She hurried to the kitchen and fetched beeswax polish and a soft cloth and set to work cleaning the furniture, leaving the piano until last as she knew the temptation to play it would be hard to resist.
Finally, she looked about the place with satisfaction. The furniture gleamed in the glow of the merry fire in the hearth, and the piano beckoned her. It had been one of her father’s punishments, to lock the piano and take away the key when he was displeased with her. It might have appeared to have been a gentle form of retribution to anyone who viewed her life from the outside, but to Grace—who was forbidden so many of life’s simple pleasures—it had been torment.
She didn’t dare to draw or paint. Her brother had once fancied himself an artist, but it had soon become clear he was mediocre at best. When he’d discovered his sister had far more talent, he’d been fit to be tied. Grace had never the courage to lift a pencil again, let alone a paintbrush. She was allowed to sew, and had become adept at it, but she did not find any great satisfaction in needlepoint, though she liked to mend and repair, which seemed a useful skill and one she could take pride in.
There had been few books at home and most of those were dry texts on the law. Her father despised novels and poetry and believed them unfit for females, whose delicate brains were easily overwrought, and so she was denied any escape from the endless days that blurred one into the next.
Her father enjoyed music, however, and would often ask her to play for him. It had been some small solace to Grace that forbidding her to play must have hurt him as much as it did her.
She ran her hands lovingly over the keys as she sat down and experimentally touched one or two, delighted as the sound rang out around the parlour. She was unsurprised to discover it could do with tuning, but it was not nearly as discordant as she might have expected, assuming it had been years since they had used it. Her heart lifted as it always did when she played, and she ran through several pieces she knew by heart before turning her attention to the sheet music she’d found. There weren’t many, but with delight she found a piece by Ignaz Pleyel, a composer with whom she was familiar.
Setting her fingers to the keys, she played, at once lost in the light, bright, joyful music. It was not an especially complex piece, but played with such speed it needed her hands to fly across the piano. Grace laughed with delight as the music rose to a crescendo and her fingers struck the final notes, the sound ringing through the room. She was breathing hard, more with the glee of being able to play freely than with the effort required for such a piece, which she would usually play with elegant decorum. Anything less would see the piano locked up for a sennight at least.
It was a moment before she realised she was being observed.
Chapter 7
“Wherein a kiss lights more than a spark.”
Ned was standing beside the fireplace, staring at her. She could not read his expression, but to her horror there were tears in his eyes. It occurred to her then, and far too late, that the piano must have belonged to his wife. No doubt the music she had played was familiar to him, dear to him, bringing back memories of everything he had lost.
Her throat closed and her cheeks grew hot. She stood quickly, moving away from the piano as though it had scalded her. How stupid she was, stupid and thoughtless. Her eyes burned and she could only think to run away from him, from the strange atmosphere that filled the room. She did, bolting for the door only to fall back with a little shriek as she saw Ned raise his hand, the movement so swift it startled her.
He froze, his face the picture of horror as she flinched and raised an arm to protect herself from the inevitable blow.
“Grace,” he said, her name spoken with such shock and dismay she wanted to curl up and die. “Grace, look at me.”
It took a great effort of will to do as he asked, but she forced herself to comply.
“Grace, I wasn’t going to hurt ye. May God strike me dead if I speak a lie. I have never raised a hand to a woman in my life, and I would rather cut out my heart than hurt ye, lass. I only meant to stop ye running from me. I never meant to startle ye.”
She stared at him, aware of the way her heart was hammering in her chest, every instinct on alert, still urging her to flee, but there was no need to run. The realisation took a moment to sink in. She had been thoughtless and probably hurt him, perhaps made him angry, but he would not strike her for it. In fact, now she looked at him, she saw no anger at all in his eyes, only sorrow. That was worse, she discovered. Hurting him with her stupidity was far worse than making him angry when he’d treated her so kindly.
“F-Forgive me,” she managed.
He took an uncertain step towards her, holding his hands out as though he was approaching a skittish horse.
“There’s nothing to forgive. I won’t ever hurt ye, Gracie,” he said, his voice so gentle and sincere that Grace could only feel a surge of self-disgust for having distressed him. She burst into tears.
“Grace!”
A moment later, she was enveloped in his arms. She buried her face in his chest, and sobbed her heart out. The terror of her flight, the misery of the past months, all of it bubbled up and escaped as tears rolled down her face and made his waistcoat damp beneath her cheek.
Little by little she calmed herself as he stroked her back and made soft, reassuring noises as though he was soothing a child. How wretched she was, to behave with such an utter lack of care for his feelings, and then to revel in the comfort he offered when her guilt and shame brought her to tears. Nonetheless, revel she did in the feel of his powerful arms about her, in the solidity of the chest her head lay upon, and in the reassuring, thud of his heart. She’d wrapped her arms about his waist, her hands splayed upon his broad back, and it took a supreme effort of will not to allow them to wander, to explore this new and inviting landscape of masculinity.
She took a breath and closed her eyes, inhaling his scent, fresh air and hay and leather, horses and clean linen and the musky aroma of a working man that filled her senses and made her light-headed with desire. That strange, liquid heat pooled low in her belly once again, an ache of longing unfurling beneath her skin, a longing to belong somewhere, with someone… with him.
“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, struggling for composure as the barrage of emotions and sensations overwhelmed her.
“What on earth for?” he asked.
One large hand cupped her cheek, and she closed her eyes, wanting to purr like a cat and turn into it, seeking further caresses. She held herself very still instead, not wanting to compound her terrible behaviour by giving him a disgust of her. If she were too forward, he might believe the things her brother said about her, that she was mad, or a slut, or whatever slander he’d spoken to justify his actions.
“The m-music,” she managed, forcing herself to meet his eyes, so he could see how sorry she was. “I didn’t think. It must have been s-so painful to hear it played after so long.”
He frowned down at her, looking for all the world like he hadn’t the slightest notion of what she was talking about.
“Painful?” he repeated, so obviously nonplussed than Grace blinked and took a breath.
“After not hearing it played since your wife died,” she ventured, wondering why this were not obvious. “Did… did she play very well?” she asked, thinking it would be an act of contrition to hear him tell her his wife had played like an angel. It would serve her right.
“Ye think my heart is broke,” he said slowly, searching her face as he spoke, “for hearing ye play a piece my wife played for me?”
She nodded, and he smiled, such tenderness in the expression that it was all she could do not to bawl her eyes out with shame.
“Nay, lass.”
He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, the intimacy of the gesture and the slight brush of his fingers against her skin enough to make her shiver.
“B-But there were tears in your eyes!” she exclaimed, refusing to allow him to shield her from her own insensitiv
ity.
“Aye, that’s true,” he said, something in his voice making her heart thud unevenly. “Because of the beauty of it, the sight of ye and the music combined. It took my breath away.”
She stared at him, unable to understand but, before she could find words to question him, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss felt like a spark that travelled a fiery path to her belly and ignited the combustible, greedy concoction of want and need already gathered there.
It was just a gentle press of lips, but Grace opened to him at once, remembering the delightful play of his tongue against hers when he’d kissed her last night. He groaned and held her closer, and she clung to him, pressing against him. Any thoughts of hiding her wanton nature from him vanished as wanting took hold of her senses.
He took control, deepening the kiss as his hands moved over her, sliding down her back. Encouraged that he might not mind if her hands explored a little too, she allowed one to slide over his back, while she reached up to his neck with the other, sliding it into his thick dark hair and delighting in the silky warmth she found.
His lips left hers and she almost protested until he pressed them to the delicate skin beneath her ear and kissed her there. She shivered and sighed, and the kisses carried on in a heated trail down her throat. Grace tilted her head to allow him to continue, and he made a sound of such desperation it tugged at something low and primal. The throb between her legs that had begun the moment he’d kissed her became so insistent she writhed against him, seeking relief. His hands dropped, cupping her behind and pulling her against him.
Grace gasped, aware of his hard arousal pressed against her belly. He stilled at once, pulling back to look at her. Why, she wasn’t certain, she was only aware of the need, of the hollow sensation coalescing at the juncture between her thighs, and the urgent desire to rub it against that hard, virile part of him that burned against her belly. She pressed harder, inarticulate but wanting and it was his turn to gasp.
She wasn’t quite certain what happened, he moved so fast, but the next she knew he was sitting on the piano stool and she was straddling his lap and, though too many layers of clothing kept them apart, his deliciously hard member was exactly where she’d wanted it. He held her hips in his big hands, his eyes never leaving her face, and rocked against her.
Sparks exploded behind her vision, a burst of pleasure glittering through her like a firework upon a black, velvet sky as she closed her eyes. She made a sound which she thought perhaps she should be ashamed of, but Ned only groaned and whispered in her ear.
“Oh, yes, Gracie, like that. Don’t stop. Use me as ye want. Take your pleasure.”
And so she did, moving with him, against him as he held her and kissed her and told her how beautiful she was. It was instinctive and lewd, and she didn’t care, following the murmuring sound of his voice that led her on, and clinging to him until she was breathless and mindless. She faltered then, aware that there was something beckoning her and uncertain whether to reach for it. It was bright, and she feared it would overwhelm her. Uncertainty made her open her eyes, only to find herself fall into the warmth and security of his gaze upon her.
“Yes, love,” he murmured, coaxing her on. “That’s the way, my beauty, don’t stop.”
She didn’t, held safe in his arms and by the obvious pleasure in his dark eyes. Grace cried out, clinging to him and muffling the sounds that tore from her against his neck as he too shuddered and made a sound so raw and powerful she felt it in every particle of her body and soul.
They didn’t move, just held each other, both breathing hard, and Grace didn’t dare look at him, too exposed by what they’d done, though they were both still fully dressed. Her heart hammered, and she felt the echo of it in his chest, as though they were racing together, in perfect accord.
“Ah, lass,” he murmured against her hair. “I know I ought not have taken such a liberty, but I can’t regret it. I’d forgotten what it was to feel so alive.”
She drew back a little and found an expression of wonder in his eyes.
“My wife never played that music, Grace. She never played at all. I bought the piano for her as a gift on our first anniversary, but she didn’t want it. We had a grand row about how much money I’d wasted on it, but I was too stubborn to take it back. I tried to learn myself, but… well, I’ve no aptitude for it, put it that way,” he said with a wry smile.
Grace stared at him, unable to comprehend any woman who could be unmoved by such a beautiful gift. Perhaps understanding her bewilderment, he carried on.
“Sarah was a practical woman,” he said, smiling—at the memory of his wife, she supposed. “She had no time for romance or what she viewed as frivolity. Either you were awake and working, or sleeping.”
Grace gave an exclamation of dismay as she realised how badly she must measure up to his first wife.
“The dinner!” she said, turning to see it was dark outside. “It isn’t done. The meat is raw and—” Grace dashed away an angry tear, furious with herself. “You’ve been working all day in the cold, and you don’t even have a hot meal ready because I was so busy p-playing—”
He stopped her mouth with another kiss and she was helpless in the face of such an argument. She sighed and allowed him to soothe her all over again.
“That’s enough of that now,” he said, his voice firm. “If ye think I’d swap the last hour for a hot meal, you’ve not the sense ye were born with.”
Grace glanced at him, uncertain, but found only amusement in his eyes.
“Ye had best let me up, love,” he said with a heavy sigh. “All my good intentions are being sorely tested and I’m not sure how I’ll endure until ye are my wife.” He kissed her nose and helped her from his lap. “I must go and clean up,” he said, grimacing a little. “And when I come down, we’ll find something quick to eat and then ye can play some more for me, if ye would?”
“Of course,” she said, astonished by this man and his kindness and understanding. “I would like that very much.”
He nodded and Grace watched him go, her heart full of wonder and hope.
Ned grimaced a little as he peeled the sticky material from his skin. He still couldn’t believe he’d spent in his britches like some wet–behind-the-ears lad. There’d been no other option, though. He’d not have halted her pursuit of pleasure for any price, bewitched by the sight of her, by the feel of her, and if he’d dared free himself from the confines of his clothes she’d have been on her back with her skirts around her ears and he’d have burned with shame when he walked her up the aisle. As it was, he prayed God would forgive him the lapse after so many years of abstinence. Surely a man could not be expected to resist when he had a goddess in his lap and his heart was bursting, not to mention less romantic parts of his anatomy.
“Thank ye, God,” he said, closing his eyes and putting his heart and soul into the words as he stood in the chill of the bedroom. He smiled as he realised she’d also forgotten to light the fire or put any hot water out for him to wash in. He didn’t give a damn. “Thank ye, thank ye, thank ye.”
He hurried back downstairs to find his betrothed sheepishly tending the fire. Ned grinned at her.
“Let’s see what Mrs Tucknott has in that pantry for us, eh?”
She blushed, still mortified, and Ned took her hand and tugged her along in his wake, too happy to pretend he could bear to be out of her company for the time it would take to find something to eat.
He piled the remaining meat pie, cheese, bread, and butter onto a tray, along with two apples and a jar of chutney, some ale, and several thick slices of seed cake. Hefting it, he made to carry it back to the kitchen and then stopped.
“Gracie,” he said. “Would ye run to the bedroom and fetch a blanket for me, love?”
She looked a little startled but didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Ned.”
When she appeared again, he moved through the kitchen, waiting for her beside the piano. “Put it on the floor there, in front of the fire.”
>
He wondered if she would protest or question him, but she didn’t, and he watched as she took care to tug all four corners of the blanket out to sit flat. Ned grinned at her and knelt, setting out the food like a picnic. “If I were courting ye properly, I might invite ye to a picnic with me,” he said, glancing at her and wondering if she thought him a fool. Sarah would have. She’d have rolled her eyes and told him not to be so bloody daft. “It’s not the weather for it now, though, and….” He shrugged, not wanting to mention her brother or the odd situation in which they found themselves. “Well, we’ll have our picnic indoors, if that’s all right?”
She beamed at him, such pleasure in her eyes his heart lurched in his chest. Good Lord, how was a man supposed to withstand a smile like that? His brain was melting into something gooey and malleable, and he knew this woman could wrap him around her slender finger if she ever wanted to. He’d do anything for her, get anything for her. A fine lady like her would want clothes and jewels, though, and he felt a stab of fear as he wondered how he could provide such things. The farm was prosperous thanks to a deal of hard work and good management. He’d bought another thirty acres last year to add to the fifty he had, an unimaginable achievement when he thought of where he’d begun. He’d made a grand success of it, by the standards of his own class….
But she was not of his class.
He was beneath her and he knew it.
“How lovely,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the blanket, her beautiful blue eyes sparkling sapphire bright in the firelight. “A winter picnic.”
“In the spring, when the weather is fine, we’ll do it properly,” he promised, a vision of his wife lying among a meadow of wildflowers and holding her arms out to him making his heart thud and his cock leap to attention.
Once Upon a Christmas Wedding Page 37