“Charlotte, no. My music would be scandalous on its best day, and I don’t want all of society seeing me that way. At best, they’ll say I’m a talentless milksop. At worst, well, I’ll not have them question me or ridicule you, and I certainly don’t want my father’s name dragged through the mud again. It’ll bring all the old gossip back to the surface. I will not have people mock my family. I have worked too hard on my reputation for all to fall apart. I told you already that my private life is private.” Drake released her from his embrace and curled a hand beneath his pillow.
“But we don’t have to say you’re the composer. I can announce that all works are by an anonymous composer I wish to patronize. No one will know it’s you unless the debut is a success.” Sounded reasonable to her. “The only thing I ask is that you perform with me.”
“I’m not as courageous as you, Charlotte. The one and only time I debuted my music it changed the entire course of my life. Looking back on it now, that change was not for the better. Do you know that after that concert, I didn’t compose for a decade? You’re the only one of us with any real courage. You’re not afraid of anything, and I envy you for it,” he said, his eyes full of admiration she didn’t think she deserved.
“I’m not at all courageous. I tremble every time I am to be seen as a duchess and not plain Charlotte. I’m so afraid of failure that I cried myself to sleep every night when I first moved here. I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself in front of everyone, and they’ll all know I’m an imposter duchess, that I’m nothing more than a country girl, a nobody from nowhere pretending to be nobility.” Her voice cracked at the admission. “I’m afraid I’ll disappoint everyone and most of all you.”
What compelled her to confess that? She hadn’t even admitted that fear to Hazel or Lizbeth when they visited. She had shown them, instead, that she was strong and skilled at her new position in life, regardless of her worries.
“Oh, Charlotte. You could never disappoint me. And don’t call yourself a nobody. You’re perfection itself.” He pulled her back into an embrace again, pressing his warm body against hers. “You would laugh to hear yourself say that if you really knew what the members of the beau monde were like. They’re all fake, all pretending to be someone or something they aren’t. They snub their noses at those below them in status, but then they go home to tup the stable boy, both husbands and wives! You can’t fear society. They’re all already afraid of themselves and afraid of everyone else learning their secrets. I think each of us, ultimately, is shielding ourselves from harm, be it fears of failure, criticism, or even unrequited love. Don’t you see? None of those people are superior to you in any way.”
She let him hold her, comforting her by stroking her back and feathering kisses along her forehead.
But then she braved saying, “Then what do you have to fear? By your own admission, they’re all fake, so what harm would come from a debut?”
He sighed and buried his face in the pillow. Mumbles, mutterings, and curses could be heard, followed by a muffled scream, and then he turned back to face her, smiling again.
“You’re going to be the death of me, woman. Do whatever makes you happy. But only on one condition,” he said.
“What might that be?” She eyed him skeptically.
“Roll over onto your stomach,” he requested.
As he began to pull her over, she shrieked, “What are you doing?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Just roll over already!” He threw back the bedcovers and sat up.
The now familiar ache settled between her legs when she saw his erection. With a giggle, she rolled onto her stomach. He positioned himself behind her, straddling her buttocks. She gasped in surprise as he plunged into her with a fluid movement and groan of pleasure, immediately followed by her own moan of delight.
Chapter 24
Click-snap. Click-snap.
The lid of the snuffbox clicked open and snapped closed in Drake’s fingers.
Nervous was an understatement. Mix anxious with excitable and stir it with a splash of terrified and that might be a more apt emotion.
In the past hour, he had transitioned from a casual pinch of snuff to lining it along the back of his hand and snorting it with a determined inhalation. Somehow even that didn’t quell his nerves, although a slight lightheadedness had settled.
This evening was Charlotte’s soirée. Guests bustled about the Red Drawing Room, enjoying madeira, ratafia, and conversation before the concert began. The rugs had been rolled and removed to enhance the acoustics, mirrors placed around the room to reflect the evening candle light, and chairs from both the formal dining room and the Blue Drawing Room arranged facing the pianoforte to best view the musicians.
He had to hand it to Charlotte; she selected the guests with skill. The soirée was attended by known patrons of the arts, some all the way from London, and any number of well-to-do gentry with hedonistic reputations, who, Drake suspected, would be more open to his musical style than his mother’s stuffy traditionalists. Genius, he thought to himself. Pure genius.
They weren’t the sort of artists and thespians his father favored, nor were they among Maggie’s crowd. These guests were well known for their generous patronage to the arts, one lady in particular being known to have gifted an impressive largesse to write the libretto for a recently debuted opera. Charlotte must have gone to great lengths on his behalf to discover these individuals and persuade them to attend a soirée so close to winter months.
The soirée took nearly a month to arrange, and even that was short notice for the guests who traveled far. One of the saving graces was the artfully scheduled shooting party that had been held the week prior, for those already attending the shooting party merely extended their stay by a week to enjoy the soirée.
Drake was positive Charlotte was a genius. She may still feel insecure and defensive, always worrying she’d make the wrong choice or embarrass herself somehow, but he knew she was a natural hostess and party planner, far superior to his mother, though he’d not admit that to the latter.
The icing on the cake of this soirée was the attendance of Prinny, complete with liveried royal footmen. The prince may only be eight and twenty, but his word was worth gold. If he favored the music, no matter if everyone else in attendance hated it, the composer’s music would soon be played at every performance hall in the country and beyond.
It hadn’t taken much persuading for the prince to ride to hounds and then stay a week longer for the concert. When asked, Prinny had remarked how easily bored he became without a good party. Truthfully, the extended stay offered the opportunity to flirt with more ladies.
Now, Prinny stood at the double doors to the grotto, flirting with a group of ladies and dressed as a veritable fop, his powdered hair and rouged cheeks humoring Drake beyond words. Prinny marched to the beat of his own drum, despite the changing fashions that no longer favored the old style. Not that Drake would ever laugh at the prince’s expense, but patches and powder were simply not the rage anymore, though that fact was lost on the lad.
Drake needed a laugh. His nerves were drawn taut, ready to snap. Despite the well-planned party in his honor and the impressive guest list, he felt one part flattered and one part violated. As much as he really did want his talent recognized, he didn’t feel comfortable having his private world on display. This whole affair left him too vulnerable. His emotions would be presented on a gilded platter for them to skewer. He had never written for an audience, only for himself, the outpouring of his own emotions. Even if the guests didn’t know the name of the composer, he would still be able to hear their reactions to it, not to mention shoulder the blame and judgment for having such music in his house.
The styling of the music was unique and vulgar. His playing was unique and vulgar. The family history was unique and vulgar.
The whole of him was coiled, waiting for censure.
His loyalty to Charlotte split in two—he was touched by her thoughtfulness, by all the work she put into this event for him, to show him how much she cared for him and his talent; yet, he resented that she so easily gave away his private self to the world when he thought he had made it clear that the man behind the mask was for him to choose with whom he shared, and he had chosen her, the only person to enjoy his innermost self.
Whatever internal conflict he struggled with, he needed to sort it within the next few minutes, for there would be no going back once the music began. Tonight would make him or break him; he feared the latter.
Click-snap.
Mother tucked herself on the opposite side of the house, promising, or threatening rather, to return after the performances. She left when she saw the rugs being rolled, incensed by the rearrangement of the drawing room into the semblance of its old ballroom designation, even if only for one night, not to mention incensed by the presence of the guests and by the choice of entertainment. Not even the presence of the prince could move her. And, in fact, his presence incensed her all the more. She had many a choice words for him being in her house, as she wasn’t a fan of him or his set.
Charlotte defied her by disregarding all guest list changes his mother made, and when Mother recommended that Charlotte turn the soirée into a dance so the music wouldn’t be the focal point of the evening, Charlotte chose to pointedly ignore the suggestion, saying the music was the purpose of the occasion.
Assuredly, his mother had figured out by now that the compositions to be debuted were his own. Or not. She was only passively aware he still composed and likely didn’t know he had enough compositions to fill an entire calendar’s worth of soirées. As far as she was concerned, he only dabbled now and then in penning a piece, never fully committing himself.
He knew the debacle of a debut from his youth was foremost on her mind, as was his father and the whole mess of a scandal. In some small part, he felt as though he were betraying her. While crafting a reputation as a libertine might not seem like something a boy would do for his mother, it had been. He’d been protecting her as much as himself, along with his father’s name and the Annick name. After all these years, it seemed he’d come full circle, once again in a house full of music lovers, ready to put himself on display. This time would be different.
Click-snap.
Drake clicked open the snuffbox and pinched another line onto the back of his hand. With a hard sniff, he snapped close the box and tucked it into his pocket. No more. He was irrevocably dizzy from taking too much in such a short period of time. At this rate, he’d never want to take snuff again.
He searched the crowded room for his wife, finding her surrounded by a few of the local ladies, outshining them all in her silken blue evening gown with matching sapphire necklace, one of his more recent gifts to her. Tendrils curled around her face with ringlets tied at the back of her head, peacock feathers rising from the coiffure. A duchess. She looked the part. Her posture straight but graceful, her head inclined condescendingly but with a warm smile, her instinctive actions as hostess sealing her as the most celebrated woman in the north. A natural duchess. Much like the evening of the dinner party, Charlotte glowed, clearly within her element. Since the moment guests entered the room, she had fluttered about with invisible angel wings, moving from group to group to honor the guests with sincerity.
He was only disheartened that Lizbeth and Sebastian were still enjoying their honeymoon, otherwise he was convinced they would both attend, if no other reason than to support Charlotte since neither of them knew he composed.
The time of reckoning arrived when Charlotte stepped over to the pianoforte and requested the guests take their seats. Tapping his front pocket, he reminded himself no more snuff, at least not until he stopped feeling giddy. He may need to tie his hand to a potted plant to keep from the nervous habit, especially since his fingers had started to tremble uncontrollably.
Charlotte welcomed everyone, described the musical selections and order of pieces, thanked them for attending, and said more than was necessary about her ardent support of the anonymous composer. Drake clenched his fists until his knuckles ached to still his hands from shaking.
The evening’s entertainment would begin with a soprano, followed by a violin quartet, and then an assortment of works by various musicians until he and Charlotte together ended the performance with a duet of their own and the final pièce de résistance being their sonata for four hands.
When the soprano stepped out, he realized she was the very woman who had sung the aria at Vauxhall during his courtship with Charlotte. For a moment, he forgot his fears as his heart swelled. Charlotte was full of surprises this evening and all of them for him. The soprano had, he was sure, been especially selected as a nod to their courtship.
Drake remained standing at the back of the room, too anxious to sit. After the soprano’s first sultry notes, Charlotte joined him. He affected a pursed-lipped half-grin and half-grimace in reply to her delectably stunning smile of greeting.
When his hand reached towards his pocket once again, he restrained it, pinning it behind him.
Lusty tones swept through the audience, a mounting theme with a convention-challenging rhythm thrumming a tattoo in their ears. Drake closed his eyes. For the first time, he heard his music performed as it had played only in his head. As glorious as this moment, he wished he could blot out the sound and leave the room until time for their duet. The presence of the audience unsettled him. He couldn’t stomach seeing their reaction to such sentimental music.
The soprano sang of unrequited love.
He remembered the day he began writing the unfinished opera, some ten years ago, the day he realized Maggie never loved him, that his mother never loved him, that his father never loved him, that no one loved him. All the love in the world he could give, and no one wanted him. Could the audience feel the heartbreak in the music? Could they feel the pain? He couldn’t watch, for he feared what he would see—shallow individuals with no capacity for emotional depth. He needed to leave the room and fast.
Opening his eyes, he turned to Charlotte who watched him with curiosity. With still trembling fingers, he touched her cheek. She reached up and clasped his wrist, nodding to the door.
She knew. God, she understood. She was perfect.
They slipped out of the room unseen. Their absence wouldn’t be noticed until the aria ended, so they had ample time to escape for a breath of sanity. Still holding his wrist, she led him to his study, pulling the door closed behind her.
When the lock clicked, she commanded, “Pleasure me, Drake.”
Without hesitation, Drake closed the space between them in three quick steps, pressing Charlotte against the study door in a possessive kiss, his tongue touching every surface of her mouth, marking his conquered land. Tonight’s seduction was well planned, for she knew exactly how many minutes they had before they needed to reappear in the drawing room. When she saw his discomposure at the opening performance, she knew her decision to be good.
As he kissed her, cupping her face in his quivering hands, she set her fingers to work on the fall flap of his breeches. The fabric fumbled against her kidskin gloves. She tugged off her gloves to better feel the buttons.
Her seduction would be raw and passionate, a way to help still his nerves. With hands bare, she gripped him, caressing his silken skin.
He murmured against her lips, “I love when you take control.”
Empowered, she stroked him until he whimpered. He moved his hands from her face to her breasts, squeezing them roughly through her bodice and pinching her nipples until they hardened.
She winced but was all the more excited by his vigor. His hands, steadier already, stroked down to her waist and hips. He pulled up her evening gown and petticoat until they ruffled around her waist. She lifted her leg around his thigh. With a gruffness she wanted but hadn’t expected, he lift
ed her against the door, pinning her with one hand and pulling her leg high around his waist with the other.
When he entered her, he covered her mouth with his own to silence her startled cry. His hardness pushed into her, widening her, filling her deeply and thickly until she felt she may burst.
Tilting her hips, she met his violent thrusts with her own, impassioned by the moment, wanting him to pour his emotions into her. Charlotte gripped his shoulders, digging her fingers into the coat as he came into her over and over again.
The music of their lovemaking echoed through the voice of the soprano, filling the manor with heaven’s song. Charlotte climaxed convulsively against him, contracting her muscles around him until he released his tensions, fears, and his seed inside her body. He cried out against her mouth. She clung to him with labored breath, not wanting it to end, but knowing it had been enough to relax him for the remainder of the concert, not to mention satisfy her until tonight.
Once he slid her leg back to the floor and let her gown and petticoat drop to her feet, he stood back and smiled. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but suspected what he was feeling, and she thanked herself for the timely seduction. For a moment, she closed her eyes to breathe and settle her racing heart. If she looked half as flushed as he did, they would need to wait before returning to the drawing room, but there was still time. She’d ensured there would be time when she scheduled the evening selections by placing the longest piece first.
His fall flap buttoned, Drake sank into one of the chairs in the sitting area.
“Should I light a candle?” he asked, surveying for the first time the moonlight bathed room.
“No. We’ll need to return soon.” She walked over to him to massage his shoulders.
“I knew it would be difficult, but I didn’t think I would feel so discomfited. I can’t even enjoy hearing the music from fear,” he admitted.
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