“Very good, Your Grace.” Without revealing a flicker of emotion, the butler closed the door and left the elegant foyer, his master’s hat in his hand.
Wyldehaven glanced at Miranda, his dark gaze hot with passion. “Come with me, my dear. I have something I want to show you.”
She did not move. “Why are we here? This is not my home.”
“No, it is mine.”
Regret left a bitter taste. He was acting like any other man. She had allowed too many liberties in the coach, and he’d obviously taken that to mean…“I have not changed my mind about sharing your bed,” she said quietly, aware of how sound could echo in the cavernous house. “I should not be here with you.”
“And in the coach?”
“Gratitude.” She held his gaze with effort.
His mouth quirked into a crooked grin. “A buss on the cheek is gratitude, Miranda. What we shared is more than that.”
“A moment of madness,” she whispered. Tears stung, but she refused to shed them. “Please, Wylde, do not make this harder than it needs to be. Summon the coach back and send me on my way.”
“I know you want me,” he murmured.
“True.” She fiddled with the strings of her reticule. “If I were seeking a lover, you would be the man I would choose. If I were seeking one.”
“Not the sort of thing to tell a man you are attempting to discourage.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I know. I am trying to be honest.”
“You want certainty. A guarantee. But my dear, there are no guarantees in this life. If there were, my child would still be alive.”
“So would Lettie.”
“Indeed. Instead there is just us.” He stroked the backs of his fingers along her cheek. “I shall never force you, dear girl. If you decide to accept me as your lover, all you need to do is say so. In the meantime there is something here I would show you. Something no one else has witnessed. Will you come?” He gave her that crooked grin again. “I promise you will maintain your modesty the entire time.”
He looked at her with genuine affection in his eyes, his touch tender. Time and circumstance had always been against them, so how could she refuse this last opportunity? She nodded, then allowed him to take her hand again and lead her toward the curving staircase.
Of all the wonderful rooms in his home, she had not expected him to take her to the music room.
She could tell from the look of it that it was his private sanctum. The decor was darkly masculine, with rugs the shade of fir trees and well-polished instruments gleaming in the glow of the lamps scattered throughout the room. A graceful harp curved near the window, and a violin sat mounted on what looked like some kind of custom rack on a table. A Broadwood grand pianoforte—such decadence!—had been polished to a shine. A desk crowded near the wall, papers scattered over it. A comfortable looking armchair sat near the hearth with a small table, perfect for a late night meal.
“The servants know that I tend to work on my music at night,” he said, closing the door behind them. “Sometimes I am here until dawn if the muse has caught hold of me.”
“Such a wonderful room.” She drifted near the harp, entranced by the majesty and elegance of the instrument.
“That was my mother’s,” he said. “She remarried some years ago and lives in Italy. No one has touched it since.”
“That is a shame. Such a beautiful harp deserves to be played often.”
“I have always thought so.” He came to her and tugged at the ties of her cloak. Her lips parted and she darted her surprised gaze to his as he swept the garment from her shoulders. His own eyes gleamed with mischief as he said, “Do not scold me. You have made it clear that this is the only garment that will be removed this evening.”
Her heart did a funny little flip, and she struggled to keep her expression stern. “Mind your manners, Wyldehaven.”
“Of course.” He bowed, sweeping a hand toward the armchair. “My lady’s throne awaits.”
“Such fustian.” She marched over to the chair and sat down. “Are you satisfied, Your Grace?”
He straightened and folded the cloak over his arm like the finest manservant. “Hardly, Miss Fontaine, but I shall not allow that to spoil my surprise for you.”
She scoffed at his foolery but waited patiently while he went to drape her cloak over the desk chair. “I cannot stay long. I must get back to James.”
“Annie and the others will take good care of him.” He fussed with the papers on the desk, sorting through them until he found whatever he was looking for. Gripping several sheets in his hands, he turned to face her. Paused.
The uncharacteristic hesitation grabbed her attention more than a shout would have. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.” He let out a long breath, then went to a corner of the room and grabbed a music stand, easily lifting it with one hand so he might bring it to the middle of the room. He arranged his papers on it, and she caught a glimpse of distinctive lines and notes, handwritten.
Music.
Surely he was not about to play one of his compositions for her? Such an honor caught the very breath in her lungs. She did not deserve such a gift.
He smiled a bit unsteadily, then went to the table and removed the violin and bow from the rack. He brought the items back to the music stand, plucking the strings of the violin and making minor adjustments to the pegs. This went on for several minutes.
What kind of fool was she, to become so aroused just watching him tune the violin? Her pulse skittered in her veins, her skin flushed with warmth. She could not take her eyes away from his fingers, so competently caressing the strings.
Finally he lifted his gaze to hers. “This is a part of the opera I have been writing since my wife died. It is an aria sung by a young woman who has just lost her child. No one has ever heard it but me.”
She laid a hand over her thundering heart. “I am honored you would allow me to listen.”
“You might be the only other person I know who would appreciate it.” He lifted the instrument to his chin, then winced. “I beg your indulgence, Miranda, but I cannot play this way.”
“Oh, no, do not think upon it another moment.” She stood, disappointed beyond words—not that she would let him see it.
“No, no, sit down.” He gestured at the chair with the hand holding the bow. “I merely must make an adjustment.”
She sat down again, and he went to the desk and put down the violin and bow. Then he shrugged out of his coat. Her mouth dropped open as he peeled the garment free and laid it on the desk, revealing his impressive form in nothing but the snowy linen shirt. Then he tore at the simple yet elegant knot of his cravat, finally unwinding it and discarding it atop his coat. Taking up the violin and bow again, he returned to the music stand.
Oh, wicked, wicked fate. Without his Weston coat and stylish cravat, Wyldehaven looked…wild. His white shirt emphasized his masculine physique—broad shoulders, slim waist. And his tight breeches—she had to glance away, lest she look too long and too hard at something about which she was entirely too curious. When she found herself stealing yet another peek, she jerked her gaze upward. A lock of jet black hair draped over his forehead, and without his cravat, she could study every detail of his throat, which for some reason suddenly fascinated her.
Laying the bow on the music stand, he tucked the violin under first one arm and then the other so he might roll up each of his sleeves, exposing strong forearms. Her mouth watered as she watched him, as if he were a tasty pastry prepared just for her.
“That should take care of things.” He took the violin by its neck in one hand and picked up the bow with the other. He started to lift the instrument to his chin, then paused. “I should have asked your permission to remove my coat, Miranda. I apologize. I do tend to be rather single-minded when it comes to my music.”
“Not at all,” she managed. “As a fellow musician, I understand completely. Please do not give it another thought.”
“I appreciate your indulgence.” The smile he gave her was so sweet, so boyish, she could barely believe this was the same man who had brought her to climax on her own breakfast table.
But with the first hum of the bow across the strings, she knew she was in the presence of a master.
The violin crooned of love, of a mother and child. Wailed of the agony of loss and desperation. Wept of hearts broken and lives shattered.
The music swept her along like the strongest of tides and whisked her on a journey of aching denial, frustrated guilt. Terrible, dark pain that never stopped throbbing. Duty and suffering. The torture of living. She could not help drowning in it, getting lost in it.
Then, a glimmer of light. Of hope. Of love, renewed.
By the time his bow stroked the strings with the last note, tears were trickling down her cheeks.
He opened his eyes—having closed them during the performance—and looked at her. She fumbled with her reticule, searching for her handkerchief. The tiny bag tumbled from her hands. In a moment he was kneeling in front of her. Placing the violin on the floor, he picked up the bag and handed it to her. But still her hands could not navigate the strings.
Gently, he pushed aside her fluttering fingers, then opened the drawstring and withdrew her handkerchief. But instead of handing it to her, he used it to dab at her cheeks.
His tenderness ripped aside her lingering control. She raised a trembling hand to cover his. “That was the most heart-wrenching thing I have ever heard. It was beautiful.”
He ducked his head for a moment, focusing on the carpet. “Thank you.”
“So tragic,” she murmured. “To lose your wife and unborn child at the same time. Was there an accident? An illness?”
“No. Nothing like that.” He pressed her handkerchief into her palm and dropped her reticule in her lap. Then he stood and walked over to set the violin back on its display rack.
She clutched her belongings, undone by his stiff posture and awkward movements. “Will you tell me what did happen?”
He said nothing, merely came back to fetch the music stand. He took his pages in one hand and the stand in the other, carrying the stand back to the corner. Then he turned to his desk, shuffled through the pages of his opera, and shoved those he had played back into the stack.
“Wylde? Please answer me.”
He stiffened, rested his hands on the desk and bowed his head.
Silence weighed on the room like a woolen cloak in summertime. Heavy. Stifling.
Miranda rose from her chair, placing her handkerchief and reticule on the seat, and made her way across to him. She paused before hesitantly touching his arm.
He shook her off, then glanced at her. His dark eyes shone with unshed grief, his mouth grim. He looked dangerous, unpredictable.
Tortured.
Distress radiated from him in nearly visible waves. She could not resist the call. Bravely, she stepped closer, laid her hand on his chest. His heart thundered against her palm. So vibrantly alive. Everything he did, he did with such passion.
He stood very still, his breath flaring his nostrils.
“Something terrible happened,” she whispered. “I can tell. It is so horrible you cannot even speak of it.”
He closed his eyes, shuddered.
“Wylde.” She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him and laying her head against his chest. “I am so sorry you were hurt.”
A sound escaped him—a sob, a laugh, a cry of pain. Perhaps all three. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her tightly within his embrace as if simply holding her would banish his anguish.
She clung to him, trying to absorb his pain. How could she have ever thought he was the type of man to get a woman with child and then abandon her? He felt everything so deeply. He would never discard a person as less than nothing.
He buried his face in her hair. His hands stroked over her back, not in a way meant to arouse, but as if he were trying to assure himself that she was really there. She just kept whispering assurances to him, hoping to lend him enough strength to come back into the present.
“She killed my child,” he murmured.
Shock jolted through her, though she struggled not to show it.
He straightened and met her gaze. Anguish etched lines into his face. “She killed my child,” he repeated, “and in doing so, ended her own life.”
“Oh, Wylde.”
“It was a marriage of convenience.” He released her and bent to open a cabinet beside the desk that she had not noticed. He pulled forth a bottle and a glass, then held up both and lifted a brow.
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“I hope you will not be offended if I indulge.” Without waiting for her reply, he opened the bottle and poured some of the liquor into the glass. “The marriage was arranged by our fathers. She was very beautiful and, I discovered, quite vain.” He looked down at his liquor, then took a swig. “So vain that she did not want my child deforming her beauty.”
“Oh, no.” She covered her mouth.
“She went to a local woman who gave her some herbs, promising it would rid her of the child.”
“Surely she knew you would require an heir.”
“She did not care. The prestige of being a duchess and her own fine looks were her only concerns. She went a bit mad when she discovered she was expecting my child. I thought it was simply a natural fear about the birth or some such thing. I did not pay enough attention, I suppose. I was giddy at the thought of being a father.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “So she died, and the babe with her, no thanks to me.”
“You could not know she intended to do herself harm.”
“Herself? No, she had no intention of injuring herself. Just the child.” He set the glass on the desk. “Just my child.”
“How horrible.” Her throat tight, she wrapped her arms around her middle. “I understand now why you avoid James.”
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “’Tis true the lad reminds me all over again of what I lost.”
“I am so sorry I barged into your life and forced him on you.”
“What?” He jerked his head up and glared at her. “Do you not understand what you have done to me, Miranda Fontaine? I was dead inside, and then you arrived on my doorstep with your high-minded principles and stubbornness and brought me back to life.”
She shook her head. “No, I made matters worse for you by foisting James upon you.”
“You did not.” He took her face in his hands and forced her gaze to his. “I was lost in my music, in the past. Tortured by memories. You brought me into the present. And I thank you for that.” Reverently, he pressed a kiss to her lips.
Her will melted away like shaved ice in the sun.
He pulled back, his lips curved in a smile, his eyes gentle. The house was quiet, the servants abed. His instruments surrounded them like guardians, gleaming in the lamplight. Tomorrow she intended to cancel her remaining performances, and then she and James would leave London.
But tonight…Tonight was her one chance to steal a few moments of happiness to treasure for the rest of her lonely days. For she knew she would never meet another man like Wylde. He had opened his heart to her. Perhaps it was time she did the same.
“What is your given name, Your Grace?” She took a step back, slowly unbuttoning one of her gloves.
His gaze fixed on her hands. “Thornton.”
“Thornton Matherton, Duke of Wyldehaven?” She peeled the glove from her hand.
“Thornton Alistair Edward Gideon, actually.” He did not look away as she leisurely undid the other glove.
“I am Miranda Katerina.” She smiled and set the gloves on his desk. “Mama was fond of Shakespeare.”
She reached up to take the pins from her hair. The ebony locks slipped down around her shoulders, tumbling down her back. She placed the pins on the desk beside her gloves and shook her head, her straight hair gleaming like jet in the lamplight.
“Miranda,” he
said in a hoarse whisper, “what are you doing?”
“Changing my mind.” She took his hand and placed it over her breast.
Her soft flesh beneath his palm lit the fuse on his carefully banked desire. He hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her into his embrace, her womanly figure molding to his. Her lips parted and her eyelids drooped. Beneath his hand her nipple swelled.
“Do not play games with me, Miranda,” he warned, nearly dizzy from the scent of her. “I want you too badly.”
“This is no game.” She slid her arms around his neck, easing closer to him. “I want you to make love to me, Thornton.”
“You said you would be no man’s mistress.” He buried his face in her throat, nipped the flesh there.
“And I will not.” She arched her neck, allowing him more access. Her dark eyes, sultry with sin, slid to his. “There can only be this night, Thornton. If you cannot accept my terms, I will go.”
“Can you leave so easily?” He tugged at the bodice of her evening dress, laved his tongue along the exposed curves of her bosom.
Her breath caught with a surprised little squeak that made him smile. He slipped his fingers into her décolletage. Found and rubbed her nipple with the backs of his fingers.
“Can you let me go so easily?” She gasped as he stroked a particularly sensitive spot. “Please say yes, Wylde. Please say we can have this night.”
“We can have this night.” He took her mouth in a kiss that had her fingernails digging into his shoulders, had her rubbing against him. He pulled back from the kiss, catching her lower lip between his teeth. His brain had fogged; his blood thundered in his veins, demanding he take her. Here. Now. “Tomorrow,” he muttered, “we will talk.”
“Talk. Yes. Now kiss me before I go mad.”
He covered her mouth with his, crushing her into his embrace, one hand tangled in that black, Gypsy hair. She arched against him, silently demanding closer, harder, faster.
And he never disappointed a lady.
Chapter 16
To Ruin the Duke Page 19