by Eloisa James
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 5
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.
Cecilia’s mother had been overjoyed by the attention the Duke of Ormond had paid her daughter 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.
Her duke was a brilliant musician.
Theo strode into the ballroom and walked straight to the piano. He didn’t put her on the seat; instead he seated her on the piano itself, which put her about eye level with him.
“I brought you this,” he said, pulling a ring out of his pocket and sliding it on her finger.
“It’s so beautiful,” Cecilia breathed, admiring the large pale pink diamond.
“It is the exact color of your cheeks when you would become furious and start screaming at me,” he said with satisfaction. “I saw it in Vienna two years ago and bought it for you on the spot. It just took me a while to come home.”
Then he kissed her until her cheeks were altogether rosier than the stone.
“I’ve been in London,” she said later. “I could have found someone. What would you have done with the diamond if I married someone else?”
He couldn’t have given it to another woman, not the ring he picked out for her.
He shook his head. “My mother would have written me immediately if you had a wooer. I would have returned.”
Cecelia’s heart plunked to the bottom of her chest. Theo knew that she had failed on the marriage market two seasons in a row. Who would want to marry a woman who was rejected by all his peers?
His hand gently tipped up her chin. “I know precisely why you didn’t ‘take.’ I heard the foolishness about Silly Billy. Believe me, I consider myself blessed that gentlemen were stupid enough to listen to that nonsense. Unless I am gravely mistaken, a good many men at this very house party are cursing their own stupidity.”
Cecilia managed a wobbly smile.
“Did it give James a moment’s sorrow?” Theo asked. “I remember him quite well from when we were children.”
Cecilia shook her head. “He didn’t know of it. But even if he had, he is innately joyful.”
“That nickname held off the vultures while I was greedily learning everything I could about the piano,” Theo said. “I always knew I’d come back.”
“When your father died, and you had to be duke,” she said, nodding.
“No, because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He shrugged. “I will do my best as a duke. But I had to come back so I could marry you.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
“I thought James might like to live with us,” he said, dusting her lips with kisses. “If he still has tame chickens, he could bring them along.”
There was an endearing flash of uncertainty in his eyes. Cecilia took a second just to savor the pleasure of having a duke at her feet, metaphorically at least. Then she twined her arms around his neck and took a shaky breath.
He was the one. The only one.
“I believe you were going to ask me a question?” she asked softly.
Theo cupped her face in his hands. “Will you marry me, Cecilia? To have and to hold, in sickness and health?”
“I will,” she whispered, tenderness and need roaring through her body like an ocean wave. “I will, Theo. I will.”
“We are going to spend our lives making music,” he said, his eyes dark with an emotion she didn’t yet know . . . but welcomed. “I’ll teach you the guitar, and you will teach me to play Mozart with irony.”
“And privacy,” she reminded him, knowing her face was lit with an impish smile. “I shall need many private hours to teach you to play properly.”
“Many, many hours,” the duke murmured, gathering her more tightly into his arms as he crushed his mouth against hers, giving her deep, hungry kisses that promised everything. “I’ll put a bar on the door of the music room. Banish everyone from the ballroom.”
She would have all the music she wanted, along with shivers that had nothing to do with grasshoppers.
And love.
Even chickens.
Cecilia couldn’t know it at that time, but the Duke of Ormond meant to give her her heart’s desire, and he followed through.
Their house overflowed with musical instruments and sheets of chamber music. Her brother trotted to and fro, peacefully happy to the end of his days.
Cecilia had never imagined that what she wanted most in life—after the love of her husband—were two bumptious, fractious baby boys who both had a tin ear and a mysterious passion for horses that would lead them to rebuild the ducal stables.
Still, that was the deepest wish of her heart, after the love of her husband.
And he gave them to her.
At Midnight
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, gentlemen wore breeches and doffed their top hats at the sight of a lady. But in reality, life wasn’t very different: wallflowers occasionally celebrated the perks of unpopularity, and many gentlemen were one pickle short of a barrel.
But not the hero of this story, because as it happens, he was extremely clever. Along with being remarkably good-looking and poor as a church mouse.
In short, Elias Hempleworth-Gray would have made the perfect hero in a fairy tale, though in truth he was no stable boy: he held the title of Earl of Leyton.
But what’s the good of a title, when one’s father has shot himself under ignoble circumstances? Not to mention the fact that the Leyton estate—almost all of which was unentailed—was lost at the card table and promptly sold to a rich merchant? Orphaned Elias became his uncle’s ward at the age of five; since then he had learned that his title was good for one thing only.
Sale.
If he wished to sell himself to an heiress—or rather, to her father—the title was worth gold on the open market, otherwise known as the Season.
His only other prospect was management of a decrepit estate in the Highlands, the remnant of the Leyton estate that survived his father’s addiction to dice. Having just graduated from Cambridge with a fairly useless degree he was heading to Scotland in the morning, determined not to return to England until he had the lands turning a significant profit, which would probably take five years. Perhaps even ten.
Normally, he didn’t think about his father much. But at the moment, he couldn’t stop brooding: if that sodding earl hadn’t been addicted to games of chance, he, Elias, would be downstairs proposing marriage to Miss Penelope White. Or, as Elias liked to think of her, to Penny. His Penny.
No, he’d already be married to her. After all, he’d loved her since the age of ten, when she pummeled his best friend Reggie in response to an insult. After he had pulled her free, she had turned from being furious to laughing, and Elias’s heart had leapt with delight. Penny laughed with the kind of joy that a rather solemn orphan rarely experienced, at least not one living, as he did,
in the shadow of his uncle’s thin white lips and hawk nose.
He was shaking away the memory when the door to his bedchamber burst open and Reginald Dolan, future Viscount of Moremount, blew into the room. “Bloody hell! Why aren’t you downstairs? The least you could do is support me in my time of need,” Reggie cried, tossing his gloves toward a chair, from whence they promptly fell to the carpet. “You’re a rotten friend. You really are. You ought to be at my shoulder, warning me that I’m on the point of ruining my life.”
“You’re ruining your life.” He growled it, because Reggie was about to offer his hand in marriage to Penny.
“Sod it,” Reggie replied, dropping into the glove-less chair. “Your mama is nicely tucked away in the family crypt, whereas mine just told me that if I’m not on my knees by the end of this masquerade, she’ll instruct my father to cut my allowance. Would you mind if I went to the Highlands with you tomorrow? I don’t want to marry Penny.”
Elias bit back the obvious rejoinder.
“I think about marrying her,” Reggie said, without pausing, “and I weigh it against plunging down a narrow vertical staircase—you know, those ones leading from bell towers.”
“Your ruff is the size of a rain barrel,” Elias pointed out. “You wouldn’t fit up the stairs, never mind down.”
“That’s only because I’m dressed as Shakespeare,” Reggie said, scowling at him. “Didn’t you recognize this ridiculous mustache I’ve pasted on my face? Everyone knows what Shakespeare looks like.”
Elias couldn’t bring himself to care.
“If only the damn girl would fall in love with somebody,” Reggie continued. “I caught her last night and told her that she’d better start smelling the roses or she’ll end up seeing me at the breakfast table for the next eighty years. She had the nerve to tell me that she would do it out of pity, to keep me away from the Covent Garden nuns. Can you believe it? That she would say that, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“I told her that she’d better not let anyone hear her using terms like that, and she just laughed at me. She actually told me to my face that she could say whatever she liked, because an heiress is marriageable even if she is as mad as a March hare.”