Ashlyn Macnamara (10 page)

He stomped toward the nearest French casement. It creaked as he pulled it open, the sound echoing through the empty ballroom. Of course. Deprived of the usual evening entertainments involving high stakes, the other guests had long sought their beds. The opportunity to invest his earlier winnings in a few more hands of vingt-et-un might be lost, but he could take advantage of the empty house in other ways.

To his left, the pianoforte loomed, a dark hulk of shadow in the night. That damned instrument that his sisters had turned into a torture device beckoned to him. Right. No one about this late. No one to mock him for undertaking such an unmanly activity as music. No one to laugh at him if he struck a false note—as surely he would. If he wanted this preoccupation to pass undetected, he couldn’t practice daily as he ought.

He seated himself on the bench and the ivory keys stretched before him, a row of jagged teeth with spaces at regular intervals. He set his forefinger on middle C, drew in a breath and pressed. The note rang clearly through the darkness.

He positioned his left hand, and a tingle passed through him, half anticipation, half dread. Before his brain had a chance to engage, his fingers moved, rippling over the keys without direction. They knew what his conscious mind did not, but his ear told him every note was true.

Naught but a scale, simple enough, but the moment he closed his eyes, the music took over. His fingers found the path until a melody surrounded him, each note pure, each one correct, each one forbidden.

A miracle that his muscles retained the memory, the ability to execute the intricacies of an arpeggio. His fingers ought to trip clumsily over the keys like a toddler first learning to run. He practiced so seldom, they ought to have lost their stretch, yet he easily spanned over an octave. They recalled the necessity of lightness on the high notes to make them tinkle like silver bells. They remembered the emphasis in the lower register to accentuate the beat.

He didn’t need to think this. He only needed to feel, to fill himself up with the music until the George Upperton that society knew—the rake, the gambler, the wit—ceased to exist. That man was a shell, a container, a bushel to hide this essential core of himself that not even his closest friends were ever allowed to observe, that even he denied.

At last, his fingers drummed out the coda, and the final notes drifted off into the darkened room. No sound broke the silence now, except for his own ragged breathing, as if he’d just run a mile. A drop of sweat trickled along his cheek and hit the ivory with a plop.

He inhaled, seeking to calm his racing pulse, and that was when he heard it—the steady rush of another person’s breath, out of sync with the rise and fall of his chest. He looked back toward the casement. Open, but had he left it ajar? He no longer remembered.

Could Miss Marshall have decided to defy propriety and meet him?

“Who’s there?” His question echoed, low and rough through the stillness.

“Pardon me. I …”

He raised his head toward the whisper, the voice somehow familiar to his ear when it shouldn’t be. Isabelle stood in the far corner, her moon-kissed white-blond hair a mere glimmer in the deeper shadows. From across the room, he sensed her tension, her uncertainty. He remained on the bench, the massive bulk of the piano a shield between them. But whom was it protecting? Him as much as her, for he’d never intended to reveal so much of himself—not to her, not to anyone.

“What are you doing here?” He kept his question deliberately casual. No need to appear upset, even if she might as well have walked in on him naked. Any other woman, and he would have preferred things that way. Far more fun to be had. Far more pleasure. Much better than enduring the scrutiny of her silence.

“I …”

An assignation, but not with him. What else could it be? The thought struck him like a punch to the gut.

“Has Jack fallen ill?” There. He’d thrown her a line, an excuse, something she could grasp. And bolt.

“No, he’s long in bed. I left him with Biggles.”

“Biggles?”

“I share her house. He’s safe enough.”

He studied her face for a sign. In the low light, she appeared otherworldly, like a fairy, with her wisps of silvery curls backlit by moon glow. What he could see of
her expression was guarded, as if she was afraid to admit the reason for her presence.

He rubbed his palms against his thighs, the fine wool of his trousers hot to his skin, and waited. Waited for her to declare herself. She couldn’t stand forever on the threshold of her world and his.

She moved, a tentative step, presaged by the flutter of her gown. Her hand stretched out and lit upon the polished wood of the pianoforte. “I had no idea you played.”

“I don’t.”

She opened her mouth and closed it again. “Of course you do. I’ve never heard such … such virtuosity.”

“I don’t play,” he insisted, the words harsh, hard. Why was he doing this? Why distance her only because she’d chanced on a side of him he revealed to no one?

“No, you’re right. ‘Play’ is too frivolous a term for what I just heard. That was not playing.”

“It certainly wasn’t work,” he snapped. He shifted his weight, suddenly aware of the wood beneath his seat. Hard, unforgiving, unyielding. How much could she see of him in this low light? Too much. And she didn’t need her eyes, not when she’d just experienced—

“Beauty, that’s what it was. Ideal beauty.”

He released his breath in a loud splutter, the sound just as discordant as any note his sisters produced. “Indeed. How manly of me to produce such heights of aesthetics. Why have you come here?”

She withdrew her hand. “I heard you playing, and I couldn’t help myself.”

“You heard me from your house in the village?”

“No.” The whispered admission barely grazed his ear. “The garden.”

“Did someone ask you to meet him?” He pushed himself to his feet. Despite the low light, he picked up on the rigidity of her shoulders. “What did you imagine would occur out there? Come,” he added when she didn’t reply.
“You’ve brought a child into the world. You cannot pretend ignorance of what passes between men and women.”

She looked away, turned her head to the side and down, and he immediately regretted reminding her of her past scandal. “Forgive me. That was an unconscionable thing to say.”

“Indeed.” The word was frosty. “Most especially when you do not know the circumstances.”

“Circumstances, yes. There are always circumstances.” He waited. Would she go on without further prompt? Not that her past was any of his affair, but part of him was curious. She was obviously well bred. Her speech, her manners spoke to that. Her family was well-heeled enough to provide.

“I do not wish to say more,” she said at last, as if he’d prodded her. “I’ve never heard anyone play so finely. Haydn, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Oh, she was educated, all right, as educated as any young lady of good family. Enough to recognize the work of a composer better known for his symphonies than his piano sonatas.

George probed his memory, searching for any recollection of a scandal involving a young lady. She’d have been making her debut, certainly, but six years ago he spent more time in gaming hells than ballrooms. Hardly surprising a young miss’s unexplained absence from society had passed his notice.

But if they had been introduced, he’d have remembered this one, in particular, with her fine features and slender hands. As much as he made a habit of avoiding the marriage mart, the sight of Isabelle in a ball gown, gloves covering her long, white arms, her curls tamed beneath a fashionable headdress, might well make him reconsider the prospect.

Thank God he’d never laid eyes on her then. He’d
have made an utter ass of himself, when obviously, her heart had been engaged elsewhere.

“You must have learned from a master.”

“I learned from the same tutor who instructed my sisters, and you may thank the heavens you’ve never been subjected to their performances.”

“Oh, come.” She smiled faintly, a mere shadow amid others. “They can’t be that bad. Not when their brother displays such talent.”

“I’d gladly let them have a measure of mine. They might each end up tolerable.”

“Won’t you play something else?”

The very request he’d been dreading. “No. I never meant to perform for anyone at all.”

“Pity.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a fleeting moment. “I liked you better when you were playing.”

“Liked me better?”

“Not that I disliked you before, only … Oh, I’m making such a hash of things. How to explain this? When I was listening to you play just now, you seemed, well, less threatening.”

“Threatening? My dear, you’ll have me blushing soon if you don’t leave off with the compliments. Do I threaten you now that I’m not playing?” He waited for her reply. How had he posed any sort of a menace to her at all? But he had. That first day down at the beach, she’d been on her guard. Fearful, really, beneath the veneer of anger. But what had she to fear from him?

The silence stretched out too long for her to deny it. “A little.” She waved her hand. “Should anyone find us, my reputation shall be in tatters.”

Again.

Neither one of them dared pronounce that truth, but it hung between them all the same. “A pity you have nothing to show for it then.”

She held her hands clasped in front of her, the very picture of a demure and biddable miss. “Yes, a pity.”

He cleared his throat. “Would you like something?”

“Not from you.”

No, of course not. He hadn’t requested the pleasure of her company. Someone else had. “And yet you stand there. Were you going to meet someone in the garden? Off with you, then.”

She remained on the spot, her face turned away. Well. Whoever she planned to meet, she was clearly displeased with the prospect.

“Perhaps I ought to pity the poor fellow. Your eagerness is overwhelming.”

“You know nothing. Nothing at all.” She’d likely meant the words as an attack, but somehow they lacked force.

“Yet, you’re here,” he pressed. “With me.”

Her hesitation tore at him. He was used to experienced women, women who knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to ask for it. Some were even bold enough to reach out and make the first move. Isabelle was different, experienced to a degree, and yet so completely innocent. He usually ran from virgins. Virgins expected a courtship. They expected flowers and escorts through the park and proposals. Isabelle, while no longer a virgin, retained that shyness, that hesitance that usually sent him scrambling in the opposite direction.

So why wasn’t he running from her? Why was he skirting the pianoforte to stand before her? Why was he tipping her chin up and forcing her to look him in the eye?

Her lips parted at the contact, and he studied them, plump and open and soft, but not quite inviting. Some slight tension in her cheeks prevented her from relaxing completely.

“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” he murmured.
“I’ve never once forced my attentions on a woman, and I don’t mean to begin with you.”

If anything, she tensed further. Her mouth closed and pressed itself into a line.

“What is it?”

Instead of replying, she picked up his hand and laid it flat, fingers splayed. She fitted her free hand over it, palm to palm, her soft skin a glimmer of white against his paw. His long fingers extended beyond the ends of hers. He could easily curl them into a fist and crush her hand if he chose.

He understood. She wanted the assurance of gentleness from him. He lifted her arm and pressed his lips to the back of her wrist. She sucked in a breath.

“I will not hurt you, and I will do nothing you do not wish me to do.” He turned her hand over and brushed his lips over the tender skin at its base, inhaling as he did so, drinking in her freshness, her lightness, her otherworldliness. She smelled of lavender, the sharpness of sea air, and the earthiness of woman. He thought of taking his time, taming her slowly until he moved above her, sheathed in her softness and heat. Blood rushed to his groin.

He released her hand, placed it on his shoulder, and drew her close enough that the tips of her breasts brushed his chest. He stroked the length of her spine, his fingers tracing each bump of her vertebrae, feeling the tension ease from her as his hand traveled toward her waist.

Her breath released in a warm gust that wafted against his neck. He touched his lips to her temple, her cheek, at last grazing her mouth, gently, slowly, returning with greater insistence when she didn’t freeze up on him. He raised his hand and pressed it between her shoulder blades, eased her closer. He teased her lips until he coaxed a response from her, a gentle pressure in
return, unschooled, a far cry from his mistresses’ practiced caresses.

And yet, with her, the patience to teach came so easily. Hell, someone ought to instruct her properly. The idiot who’d got her with child clearly hadn’t bothered with the task.

Cradling the back of her head with his hand, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue. When she stiffened for a moment, the reaction came as no surprise. So hesitant, his Isabelle, but then she’d landed herself in trouble before. No shock she advanced with caution now. He stroked her back again, and like a cat, she arched into his touch.

“Open for me, my dear,” he whispered against her lips. “I swear I’ll only kiss you.”

Her hand slid to the back of his neck, and the tips of her fingers bit into the skin about his collar. Tempted and yet still hesitant.

“Trust me.”

O
H
, how she wanted to. Those gentle initial kisses had kindled a familiar fire within her belly—but down that path lurked disappointment and ruin. She could not give into passion with a man yet again, not even with George Upperton, whose gentleness and patience inspired trust.

When she’d placed her hand to his, she’d meant to show him how easily he might break her if he so chose. He’d taken the hint. He would not overpower her. But eventually he would demand more than she could give him.

And yet—his body was so firm against hers. He awakened in her an insidious longing, a curiosity to know him fully, and the feeling threatened to outweigh her memories and fears. Yes, she could kiss him, but no more.