by Darcy Burke
Still, Dare had never before been in the position of trying to ignore a woman with whom he was in daily contact. In a rather ironic twist, it made him even more aware of her.
There was something disturbingly arousing in that careful dance of proximity; the spaces between them charged with meaning. Dare found himself measuring how far he stood from her slender figure. An arm’s length from brushing the tips of his fingers across the nape of her neck. Three steps from touching her shoulder in passing. Even when she was behind him, he could tell her presence by the faint perfume of her lavender scent.
He rarely let their gazes cross, and tried not to wonder what secrets flickered in Clara’s silvery-blue eyes. Every woman harbored mysteries, yet he suspected hers ran deeper than most.
And so, he restrained himself. Like a man too long from drink, who, when poured a glass of the finest French brandy, begins with savoring the aroma. Rich, intoxicating, filling his senses with the promise of more. Perhaps a drop spills over the edge, and the aficionado places his mouth there, against the cool glass, and licks that single droplet, letting the liquor burn against his tongue. Then, nearly trembling with effort, sets the glass down where the firelight can flicker through it, his self-control coiling the desire within him until it is sharp and poignant.
Dare could not sip the liquor that was Miss Clara Becker—but that did not stop him from thirsting.
His horse pricked its ears and Dare squinted through the downpour, making out the dark blur of the coach ahead.
“Ho!” he called, riding up to his driver.
Poor Samuel sat huddled on the bench. He lifted a pale face and pulled the weary horses to a halt.
“What news, master?”
“Bridge is out. We’ll have to turn back to… what was that last town we passed?”
“Milfield, ’twas. More a village than a town, sir.”
“There was an inn.”
And not many travelers in this weather, Dare would wager. They would find accommodation for the night, even if he had to pay extra to convince earlier patrons to give up their beds and sleep in the common room.
“Monsieur!” Henri stuck his head from one of the coach windows. “Come inside, I beg of you. This weather is horrible.”
“I would only get the rest of you wet. We’re turning around, at any rate.”
“What? We are not continuing on?”
“No, we’ll have to wait for bridge repairs on the morrow.” From the corner of his eye he caught the pale blur of Clara’s face behind the rain-streaked glass.
“But,” his valet sounded shocked, “you do not expect us to sleep on the road? In this nasty rain?” He batted his hand at the drops flying past the opened window.
“We will be at an inn, Henri. Don’t look so horrified. Now close the window. I’ll see you in the village.” Dare could not help feel a thin trickle of amusement as his valet complied, muttering about fleas and straw-covered floors.
The Green Man Inn proved Henri’s dire predictions wrong, and Dare was glad of it. The innkeeper’s wife hastily took his coat, exclaiming at the rivulets streaming off it, and seemingly unconcerned that her gleaming wooden floors sported new puddles.
“Ale, sir, or will ye be wanting something warmer?” The innkeeper hurried to the bar.
“A pint now,” Dare could use the rough fortification of country ale, “and supper when my companions arrive. You do have rooms for the night?”
“Aye. How many?”
Dare settled the details, glad to find they were the only custom for the evening, though the innkeeper advised him a few of the regulars liked to drop in for their jar and a bite of stew. The common room was comfortable, warmed by a large hearth at one end. Oil lamps shed a cheery light, an antidote to the endless pewter drizzle outside.
By the time the coach arrived, Dare was mostly dry, though his boots were still damp, and his hair. Likely it was curling, too, in that irritating way it had. He’d let it get too long—mostly to annoy Henri, but now it was beginning to annoy him as well.
The bustle in the yard outside transferred to the doorway. Clara entered first, and Dare gave her a curt nod. He looked to the others, trying not to see the shadow of hurt in her eyes.
“Monsieur, you are drenched!” Henri beckoned to the innkeeper’s wife. “Madame, a towel if you please.”
The stout woman pursed her lips, her bright eyes assessing the newcomers. “I’ll bring several. Wet enough, the lot of you.”
Half an hour later, after getting settled into his room and letting Henri fuss over him, Dare descended to the common room for supper. Both Nicholas and Clara were there, at a table near the peat fire.
Nicholas slid over on the worn bench to make a place for him. “I think our meal’s nearly ready. Is Mr. Dubois coming down?”
“He’ll join us as soon as he has finished pressing my coat to his satisfaction.”
“That may be another hour, then,” Nicholas said, and actually smiled.
Dare hid his surprise. Perhaps the smell of fresh-baked bread—and the half-empty pints of ale sitting before Nicholas and his sister—had mellowed the man’s usual animosity. Or perhaps it was the simple surroundings, so unlike their usual run of fine hotels and estates, that put the Beckers at ease, for Clara seemed more relaxed as well. Her expression was not taut with unhappiness as he had so often seen it, and the damp had coaxed her fine, straight hair to loosen in its braid.
That braid. So practical, so unfashionable. Dare’s fingers ached to unplait it, to free that fall of moonlight. He could imagine her, standing naked with her glorious hair down about her. It would part at her shoulders, showing her upper arm, the curve of—
“…tomorrow night?” Nicholas turned to him, expectation of an answer writ upon his face.
“Ah.” Dare tried to order his scattered thoughts. Damn. Clearly he needed to find some female companionship, and soon.
Across the table, Clara sent him a reproachful look. “My brother is concerned we will not make Edinburgh in time.”
“We’re very near the border,” Dare said. “Peter arranges the tour with just these types of delays in mind. It shouldn’t be a problem, though we’ll be short on rehearsal time.”
“Rehearsal, is it?” The landlady bustled to their table, carrying a tray laden with bowls of stew and fragrant loaves. “Do you play? Why, we’ve a fortepiano in the private parlor. After supper you’re welcome to it, though it hasn’t been played in…” She paused, a bowl of stew in one hand. “Nigh on five years, I’d say. Elsie Simmons used to nip over and give us a tune, but she married a Yorkshire man and has gone since. More ale?”
Nicholas nodded, and the woman fetched an extra glass as Mr. Dubois joined them.
“Monsieur, you are well?” The valet took the place beside Clara and peered over at Dare. “It is not healthy, riding about in the rain. I cannot recommend it. An ague may take you.”
“Henri, I keep you on as my valet, not my nursemaid. I assure you, I am in excellent health.”
“Mr. Dubois has a point,” Clara said, giving him a direct look. “What would we do if you were to fall ill? Has that ever happened?”
“As a matter of fact, it has.” Dare took a bite of stew.
“Really? What did you do?” Nicholas leaned forward, a light of interest in his eyes that Dare had missed seeing the past few weeks.
“It was in Sweden, last winter. I had agreed to play for the queen’s birthday celebrations. The day before there was a huge feast, and, well, I don’t suppose you have ever tried aquavit?”
Both Nicholas and his sister shook their heads, and Henri rolled his eyes. “Vile stuff, monsieur. You learned your lesson there.”
“Were you poisoned?” Clara asked.
“Only in my judgment. Do you know, the Swedes have a curious custom. They go naked into an overheated box until they can stand it no more, then run out and roll in the snow.” He darted a quick look across the table, to see Clara’s cheeks flush with embarrassment at the t
opic.
“It sounds most unpleasant,” Nicholas said.
“Not at all. It’s quite invigorating.”
Henri gave a snort. “Until you caught the terrible chill. Not so invigorating then.”
“No. And when I was shaking so hard I could barely hold my violin, it was horrible. Still, I was determined to perform.”
“What happened?” Nicholas asked.
“I could not disappoint the queen—though that is the only time in my life I expect to play reclining on a chair. I managed the piece, and then had to be carried out.”
Clara clasped her hands tightly together. “How dreadful for you!”
“Ah,” Henri said. “That was not the worst of it. No, the worst was that… that weasel continued the concert and claimed your place of honor.”
“He saw his chance, and he took it.” Dare lifted his glass and let the ale soothe the sour taste from his mouth.
“Who?” Nicholas asked.
“Anton Varga.” Henri spat the words. “The most ungrateful, slime-dwelling—”
“Enough. We don’t need to descend to his level.” Tempting though it might be.
“Varga?” Nicholas tilted his head. “He’s a famous violinist in his own right, isn’t he?”
The valet made a face. “Upstart. He wants to be the most famous, and takes every chance to try and unseat Master Reynard. And after all you taught him!”
Nicholas set down his spoon and looked at Dare. “He was your student?”
“Briefly.” And what a mistake that had been. The arrogant young man had arrived at Dare’s lodgings in Vienna, demanding that the maestro teach him everything. “A very difficult student. Most of our short time together was spent with Varga trying to prove he was the better player.”
Henri pushed his empty stew bowl away. “That has not changed. But this spring you will settle the matter once and for all.”
“You are speaking of the competition?” Clara asked.
Dare allowed himself to look fully at her. The question echoed in her expressive eyes, and her soft lips were slightly parted. He recalled too well the feel of that softness under his mouth, the way her tongue had tentatively met his. It had been her first kiss, surely.
He cleared his throat.
“Yes, the musical duel between us in Milan this coming April. The winner will be celebrated as the foremost violinist of the day.” And the loser would slink off, a mere footnote to history. Dare glanced at Nicholas—his trump card, his talisman. “It’s a beautiful city. You will enjoy it.”
The composer opened his mouth, no doubt to issue a protest, but Dare overrode him. “In fact, I think Il Diavolo will be just the thing to ensure my victory.”
“You do?” Clara said. “But, I have heard you practicing and…”
She twisted an errant strand of her pale hair between her fingers, clearly reluctant to finish her thought.
Dare laughed. He couldn’t help it. “And it sounds dreadful, yes. Your brother is a fiendish composer, there is no arguing the fact. But April is months away.”
Once they returned to London he would press Nicholas into continuing with him to the Continent. And Clara? He could not envision her staying behind. Her support and company seemed vital to her brother.
More months of travel with Clara Becker. More months of sublimating his desire for her into his playing. It would be difficult, but not impossible. He need only keep the competition in his thoughts. And the dire specter of losing his composer, should he lose control. It was sufficient motivation.
“More ale?” The innkeeper’s wife bustled up to their table and began clearing the remains of their supper.
Dare nodded. It was a relief to spend time with Nicholas without the man glaring at him at every turn. And even better to have Clara speak to him without that brittle edge in her voice, that scrim of ice that had encased her since the night of their kiss. The thaw was a pleasant change.
Might he ensure it was a permanent one? At the very least, he could apologize once more for his actions. She was a sensible young woman. Surely she would understand, though he did not expect her forgiveness.
Still, if Clara looked upon him a bit more kindly, that would help her brother’s regard as well, which could only help the music. So far they had struggled through, but Dare missed those first, early rehearsals, when things had been far easier between himself and the composer.
“Now that supper’s done, would you care to repair to the parlor?” the innkeeper’s wife asked. “I’d dearly love to hear some music again, and that I would.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Clara tried—how she tried!—to keep from watching Darien Reynard during supper. But when he laughed, that sweet, dark sound settled low in her stomach, warm and disconcerting. It was a relief to repair to the inn’s small parlor, where she would not have to sit facing him.
“Clara.” Her brother grinned at her. “Let’s play the Beethoven four-hands.”
She glanced at the small fortepiano, an instrument built before the turn of the century, if she was not mistaken. “I don’t think it’s big enough. There can’t be more than five octaves.”
“We’ll make do.” Nicholas folded back the keyboard cover and played a run of notes. “Reasonably in tune, too. Come, Clara.”
Her brother had not been in such high spirits for weeks, and she credited their humble surroundings. They’d eaten together at a table not set with linens and fine china, with no obsequious servants hovering to satisfy the least demand, no stilted, uncomfortable conversations between bites of lobster bisque. The parlor was cozy, not elegant in the least, and Clara released an inaudible sigh. The rain outside enclosed them, and it was as if they were removed, set apart from the cares of the world for the space of a country evening.
“You play?” Darien gave her a penetrating glance. “I should have guessed it.”
“There was no escaping Papa,” Nicholas said. “He was the sternest music master in London, and proud of it. Indeed, Clara was much more disciplined about practicing than I.”
“That’s because I didn’t have friends calling me to play hoops in the street.” She gave him an arch look.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you escaped your chores by playing. Papa always valued practicing over household work.” Her brother slid over on the bench and patted the space beside him.
“A wise man,” Darien said.
He looked serious, but Clara caught the spark of humor in his expression. Their eyes met, then held for a heartbeat too long before she glanced away, a shiver tingling through her.
“Bah.” Henri perched himself on one of the chintz-covered chairs. “One cannot eat or wear music, no matter how beautiful.”
“And you, Henri!” Darien settled on the sofa facing the piano. “The evening will not be complete without a song from you. It has been far too long.”
The valet frowned, but the quirk of his brow indicated pleasure at the request. “Perhaps.”
Nicholas shot her a quick look. “Ready?”
She felt ridiculously nervous playing before Darien Reynard, though surely not as terrified as Nicholas had been before the king. The thought gave her no comfort.
“I’m not certain I remember the second movement.”
“You will.” Her brother set his hands on the keys. “Commence!”
He played the opening theme, barely giving her time to catch up. The music bloomed around them, the cheerful runs, the interplay between melody and counter-melody drawing her in despite the lighter, unfamiliar keyboard, the fact of Darien watching them perform.
How curious. So many times she had seen him play, but had never imagined their positions reversed.
His regard became more pronounced when she and Nicholas began the rondo movement. She could feel the delicious weight of his gaze upon her. How good it was to at last be seen by him, to be known, at least in some small measure, for who she truly was: an accomplished musician. The relief of it was physical, as though a part of hersel
f, tightly wound for weeks, was uncoiling, her shoulders loosening, her lungs able to breathe more deeply.
As the melody ascended, she shot Darien a quick, sideways glance, and was rewarded with a genuine smile. In that moment, she felt as though they were equal. Not a man and a woman, not a maestro and his admirer, but two musical souls, recognizing one another.
Then Nicholas nudged her with his elbow, his signal to speed up. Attention drawn back to the music, she gave him a nod, and together they increased the pace, matching note for note until the piece raced, tumbling headlong to a breathless, laughter-filled conclusion.
“Up to your old tricks, brother mine.” She leaned against Nicholas’s shoulder, mirth still bubbling through her as Darien and Henri applauded wildly.
“Ah, that was lovely.” The innkeeper’s wife hovered just inside the door. Her husband stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder. “To be sure, I have never heard anything so fine.”
“Well, Beethoven,” Nicholas said, his eyes shining.
Darien nodded, the warmth in his expression unmistakable. “One of the most memorable performances of the Opus 6 I’ve heard. But come, Henri, give us a song.”
The valet cleared his throat, then stood. “I give you Amis, la matinee est belle from La Muette de Portici.”
“French opera?” Clara swiveled on the bench to face Henri.
She never would have thought it. But then, it did make sense that the valet of the most celebrated violinist in the world would have a musical bent, himself.
Henri took a moment to gather himself, then began. He had a strong, clear tenor that, while it would not earn him a place on the grand stages of Europe, was very pleasant to listen to.
When he reached the choral portions, Nicholas turned and began picking out a delicate accompaniment on the piano. The melody familiar, Clara hummed along, taking the soprano part and blending her notes to Henri’s. It was a happy song, addressed to the fishermen of a village, and the lighthearted theme perfectly suited the evening.