlemen in tow. Her gown was doing its work. “Oh?” she managed.
“Five-thirty in the morning,” the duke stated. He didn’t just say it either. He commanded. Pronounced.
Ordered?
“It would be difficult for you to teach me how to play Mozart’s notes with appropriate sobriety if we are not alone,” he said in a silken voice.
No maid, that’s what he meant. That made it an assignation. If they were caught . . .
She could feel her cheeks warming. She’d never imagined being a duchess. But the way the duke was looking at her . . .
There was no point to lying to herself.
Her world settled into place. There would be music, and this man—this gorgeous, sensual, hungry man—and babies, someday.
But meanwhile . . . Cecilia narrowed her eyes.
There was an irritating air of arrogance clinging around the duke’s shoulders.
He knew she was his. And that was true. But his certainty didn’t please her.
It would not be good for the duke to start thinking that he could simply order her around, any more than the Earl of Mayne should be allowed to summon his wife with a mere jerk of his chin.
She had a lifetime to train His Grace, but she might as well begin now.
Her mother reached her side. “Darling, Lord Herberry would like to ask you for a dance.” Petunia was glowing like a candle in a winter window; Cecilia had the shrewd idea that there would be no further complaints about her new clothing.
Lord Herberry was lanky and tall, with intelligent eyes and a thick shock of black hair.
“Herberry,” the duke said, with a curt nod.
Cecilia glanced between them, and bit back a smile.
“Ormond, I heard you’d returned,” Lord Herberry said. “Who would have thought you’d grow to be anything but radish-sized? I gather you were doing some plinking of the keys while we were hunting this morning.”
Cecilia was rather interested to realize that this blatant insult merely made the duke glance down at Herberry with an amused expression. And he did glance down. The truth was that no matter how stubby His Grace might have been as a boy, he had the advantage on Herberry now. “Something like that,” he replied.
“Miss Bellingworth,” Lord Herberry said, turning to Cecilia, “you are looking particularly exquisite this evening. Our hostess has announced that there will be one more dance before supper. May I have the honor of your hand?”
The amusement stripped from the duke’s face He looked possessive. Hungry.
And yet utterly confident.
“Miss Bellingworth just agreed to give me the supper dance, Herberry,” His Grace lied, showing not even a shred of shame.
This wouldn’t do.
Cecilia gave him a cheerful smile. “You must forgive me, Your Grace, but I believe that Lord Herberry asked me first. In fact, it may be that you forgot to ask me altogether.”
A gleam lit his eyes. “Dear me,” the duke said silkily. “That’s right. I suppose I must have asked Miss Dering-Filch instead. I do apologize.”
Miss Dering-Filch had no sense of pitch whatsoever, but she loved to sing and regularly inflicted her voice on society.
“Do ask Miss Dering-Filch to entertain the company with ‘O Waly Waly,’ won’t you?” Cecilia asked. “I am persuaded that you will enjoy her interpretation.”
The duke’s eyes turned cautious. But that was nothing to how he looked when the meal was over and a delighted Miss Dering-Filch launched into a rendition of twenty-three verses of the Scottish song, several of which she had written herself.
In the middle of the lady’s fourth verse, Cecilia slipped from the room and went upstairs to bathe and go to bed.
She had to be up early.
Chapter Five
Just before sunrise, a great house has an empty quality, like a drum waiting to be struck. Cecilia rose in the pinky light of dawn and washed at the basin, then brushed out her hair. Without her maid she didn’t trust herself to pin up her hair without having it lopsided on her head, so she just tied it back with a ribbon.
Petunia had been overjoyed by the attention the Duke of Ormond had paid her the night before, but she would not be enthusiastic about this early morning rendezvous. Cecilia had to be so quiet that her mother—sleeping in the chamber next door—wouldn’t wake.
She slipped through her door, and closed the door quietly behind her—only to come to an abrupt halt. There, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, was the duke.
For a moment they just stared at each other, and then a slow smile spread over his face.
“Hello there,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Waiting for you.” He took a step forward.
Their eyes met. It was amazing, really, how little words mattered. His had a question that she had already answered. Banked passion flared suddenly when she bit her lower lip.
“Oh,” Cecilia said, sounding foolish to her own ears. No man had ever looked at her like that. She felt beautiful, as if his gaze alone made her glow, spangled by early sunlight, glittering like something precious. “I really oughtn’t go with you, Your Grace,” she said, her voice breathy and low.
“Theo,” he said pointedly.
“It would be most improper to call you by your first name.”
“But my intentions are entirely proper, Cecilia.” Her name rolled off his tongue like a promise.
“Oh,” she said again, feeling herself turn pink.
“But also improper.” He gave her a wolfish smile, the smile of a boy who always got what he wanted. All the same, his eyes were direct and clear, showing desire and respect.
When he drew her into his arms, she didn’t squeak, or call to her mother, or any of the things that a proper young lady should do.
Cecilia had never been kissed, so she hadn’t realized how large the barrier was between ignorance and experience. It turned out that kisses weren’t a matter of lips, or even mouths, as she thought.
The duke’s tongue stroked into her mouth and her body woke up as if a deep chord of music had sounded nearby.
Her arms went around his neck instinctively, and then he drew her into his arms
and brought their bodies together, turning and putting her back against the wall. It felt as if Mozart and Bach mixed together, joy and the grandeur and solemnity at once.
Cecilia had always been good at learning music.
Theo’s body—his mouth—was a new instrument, but she felt herself instinctively into the art of it, her fingers curling into his hair, her body melting against his.
Sometime later, he drew back, breath ragged, a curse word slipping from deep in his throat.
Forgetting about her mother, about the early hour, about any of it, Cecilia laughed aloud at his surprised expression.
He let out a breath and put his forehead carefully against hers. “You’ve unmanned me, damn it.”
She didn’t say anything because even a very young lady without much knowledge of the world could interpret the pressure of his body. He was not unmanned, no.
Not at all.
She grinned up at him, knowing that she was glowing with happiness and then daringly arched her back, just a little bit. Enough so that their silent conversation could refer to the question of manliness.
He bent his head again, as if he couldn’t stop himself, ravishing her mouth, drawing her against him tightly.
“How soon can we marry?” he asked in her ear, sometime later.
Cecilia had discovered that Theo’s back was corded with muscle; she could feel fascinating hollows through his coat. “Did I miss your proposal?” she asked, with a gurgle of laughter.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Here?”
Really, the man had a terribly provocative grin.
Cecilia leaned back against the wall. “The location is, of course, your prerogative,” she said gravely.
“Then I choose the music room,” he said. With one swoop, he snatched her into his arms. Cecilia gave a startled squeak but the duke was already walking down the corridor.
Over his shoulder, she saw something that made her wince. And wave. “My mother just saw you snatch me up like a pirate marauder. What do you think of that, Your Grace?”
He glanced down at her. “I think she’ll expect to see you at breakfast with a ring on your finger.”
Cecilia leaned her head against his chest. Her life had changed so sharply that she had a sense of vertigo. She was going to be a duchess.