by Shana Galen
She angled her body so she could better admire the instrument. It was very fine—definitely much better than any she had ever played before. Far better than the one she had learned on—an ancient instrument that had been her mother’s.
Her mother had been her teacher, as well. But that was years ago. Now both her mother and the pianoforte were no more. Her mother had died of consumption, while the pianoforte was sold two years ago to cover some debt or other.
The clock on the mantel ticked away, and still the duchesse did not return. The longer Felicity sat staring at that pianoforte, the more her fingers itched.
Surely it would not hurt anything to study the pianoforte more closely.
Felicity rose, one eye on the drawing-room doors and one eye on the pianoforte. When she was beside it, she reached out gingerly and brushed her fingers along the spine and the raised fallboard. The wood was smooth and cool to her touch. When she pulled her fingers away, not a speck of dust lingered.
Cautiously, Felicity circled the instrument, admiring it but watching the drawing-room doors. She did not think the duchesse would mind if she simply looked at the instrument.
But playing—well, that was something else entirely, Felicity thought, even as she sat on the plush bench before the black-and-white keys. It was considered quite ill-mannered to play someone else’s instrument without first asking permission.
Felicity stroked the keys, caressing them individually. In her mind, she heard the sound each would make, and still, without pushing down the keys, she began to play her favorite sonata. She was not even certain of the title of the piece. It was something her mother had loved to play and something Felicity had not heard in a long time.
Gently, Felicity increased her pressure on the keys until the music was more than just a figment of her imagination. She pressed lightly, dampening the tones she heard, but it did not matter. The music was beautiful.
She closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s hands on the worn keys of their instrument at home. She pictured her mother’s face as she played each measure of the piece.
Here was a difficult section. Her mother’s brow furrowed in concentration.
Here was a lively section. Her mother smiled, and her fingers seemed to fly over the keys.
Felicity’s own fingers flew over the keys, as well. She was vaguely aware she was playing the instrument at full volume now. She was aware, but she no longer cared. Whatever scolding she might receive was secondary to the music. She could think of little else. The very notes themselves snared her and held her captive. She must finish the sonata. She could not breathe if she did not hear the next note and then the one after that.
She played with her eyes closed, knowing the sonata so well she did not need to look at her racing fingers. Even after all this time, she made no mistakes. Once she heard a piece, she rarely did.
And then when the piece was almost complete, her back prickled. She opened her eyes and stared straight ahead.
A man stared back at her. He stood just inside the door of the drawing room, his hands fisted at his sides. His shirt and breeches were of the latest fashion, but he wore no tailcoat or waistcoat, and his shirt was open at the throat. Even more surprising, he wore no stockings or shoes. His clothing was clean and neat, but his hair was in disarray. It was long and free of any binding. The brown locks were clean, though, and they fell over his shoulders.
It was his eyes that stilled her fingers. They were the deepest and darkest blue she had ever seen and framed by long, thick lashes and a dark slash of brows. There was something in those eyes that sent a shock straight through her.
Not a shock of fear, though the man was big enough and powerful enough to be a threat, if he chose that course.
The shock was that of recognition. This man loved music as much as she. Felicity could see it in his face, in his eyes. And the shock of seeing her own passion reflected back at her froze her hands.
Suddenly, the music ceased, and silence washed over the room.
Felicity stared at the man, and he stared back.
And then he began to howl.
Three
Armand knew the sound frightened the girl, but it roared out of him before he could seize control. He was angry at the sudden silence.
He had been sitting in his brother’s library, staring out the French doors into the garden, when the music began. He liked the garden—the fresh air and open space. He often worked there, planting shrubs or flowers, but today he simply stared, pretending he was out of the city. Free of the confines of these walls. Free of the confines of his mind. He had to concentrate to keep images from spilling into that mind.
At first the music had been quiet, and he thought it came from a neighboring home. But gradually the sound grew in volume, and as it did, Armand was on his feet, moving out of the library and into the vestibule.
He had to find that sound—either to make it stop or to make sure it continued. He stood in the center of the black-and-white marble and tried to picture all of the rooms in the home. He was picturing the instrument that made the sound and trying to remember if he had seen that instrument in the house. He could have remembered the name of the instrument if he’d tried, but words could be dangerous. Still, the sound it made was something he knew.
Finally an image of the drawing room and the instrument flashed into his mind. Instantly, he was on the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. When he reached the drawing-room door, he paused.
What if he opened the door and the music stopped? What if this was not really music at all but something from his imagination?
It had happened before. In prison the solitude caused vivid illusions. He heard voices, music, even saw images he would have sworn on his life were real. But when he went to touch them, to test their authenticity, they vanished into the dark cell.
What if this music vanished, as well?
Armand stood with his hand on the door and thought it over. A maid dusting nearby watched him. He could tell by the way her gaze darted away when he looked at her he made her nervous. He wanted to ask if she could hear the music, but he could not.
Behind the doors, the music grew louder, and Armand couldn’t stand it another moment. He turned the knob and stepped inside. And to his surprise, the music continued. He could see where it came from now—a woman was seated at the instrument he had imagined. She had…
Yellow. Yellow hair.
That was not the right word for the color, but the less he thought about the words, the better. He could not risk speaking. He could not survive another term in prison—the blackness, the stink, the maddening loneliness. He would die first.
The woman before him now played violently, leaning into the keys and swaying from side to side. Her eyes were closed, and she did not see him enter.
Watching her, Armand’s breathing slowed and his thoughts focused. It was almost like staring into a fire. What was the word? Bewitch? But the music was not all that drew his attention.
The woman. He could not look away from her.
Did all women have cheeks that smooth or necks that long? He had never noticed before. And what about her yellow hair? He liked the way the sunlight seemed to melt into it.
And then she opened her eyes. They were blue—the exact blue of the sky he had imagined all those years when he was caged in prison. He had always known that the sky could never be that perfectly blue, but imagining it so kept him sane. He must be imagining this woman’s eyes now. But then she blinked at him, and he knew this was real.
And then the music stopped. The woman stilled, and Armand felt the absence of the music like the pain he experienced when his hand crashed through a wall. The woman was looking at him, and he wanted to tell her to keep playing.
He opened his mouth to tell her, to beg her. Don’t stop. More music. More fingers moving.
Her eyes widened—those perfe
ctly blue eyes—and she leaned back, and it was then that Armand realized he was howling.
He tried clenching his jaw, but the sound wouldn’t stop. Mortification ripped through him.
Silencesilencesilencesilence.
In desperation, he turned and smashed his knuckles against the drawing-room door. The splintering pain stopped the sound, but the damage had been done. The girl stood and stumbled back in an effort to get away from him.
Armand wished he could start all over again. He did not mean to startle her. At times he behaved little better than a monster, and he hated it. Hated his momentary loss of control. He turned about, looking for his brother or a servant who might reassure the woman, but no one was near. Even the maid he had seen earlier had fled.
The woman stumbled back again, tripping over the piano stool. She fell on the floor, and Armand moved without thinking. She held up a hand and scooted back—farther away from him. “Stay back,” she ordered. “I’m warning you…”
Scared. Her eyes looking at him. Fear.
Anger swept through him, and he lunged forward and took her hand. She shrieked when he touched her, and though the sound hurt his ears, he did not release her. He would show her he was not always a monster. He held her gently, as gently as he had held his pet rat. He was so careful with her hand it took him a moment to realize she had removed her gloves.
He was touching bare skin.
His own skin began to heat where it met hers, and he glanced into her sky blue eyes.
She had stopped shrieking now and was staring at him. Her gaze darted between his hand and his face, and she was absolutely still. Armand would have thought her a statue if he did not feel the warmth of her skin.
She looked down at her small white hand encased in his larger one, and Armand followed her gaze. Gently, he squeezed her hand, hoping the gesture was reassuring. Sarah and his mother did this to him all the time, and he figured it was supposed to soothe.
She did not begin shrieking again, and he judged the action a success.
But the girl was still on the floor, so Armand stepped back and tugged slightly, showing her that he wanted to help her to her feet. She nodded, seeming to understand, and he pulled harder. She rose to her feet and stood before him. “You may release me now.”
He had forgotten to focus, and her words washed over him without meaning. And then when he tried to focus, his body would not allow it. She was too close; that much Armand realized immediately. She was so close he could see the dark rim of her sky-colored eyes. He could smell her scent, and normally that overwhelmed him. But not this time. He wanted to move closer, to inhale more deeply.
He looked into her eyes again, just as she tried to pull back her hand, and that was when he realized he was still touching her, still holding onto her.
And he realized something else, as well: he felt no pain.
Her touch caused him no pain!
In surprise, he pulled her hand to his chest. She resisted, but he was stronger, and her hand touched the material of his shirt just under his throat.
And still no pain.
It didn’t make sense. Touch always pained him.
Whywhywhywhy…?
He pictured her hand on his bare flesh and lifted it to his cheek. A few weeks ago, he had shaved the beard he had worn for years, and now he had Julien’s valet shave it again every few days. The valet had shaved him this morning, and his face felt raw and vulnerable. He braced himself in anticipation of the fresh pain her fingers would cause on that sensitive skin, but when he pressed her flesh to his, he felt only the warmth of her skin and the softness of her fingers. He had never felt anything as soft as this woman.
He looked into her blue eyes again. They were huge and round, but she did not look afraid. There was color in her cheeks—the word eluded him.
Red. Red on white.
Armand wondered how that colored skin would feel under his fingertips. Surely if her hands were soft, her face would be even softer.
And as soon as the question occurred to him, he knew he must have the answer. In one swift movement, he wrapped an arm about her middle and pulled her close. She resisted at first; he felt the tension in her body and the instant stiffening. Armand would not force her—could not imagine forcing any creature to do something against its will—and so he allowed his hold on her to relax. She must come to him, or else he would let her go.
The image of her moving away flashed before his eyes, and he gritted his teeth. But as much as the idea displeased him, he could release her.
But when he relaxed his hold, she did not move away. She looked up at him, her face only inches from his. He could feel her warmth all over now, and her scent wrapped around him like the silk robe Julien had given him.
Her breathing was rapid, causing her chest to graze his with each intake of air. She was soft everywhere, round everywhere, and Armand felt a hard stab of something he had rarely felt before—need, want, desire. She blinked, tilted her head to the side. “What do you want?” Her voice was quiet and light now. It tinkled like bells.
It also trembled, and her body shook with it. Without taking his eyes from hers, Armand pulled her close again and slowly, ever so slowly, laid his cheek against hers. It was as soft as he had anticipated—softer than the fur of his pet rat, softer than any material he could think of. For four heartbeats, he relished the feel of her skin against his.
And then he was aware of another feeling—the feel of her body pressed to his. The feel of her breath in quick gasps on his neck. The yielding of her flesh against his. He knew her mouth was mere inches from his, knew if he turned his face slightly, he could press his lips to hers. He had never had the impulse to kiss anything or anyone before, but now he felt as though this was something he must do.
And at the same time, he knew he could not—knew that by holding her like this, he had gone too far. There were Rules in this new society—Rules he did not always obey, but Rules, nonetheless. He broke them frequently and mostly without intent, and he knew with certainty he was breaking one now.
He should release her. He should step away, allow her to go—
“Armand!”
Feeling like a naughty child, Armand sprang away from the woman and rounded on the doorway. His defenses were up, and he was ready for whoever the enemy might be. Attackers always came from behind. But instead of an assailant, his brother’s woman stood there, her mouth open slightly. The maid Armand had seen dusting outside the drawing room was standing just behind her. Without turning, Sarah ordered, “Go fetch His Grace, please. Be quick about it.”
The maid bobbed her head and ran away while Sarah stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Armand clenched his fists. He hated closed doors. Sarah looked immediately at the yellow-haired woman, who was now leaning against the instrument, her slim, pale hand against her cheek where he had touched her with his own. The sunlight came in through the window and moved in her hair. It looked almost as though it were on fire. Armand had to resist the urge to go to her again.
“Are you hurt, Miss Bennett?” Sarah asked the woman.
Miss Bennett. That must be her name. He memorized it, thought he might try to say it alone in his room tonight.
“No, I’m fine,” she answered in that same light voice. “I-I don’t think he meant me any harm. I—” She waved a hand as though to fan her face. “I don’t know quite what happened.”
“Why don’t we sit down?” Sarah said. But before the women could reach the chairs, the door swung open and Julien rushed inside. He wore his riding boots and coat, and his hair was windblown.
“What’s going on?” His eyes took in the scene quickly, and when they met Armand’s, Armand scowled at him. Now, more than ever before, he wished he were free to speak. Language was becoming clearer to him every day. He could speak. At one time he had spoken several languages, read them, as well. But then
everything had changed. Words were forbidden, dangerous. He’d pushed the skill of speech far away, and when he occasionally wanted it, language was murky, something grasped at in a muddy pond. Plunge as he might into that pond, the object eluded him. Or did he allow it to elude him?
“I walked in,” Sarah was saying, “and Armand had Miss Bennett in his arms.”
Julien whirled toward the yellow-haired woman. “Did he attack you? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I mean, no. That is to say, no, he did not attack me, and yes, I’m quite well.”
“What happened?”
She did not speak for a moment, and then her eyes met his. Armand knew an important question had been asked, and he saw now she was considering her answer. He looked away, certain no matter what she said, in a matter of moments she would be whisked away, and he would not see her again.
And perhaps that was for the best. He did not trust himself if she played that music again.
“I think the gentleman”—Armand turned to see that she gestured to him—“was overwhelmed by the music I played.”
His head hurt from focusing so hard. A tool—hammer—pounded behind his eyes, but he willed himself to listen, to understand.
“Music?” Sarah said, her brow furrowed. She had moved closer to Julien, which did not surprise Armand. He had yet to see them together in a room when they were not near one another, usually touching. “What music?”
The girl’s cheeks colored further, turning from a lighter shade of red to a darker one. “I’m sorry. I was playing the pianoforte. I haven’t played in some months, and I’m afraid I got quite carried away. When I opened my eyes, he was standing in the doorway. The look on his face was…” She paused, glanced at him again. “I don’t know how to describe it, but I think he enjoyed the music. Unfortunately, when I saw him, I was startled, and I stopped playing. It was then he began to… ah…”
“Howl?” Julien said.
She nodded. “It took me by surprise, and I stumbled backward, tripping on my skirts. At which point, he helped me to my feet and then…” She bit her lip, and Armand saw the color of her cheeks turn even darker. He wondered how dark they would go. “He sort of held my hand and then…” She reached up and tucked a piece of yellow hair behind one ear. “He put my hand to his cheek.”