by Darcy Burke
Her only respite was to set those feelings down on paper, to harness the fire and longing that swept her with every thought of him. Her newest composition scorched through her, unfurled in a storm of music, nearly complete. Amore. The memory of their bodies moving together in the night. The mysteries of two souls woven together. The beating of her own heart, echoing his name.
“I… I ought to see if Nicholas needs tending.”
“You’re not concerned for me?” There was a teasing light in Darien’s eyes as he moved toward her.
“I am, of course! But you seem well.”
More than well. Virile and overwhelmingly male. She took another step back and felt the panel of the door against her shoulders. She could turn, twist the handle, and flee. But he had captured her gaze with his, stalked her until she was cornered. Arousal shivered through her, and she could not make herself leave.
Darien closed the last distance between them and set his hands against the door, caging her between his arms. The heat of his body, the hot scent of him, pulsed over her. He was too close. He was not close enough. Clara’s breath came in little gasps and her lips parted, as if to taste the air between them.
“Clara. You tempt me unbearably.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes intent, full of hunger.
“I…” There were no words.
Only the taut peaks of her breasts, the warmth pooling low in her center. A single phrase of melody, high and sweet and trembling.
He made a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, then lowered his head and took her lips in a searing kiss.
Yes, her body clamored. Yes, this. This heat and surrender. The feel of his tongue tasting hers.
Hot darts of passion sped through her, leaving her trembling for more. He clasped her hands, then lifted them above her head and pinned her against the door. His body covered hers, hard and insistent. She wanted nothing more than to melt into him.
Slowly, he ravished her mouth. Only the force of his body against hers, the link of their hands, kept her upright. Her blood burned as if it had been replaced by pure cognac.
At last he lifted his head. She took in a trembling breath.
“Darien…”
There were a thousand reasons this was wrong, but the words of protest dissolved on her tongue. She must lie to him about her deepest self, but she could not lie to him about this, about how he made her feel. Even if she denied it, her body betrayed her.
He uncurled his hands from hers and, eyes dark with sensual promises, spoke a single word.
“Tonight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Frenzied Fighting in the Streets!
Supporters of Darien Reynard and Anton Varga clashed this morning, in a fracas that spread quickly through the streets. The conflict began in the Café Frauenhuber, long known as a hotbed of creativity and revolution. Several minor injuries were reported…
-Vienna Today
“What do you mean, you cannot play any more?” Dare set his violin in its case, then rounded on Nicholas. He didn’t bother hiding the bite in his voice. “We’ve been rehearsing barely half an hour!”
“I know.” The composer bent his fair head and stared at the keyboard in front of him. “I… during the brawl… my hand. I think I injured it.”
“For God’s sake.” Dare let out an irritated breath. “Let me see.”
Nicholas held out his right hand and Dare studied his bruised and swollen knuckles. “I’d say you’ve sprained your hand. No doubt when you punched that confounded brawler of Varga’s.”
“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said, still not meeting Dare’s eyes. “I should have been more careful.”
“You should have mentioned it, instead of trying to play with an injury. Now you’ve made it worse, just when we can’t spare any time from practicing.” Annoyance pricked his temples. Still, no good would come of forcing Nicholas to play. “Have Henri tend to it.”
“I…” The composer glanced up. “I could ask Clara to fill in for me. At least for today. She knows Il Diavolo well enough.”
Anticipation flickered through Dare.
“Send her in.”
Nicholas hurried from the music parlor, shoulders bowed. The strings of a nearby harp vibrated with the air of his passage, sending a faint, discordant hum into the air.
Watching him go, Dare frowned. Something was wrong with the composer, something more than his injured hand. Was he truly on the verge of plunging into melancholy, as his sister feared? Blast it. Nicholas had to hold together for ten days. Ten days! It should not be too much to ask.
He could not go easier on the man. Il Diavolo was still a challenge for them both. Dare must push himself and Nicholas to their limits if they were to be victorious in the musical duel.
“Master Reynard?” Clara stepped into the room. The light from the tall windows gleamed on her fair hair. “Nicholas said I am to rehearse with you this afternoon.”
“He must rest his hand.” Dare gave her a slow smile. “And I welcome the chance to play with you. I may require you tomorrow, as well.”
The words carried a second meaning, as he had intended, and a pretty blush colored Clara’s cheeks.
“Then we’d best begin.” She settled at the piano in a very businesslike manner and began flipping through the manuscript pages.
He hid his amusement. Clara was a deer flushed from cover, but they both knew how the chase would end. If she wanted to pretend otherwise, he would indulge her. For now.
But first, there was the music to attend to. Dare lifted his violin and bow, and took his place beside the piano.
“We left off at the beginning of the second page,” he said. “The allegro section—do you know the spot?”
She gave him a dry look, her fingers poised above the keys. “I am ready when you are, maestro.”
Indeed, she was. Dare launched into the passage, his bow weaving and dipping, and the piano met him perfectly. Each note fell precisely where it ought, but more than that, the music carried an undercurrent of urgency. He had not felt that before, playing Il Diavolo with Nicholas. Perhaps it was the mutual awareness that moved between Clara and him, the knowledge of their secret intimacy filtering into the music.
Whatever it was, he prized it. The notes flew from under his fingers as they reached the prestissimo, the piano surging along with him. Sweat gathered at his temples and he felt the edge of the precipice dangerously near. They were going too fast, he could not quite control the spiccato bowing… and Il Diavolo tumbled to a broken halt as both he and Clara botched the intricacies of the passage.
She stared at him a moment, her silvery eyes wide. And then she laughed, a joyful outpouring of mirth, so at odds with her brother’s sheepish reaction whenever he made a mistake.
“Ah, we almost had it!” She sounded jubilant. “Again. Please.”
“A touch slower, perhaps.” He couldn’t help grinning back at her. “Let’s take it from the arpeggios.”
***
When Henri came to inform them supper was imminent, Dare could hardly credit it. Two hours had flown in a heartbeat. He reluctantly loosened his bow, pulled the velvet cloth over his violin, and closed the case.
Clara looked subdued as she shut the cover over the piano keys. Clearly she had enjoyed their rehearsal as much as he. And just as clearly, she was an incredibly talented pianist. A pity she had fallen into her brother’s shadow.
“An excellent bit of work,” Dare said. “I think Il Diavolo will yield soon.”
“I’ve no doubt of it.” Clara gave him a quick smile. “The octave shifts are nearly there. It’s a devilish piece indeed.”
“What was your brother thinking?” He shook his head in mock dismay. “Oh yes, I recall it now. It was a punishment for my sins.”
She slanted a look at him. “Have you been adequately punished?”
“It depends on which sins we’re counting.” He held out his arm. “May I escort you to your room? I’d think you’d like to freshen up before dinner.�
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And he would like to steal another kiss. Or three. To add to his sins.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then placed her hand on his arm. “If you insist.”
“I do.” He covered her hand with his and let his fingertips play over her bare skin.
When he slipped a finger between hers, he heard the breath tremble in her throat. Ah, Clara. So deliciously responsive. He was suddenly on fire for her, the echo of their music-making only adding to the fierceness of the flame.
They were nearly to her door when Nicholas hailed them. Blast the man.
“How did the rehearsal go?” he asked, hurrying down the hall toward them.
“Well,” Clara said. “But what of your hand?”
He held his arm up, displaying the bulky wrappings. “Henri made me place it in a bowl of ice until I thought my fingers would turn blue, then bandaged me up. But I think my hand feels a bit better.”
“Hm.” Dare narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you should rest it another day. Tomorrow, Clara can help me finish up the section of Il Diavolo we were working on. But by the next day, I expect you’ll be able to play.”
“When do we depart for Milan?” Clara asked.
“My agent, Mr. Widmere, will be arriving in two days. He’ll accompany us to Venice, and then at last to Milan.”
A tense silence followed this information. Nicholas glanced at the floor, chewing his lip, and Clara slid her hand from Dare’s arm.
“Well then,” she said. “I’ll see you two at supper.”
Before Dare could catch her she slipped into her rooms and closed the door, leaving him with her poor substitute of a brother. Stifling a sigh, he turned to Nicholas.
“Care to join me in a brandy?”
Nicholas looked up. “Yes, I would.”
One brandy led to the next, at least for Nicholas. Dare watched over the rim of his glass as the composer imbibed.
“Tell me,” Dare asked, “has your sister ever tried her hand at composing?”
“No.” Nicholas took a hasty swallow of brandy, and commenced coughing. When he recovered, he poured another few inches into his glass.
“No,” he repeated. “She tried a few compositions as a child, but Papa always discouraged her. It is not for women to compose.”
Dare took a sip of liquor, letting it warm his mouth. “Your sister did an excellent job with Il Diavolo. I’m surprised she knew the piece so well.”
“I am a very messy composer,” Nicholas said. “She must copy the manuscripts out for me, numerous times. Whenever I make changes. So, you see, she hears the music in her head, and it becomes familiar to her.”
Nicholas drained his glass, then poured another, his hand unsteady. Without a word, Dare capped the bottle and set it away.
“I see.” The explanation made sense, and yet something about it did not quite ring true.
Supper was quiet, marked by Clara’s frequent, worried glances at her brother. The more wine Nicholas drank, the quieter it became, until the clink of silver on china was the loudest thing in the room. Henri tried his best, yet not even his witticisms could revive the conversation. When Nicholas nearly fell sideways off his chair, Clara stood.
“Excuse us,” she said, her tone strained. “I believe my brother would like to retire early. Nicholas, come with me.”
She took him by the arm, and, despite his mumbled protests, led him away.
“Master Reynard,” Henri said, “I do not like this turn our composer has taken.”
“Nor do I.” Dare thrust his plate aside. “Short of locking Nicholas in his room, what can I do?”
“Pray?” There was an ironic edge to his valet’s tone. “And do not offer him brandy.”
Dare folded his arms, his fingers tapping a restless tempo against the fine wool of his coat.
“Perhaps Clara will have some ideas.” He rose, scraping his chair back. “Good evening, Henri.”
“Enjoy your consultation with Miss Becker,” Henri said, his tone dryer than sand.
The man was entirely too perceptive. At least he was discreet. Henri might not completely approve of Dare’s interest in Clara, but he would say nothing.
Clara. Dare might not know what to do with Nicholas, but his sister was another matter entirely.
He strode to her door and gave a single rap. After a long moment, it opened.
“Clara, we must discuss your brother.”
She stepped back to let him enter. After a quick glance down the hall, she closed the door and led him to her sitting area. For a moment, they sat in silence. Clara perched on the front of her richly upholstered chair, her fingers laced so tightly together her knuckles were white.
Dare leaned forward and took her hands in his, smoothing her fingers flat.
“I…” She blinked, but did not pull her hands away. “I admit to some concern about my brother, but he will be ready for the competition. I’ll see to it.”
Despite her confident words, worry shaded her eyes.
“Can you?’ He pressed her fingers more firmly between his own. “Nicholas cannot fail me now.”
She nodded, perhaps unwilling to voice assurances they both knew would be empty.
“Enough of this,” he said. “I am not here to make you miserable. Indeed, I plan to do just the opposite. Forget about Milan, about your brother. For now, there is only the two of us.”
Standing, Dare pulled her to him. For a brief time they could set aside the worries swirling around the tour like dark fog—burn it away with the flame of their passion.
He kissed her, demanding. Clara moaned softly and leaned into him, her body warm and delicious, her tongue boldly tangling with his. She ruled his senses in ways no other woman had.
He slid his hand up to cup the back of her neck, plundering her mouth with an urgency that took him by surprise. He needed to lose himself in her. No schooling tonight, no games of mastery and provocation. Just Clara, spread out on the sheets, his for the taking.
Without breaking the kiss, he stepped her backward until they reached the large bed. At least the emperor didn’t stint on the size of his mattresses, or perhaps he knew that his guests were prone to assignations.
Clara’s mouth was intoxicating, and the sounds of arousal she made sent his control teetering. He forced his mouth away from hers, and released her trapped hands.
She sat on the edge of the bed to remove her shoes, her head bent close to his waist. His cock hardened even further at the sight. One day, he would teach her how to pleasure him with her mouth—her lips wrapped around the shaft, her warm tongue stroking…
Hastily, he pulled off his shoes, then took her by the waist and pushed her back into the middle of the bed. Her stockings were silky beneath his palms, her skirts a rustling wave of sea-foam green as he pushed them up, revealing her long, shapely legs. Pausing at her lace-edged drawers, he let his fingers graze the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
“Ah,” she sighed.
Much as he wanted to take her, now, he wanted her ready for him more. He would see the flush of passion and longing on her face, would drive her to the same precipice he stood upon. Together, they would leap into the void.
Her drawers untied with a simple ribbon, and he pulled them off, his attention on the blonde curls at the juncture of her thighs. Kneeling between her legs, he spread them wide. She did not resist, though he felt her trembling beneath his touch.
Heat and the musky scent of her arousal filled him as he bent to taste her. She was wet and sweetly salty, the nub of her pleasure already standing up for him. Every swipe of his tongue over her center made her quiver and moan. His cock strained against the fabric of his trousers.
Her moans turned to panting breaths, and Dare drew back. They would enter that pleasure together.
“Please,” she said.
“Patience.” He unfastened his trousers, then pulled on the French letter that had been waiting in his pocket.
Moving forward, he set the tip of his cock at her entranc
e. Then, with a single thrust, he surged inside her. The sensation of her warmth enclosing him made him close his eyes—half in utter relief, half with urgent need.
She gasped and tightened her legs around his hips. Dare let his body down, covering her, pressing her into the soft bed. Telling her in a language without words that she was wholly and undeniably his.
The pulse at her neck called to his lips, and he set his mouth there, trailing kisses up to her jaw, breathing in her scent. She let out a quiet moan, and he propped himself up on his elbows. Though his cock was begging him to slide in and out, fast and hard, she needed time to adjust. Not only was she unused to the sexual act, but he was of larger than normal size; a fact often remarked upon with delight by his lovers.
Her eyes met his, and he saw only desire in their silvery depths.
“Ready?” he asked. “I will not be gentle.”
She licked her lips, then nodded.
He laced his fingers with hers, pinning her hands to the bed. With a groan, he began to move. Each slide of his cock sent liquid fire along his nerves. Clara sighed in pleasure at every stroke as he thrust harder, deeper. It was a composition: their breaths syncopating with arousal, the bedclothes rustling in high counterpoint, the increasing tempo of his strokes as he took her, over and over.
Her voice rose, her breathy moans climbing in pitch. His release gathered inside him like lightning, waiting to explode. Then she arched and trembled, crying out. It was enough to send him reeling into the abyss. A rough shout tore from his throat as fire rippled through him, hot white pleasure stunning his senses.
Finally, when the last aftershocks subsided, he unlaced his fingers from hers and rolled to his side. She turned her head and smiled at him with the look of a woman completely fulfilled. The lingering fear that he had hurt her with his forceful lovemaking evaporated. Clara was his match—in so many ways.
He did not want to lose her.
It was a startling thought. Before, he had always considered how his affairs would end, almost before he began them. With that one, fateful exception, of course.