Guilty Series

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Isabel’s groan only interrupted her for a moment. “—and after I do so,” Grace went on, “the nanny will sleep up here as well. Until you are fourteen, the nursery is the only appropriate room for you. Your father said the same.”

  Children were so persistent. Isabel began arguing the point again. She wanted a big girl’s room, and she was not concerned with how things should be done.

  Neither, it seemed, was her parent.

  I could not bear a postponement, Grace, for I crave your company. I have four maids. Pick one to assume the nanny’s duties until you hire one. I expect your company at four o’clock.

  Grace stuffed the letter in her pocket and looked at the footman, who was standing by the door, waiting for her reply. She gave in to the inevitable. “Tell Mr. Moore I shall meet with him as he has requested.”

  The footman once again departed. Grace returned her attention to Isabel and bedroom furnishings, trying to put Moore out of her mind. But she felt the warmth of his touch on her cheek all day long, and told herself sternly that she wouldn’t let him get away with anything like that again.

  When she entered the music room that afternoon, Moore was already there. He rose from the piano bench as she came in, and the moment he saw her, he shook his head, frowning. “Grace, that gown is a horror. Send it to the dustbin, I pray you.”

  Grace came to a stop on the opposite side of the piano and glanced down at herself. She was wearing the gray dress today, a thin wool garment that covered her from her throat to the floor, and its white collar and cuffs were yellowed and frayed. “It is rather a fright,” she agreed, looking up, “but I only paid a few pence for it.”

  “I can well believe it. I want you to go to a dressmaker first thing tomorrow and buy some pretty gowns for yourself. Charge them to me.”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She did not want to look pretty for him. She did not want to feel pretty with him. That was dangerous territory. “It would not be proper for you to buy my clothes.”

  “You are living unchaperoned in a bachelor’s house. Does the propriety of clothes matter to you?”

  She seized on another excuse. “Your daughter already thinks I am your mistress. What will she think if I allow you to buy my clothes?”

  “That you are sensible?” he suggested. “Get some new gowns, Grace. That is an order. I don’t want my daughter’s governess going about looking like a scullery maid’s dishrag.”

  “When your acquaintances meet me, they will not believe for a moment I am your daughter’s governess.”

  “Even worse. I would never allow my mistress to go about in a gown like that one.” He sounded appalled, but there was a teasing hint of a smile in his eyes. “Grace, think of my reputation. People would be horrified to think I would treat my mistress so cheaply.”

  “Oh, all right!” she gave in, exasperated. “I shall buy some new clothes. I insist you deduct the charges from my salary.”

  “Are you always this prudish?”

  “Are you always this indifferent to propriety?”

  “I am.” His grin was unapologetic. “I am the black sheep of my family, much to my brother’s dismay. I pay little heed to the conventions of society. By the way, since I am paying for these gowns, nothing that resembles this one in any way.” He gestured to the dress. “Only you, Grace, could don a gown as hideous as this and still be beautiful enough to make a priest weep.”

  A blush flamed in her cheeks. “Do you always give women such compliments?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  His answer was rueful. “Because they usually work.”

  Grace could not help it. She burst out laughing. “Really, you have no shame!”

  “At least I have earned a smile from you, so I am unrepentant.”

  “Are you ever repentant about anything?”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Rarely,” he admitted and gestured for her to sit beside him on the piano bench, but she turned away, pretending not to notice. She moved instead to a chair several feet to his right. Sitting there was safer than sitting beside him. He couldn’t kiss her again and turn her insides to melted caramel if she was out of his reach.

  To her relief, he did not quibble about it. Instead, he resumed his own seat, turning slightly on the piano bench to face her. “Since we met, I have learned one thing about you at least. You are not vain.”

  “But I am. I have my petty vanities, just as everyone does.”

  “How I should like to discover them.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Won’t I?”

  She felt a jolt of excitement at the softness of his voice and the determination behind it, but she pretended to be unmoved. “They are not worth such scrutiny, I assure you.”

  “But if I find them, I can exploit them shamelessly.”

  Before she could think of a reply, he turned toward the piano and began to play scales. She lowered her gaze to his hands as his long, strong fingers moved over the keys in what was almost a caressing way, slow, deliberate, and with full appreciation of what he was doing.

  At first, he played them in the ordinary way, one note after the other, in perfect order. But then, after a few minutes, he began to change direction. His right hand moved up the keyboard and his left hand moved down, forming the mirror image of major and minor as his arms extended toward each end of the piano. Then a reversal, and he quickened the pace from quarter tones to eighth tones as his hands moved back to middle C, then faster still as he moved again toward the ends of the piano.

  He shifted, and his hands played in parallel motion this time, adding accidentals. Grace watched, fascinated, as he shifted into harmonic and melodic minor scales, then circles of fifth. He dallied with those for awhile, then shifted again, this time from scales to modes, and his fingers moved faster, hit harder. Ionian mode, then Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian. It was somewhere in the Lydian mode that she stopped thinking about the individual notes he played and just listened, staring at the frenetic movement of his hands in fascination. Time seemed to stand still, and modes became bits and pieces of melodies strung together, one after the other. Some she recognized, but many she did not. They were probably of his own invention.

  Grace didn’t know how much time passed, but when his left hand stilled and his right hand shifted back to the most basic scales, she sensed he was nearly finished. As he played the light and happy C major, he turned his head to look at her, and his long hair touched the keyboard beside his thumb. Smiling at her, he hit the final notes, a playful, teasing trio of do-si-do.

  “Show-off,” she accused, trying not to laugh. “Ordinary scales too dull for you?”

  His hands slid away from the keys. “I do my scales daily because I have to, but I have always hated them, even as a child,” he confessed, shaking back his hair as he turned toward her, his expression like that of a schoolboy caught misbehaving. “I spent a great deal of time finding a way to make them more interesting.”

  “And drove your music tutors raving mad, I daresay.”

  “No. They were usually out of the room long before that, writing resignation letters to my mother.”

  “You should be worried then. Isabel is so much like you, I might do the same.”

  “Ah, but you can’t. Remember?”

  Grace tensed at the gentle reminder of their arrangement and the fact that if she left before he told her to go, it would be without her pay. “Should I be concerned about that?” she asked, forcing lightness into her voice.

  “Very concerned.” He turned back to the piano and began plucking at keys in random fashion as he had done yesterday. “I am far harder to handle than my daughter.”

  Grace could well believe it, but she much preferred to keep their conversation on the child. “As you requested, I have left Isabel in the care of your maid Molly Knight. I shall visit the agencies when I take Isabel shopping tomorrow. I intend to begin interviewing nannies as soon as possible.”

  “Excellent.”r />
  He said nothing more, and Grace frowned. “You seem to have little interest in the upbringing of your daughter.”

  “Do I?” He continued to play the piano without looking at her. “Perhaps that is because I am not accustomed to the role.”

  His words confirmed what Isabel had already told her, and there was really only one conclusion to be drawn. He had never had any interest in the child. “I see.”

  Dylan looked over at her, his brows drawn together in a frown of his own as if irritated by her bland reply. “Isabel’s mother had died. The child appeared on my doorstep, and that was the first moment I learned of her existence. I had never been told of my paternity. It was a shock.”

  “And now?”

  “I am—” He paused and looked down at the piano keys. “I do not know quite what to do with her.”

  “That is understandable. I imagine most fathers in your situation would feel that way at first. But why did Isabel’s mother not tell you of this long ago?”

  “If you are asking me for an assessment of the character of Isabel’s mother, I am afraid I cannot give you one. I do not remember the woman.”

  “Not at all?”

  He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. During my salad days.”

  “From what I hear,” she said dryly, “all your days are your salad days.”

  He laughed at that, oblivious to the sting in her words. “Not so. These days, I prefer a steady diet of dessert.”

  She could almost fool herself into thinking that when he smiled, it was for her alone. It made her feel like the passionate, adventurous girl who had longed for things far beyond country life, country dance, and marriage to a country squire. That girl had believed a big, exciting world was out there to be seized, enjoyed, and savored for all it was worth, and that a man who could knock your senses awry and turn your heart into mush could make it all happen for you.

  That was what made Dylan Moore so dangerous to women. In his dark, dark eyes and sinful smile was the heady promise that when you were with him, life could always be dessert.

  She reminded herself that she was no longer that girl, foolish and passionate and so terribly vulnerable. She was a woman now, a woman shaped not only by romance, love, and adventure but also by hard times and harsh realities, and the struggle to keep balance. She had learned her lesson. Life was not kind to those who broke the rules. Grace drew a deep breath. “I should be sick on a diet of desserts,” she answered. “Sweets do not tempt me.”

  “No?” He rose from the piano and she tensed, her hands clutched together in her lap as he moved to stand behind her chair. He rested his hands on the chair back and leaned down, close to her ear. “What does tempt you, Grace?”

  “Plain dishes,” she said firmly. “Porridge. Boiled beef and cabbage. Things like that.”

  “Spoken like a very efficient, proper governess.” He laughed softly, his breath warm, so close to her ear. “I don’t believe it for a moment. You feel as I do about the food of life.”

  She turned in her chair to look at him over her shoulder. “I certainly do not.”

  “If you did not, you would not kiss as you do.”

  She jerked in her chair. She would not, she would not ask him how she kissed.

  He told her anyway. “You kiss as if it is the first and last time you will ever be kissed.”

  She swallowed hard. “I think you misjudge me, sir. Unlike you, I choose not to give in to every impulse I feel, indulge every whim I think of, and commit every outrageous act I can. It’s called restraint. You might exercise it sometime.”

  Her words, so horribly sanctimonious to her own ears, seemed to amuse him. “My very own little puritan,” he murmured. “You speak of restraint. Where was it the other night when you kissed me so passionately?”

  “I did not kiss you,” she corrected at once. It was technically the truth. “You kissed me.”

  “Then your restraint must be what impelled you to fling your arms around my neck and kiss me back.”

  She turned her head and frowned at him. Insufferable man. “I did no such thing!”

  “Yes, you did. At least be honest enough to admit it.”

  “I did not even know you!” she cried, horrified because she remembered in vivid detail just how unrestrained she had been. She looked away. “I did not intend…that is, I was not…” Her voice trailed off. “It was a momentary weakness,” she conceded. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Grace, you flatter me. I had no idea my kisses have such power over you that you cease to think.”

  “I did not say that.”

  “Forgive me. I thought you did.” He leaned a bit closer. “Besides, you think too much.”

  He touched her cheek with his lips, and she leaned sideways to evade him. “Around you, sir, thinking would seem to be a wise idea.”

  Moore moved to kneel beside her chair. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward his. “Why?” he asked as he moved even closer to her.

  Grace could feel her resolve slip a notch at the closeness of his mouth, the touch of his hand on her face, but she came to her senses and turned away. “Please do not behave dishonorably toward me.”

  He chuckled, blowing warm breath against her cheek as he remained beside her chair, his fingertips moving across the side of her throat to the nape of her neck. “Stealing kisses from beautiful women is dishonorable? God, I am forever damned.”

  “You gave me your word,” she reminded him and jerked herself to her feet, dismayed at how wrenching it was to tear herself away. Once there was a safe distance between them, she turned to face him. “I demand that you honor it.”

  He stood up. “Have I broken my word? Tell me how.”

  “You just did.”

  He folded his arms and tilted his head, looking at her with an expression of pretended perplexity. “Did I miss the part where you said no?”

  “You did not give me the opportunity to say no!”

  “You had plenty of opportunity. You just chose not to exercise it.”

  Another truth. “I expect you to behave as an honorable gentleman,” she said, trying to maintain some control over the situation.

  “I am struggling as best I can,” he said, not trying very hard to look contrite. “But whenever you are near me, I lose my head. And you cannot deny that you feel a similar passion for me.”

  “What I feel at any particular moment does not signify!” she cried. “I don’t live as you do, jumping from sensation to sensation, living only for pleasure and the pursuit of it.” She paused and took a deep breath. “To you, I am only the latest in a long line of women, a line where there will be many more after me.”

  “Is that what this is about? Feminine pride?”

  “No, it is about you. I cannot give you what you want! You want more than my body, more than my company. You want something no one else can give you, not even me.”

  “What is that?”

  “The ability to be brilliant over and over again.”

  He did not move, but something in his face told her she had hit the mark. And it hurt him. For a long moment, he just stood there, then he turned away, muttering an oath under his breath. He walked away, moved around the room in a restless sort of way. Without looking at her, he said, “How many times must I tell you that you are my muse? That I hear music with you?”

  “Muses do not exist. The music is all there, inside yourself. Why can you not see it? You do not need me.”

  “You know so much about creative art, do you?”

  “I know more about it than you could possibly imagine.” An image of Etienne flashed through her mind, and the seven frantic, sleepless days and nights he had spent covering the walls of their rooms in Vienna with layer upon layer of black paint, all because he could not paint anything else. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. “You cannot get your creative inspirations from me. Or any other woman, for that matter.”

  Moore gave a laugh and turned to face her. “Is
that what you think? That I seek out women only so that I can create music?”

  “I think it is possible.”

  “If that is what you believe, then you know nothing about me. I seek out women for the pleasure and distraction their company provides me. You are different. You are—” He broke off, raking back his long, black hair with a sigh of frustration. “I cannot explain it.”

  “If I am so different, then do not treat me as you treat other women.”

  “How should I treat you? Do not even suggest I should regard you as just another member of my household staff.”

  Grace proposed the only option she could think of. “Can we not simply be friends?”

  Chapter 7

  “Friends?” Dylan had never heard anything so unappealing in his life. He didn’t want to be Grace’s friend. He wanted to hold her in his arms, drag her down beneath him, kiss her, touch her, stoke her body to a fiery heat, and put any notions of friendship out of her head.

  He wanted to be her lover. Friendship was a pathetic and completely inadequate substitute. Damn it all, he was not composing a divertimento, which was the only sort of piece that could be inspired by something as insipid as mere friendship. He was composing a symphony, for God’s sake—a grand passion, a love affair, not background music for a dinner party. Unfortunately, his inamorata in this particular love affair was not cooperating.

  He forced himself to say something. “Cannot lovers also be friends?”

  “I meant we should be friends in the ordinary sense,” she answered. “Platonic friends.”

  He told her the truth, and he told it bluntly. “For a man, being friends with a woman without the hope of more is a pointless exercise, not to mention intolerable.”

  “Many people of opposite sexes are friends just for the pleasure of company. They discuss interesting topics of the day. It is all part of civilized society and intellectual conversation.”

  “I comprehend the concept, thank you,” he said in a wry voice. “You mean we should be indifferent acquaintances. Forgive me if I feel little joy at the prospect. For one thing, I seldom find interesting topics of the day to be interesting. For another, I don’t see how a muse who is merely my friend could be all that inspiring. And third, I cannot promise to remain true to such a friendship, for I shall still steal your kisses whenever I can. You see? I am not a good friend for a woman to have.”