Ashlyn Macnamara (27 page)

“Indeed. You stay here and let yourself dry, while I—”

He rolled back on his heels, pushed himself to his feet, and ventured deeper into the room. What looked like a sheaf of paper had been abandoned over on the piano bench. Someone’s music? He picked it up. No, not music—the pages contained sketches. No doubt it belonged to Miss Abercrombie, she of the all-seeing gaze.

Idly, he leafed through the pages. Miss Marshall
stood, cold and composed on the first one. Miss Abercrombie had somehow managed to capture her subject’s icy, superior stare in just a few deft strokes of charcoal.

On the next page, Leach grinned raffishly, the size of his teeth exaggerated. In his hand, he held a pack of cards, but an ace peeked from his sleeve. “She got that one wrong,” George muttered to himself. “If he cheated, he’d win a lot more often.”

The paper rattled as he turned the next leaf. Miss Abercrombie had captured Julia and Revelstoke in an unguarded moment. Their charcoal effigies stared into each other’s eyes, holding one of their private, wordless conversations. The artist had all but portrayed the dialogue on the page.

At one time—not even a week ago—George would have asked one of his friends to put him out of his misery before he looked at a woman like that, all besotted and soft. Now all he could think of was Isabelle. Had she ever looked at a man with such a love-struck expression? Had she simpered over Jack’s father?

The thought turned his stomach. And if she looked at George that way, what would he do? In the past, he’d have run fast in the opposite direction the moment a woman gazed on him with dewy eyes, but if Isabelle wanted to turn such an expression on him …

His heart sped up, but with an effort, he shook the image from his mind. He’d consider that possibility another time, ideally once he was out of her presence. When the chance of such a thing occurring in reality was remote.

In his haste, he practically tore the sketch of Julia and Revelstoke, but as soon as he’d turned the page, he wished he hadn’t. Staring back at him was his own portrait.

“Whoever drew this is quite talented.”

In spite of himself, he jumped. Isabelle had managed to creep up behind him.

“Talented, yes.” Unnervingly so.

“Is that the way you dress when you’re in Town?”

As with the other portraits, Miss Abercrombie had exaggerated a few key details. On him, it was the clothes. Somehow she’d managed to put a gleam on his boots that might have outshone the sun. His collar points rode impossibly high, until they nearly engulfed his face. His cravat was knotted into something absurdly complicated, and his hair …

Absently, he raised a hand to test. Just as he thought. Nobody wore his hair piled in such a ridiculous manner, not even Beau Brummell before his disgrace. Certainly not George Upperton. Was this how the world saw him then? Nothing but a useless dandy whiling away the summer and autumn months until the fashionable returned to Town and he could go back to sleeping off the days and haunting the gaming hells at night.

But that was exactly the sort of man his father wanted him to be. Shallow. Dissolute, if not quite debauched. With such lessons, George had proven himself an apt pupil.

He cleared his throat. “Not to this degree. I can’t think of anyone who would.”

“I can.” Before he could ask her for examples, she pointed. “Did the artist know you play?”

Miss Abercrombie’s penetrating gaze had seen through him. She’d sketched him standing, just as he’d posed for her outdoors, but she clearly hadn’t filled in the background until later, until he’d inadvertently revealed his secret. She’d added the bulk of the piano looming behind him, and through his awkward stance, she’d managed to make it appear as if his portrait self were trying to hide the instrument from the viewer.

“Brava, Miss Abercrombie.”

“You’re stalling, you know,” Isabelle prompted. “If I had anything to wager, I’d wager you don’t wish to fulfill your forfeit.”

H
IS
fingers stilled, and the final, pure note faded into the night. Such skilled fingers, whether they rippled across a keyboard or her body. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth at the thought.

As Isabelle Marshall, she had known dandies, such as the sketch of George portrayed. Men who spent hours deciding which topcoat went with which pantaloons, men who drove their valets to distraction until their cravats were tied just so. Self-aggrandizing braggarts. Men whose best friend was a well-polished cheval glass. Men who were just as shallow and flat as that best friend.

Something about Upperton struck her as different. With him, the emphasis on appearance was mere façade. He hid his true self behind that front, a far deeper person with far deeper concerns and, perhaps, pain.

His eyes blinked open, as if he were awakening from an hour-long trance. “Do you play?”

The question caught her off guard. “Not like you.”

“You must have learned. Isn’t the ability to pound a few notes out of pianoforte part of a proper young
lady’s
upbringing?” A tinge of cynicism accompanied an undue emphasis on the word lady. It set her on edge. “That’s how it was in my household.”

“I was much better at stitchery.”

He rose from the bench. “Come. Sit.”

“But I’ve nowhere near your talent.” Not to mention, she hadn’t touched a keyboard in years. She curled her fingers into a fist.

“I’ve performed for you. I wish you to perform for me.” His tone brooked no argument. At the same time, a stream of liquid warmth washed through her midsection.
Part of her wanted him to perform as he had in the cottage. As he had in her kitchen.

Again, yes, again.

Perhaps if she acquiesced, this strange mood of his might turn into something more pleasurable. She took a seat in front of the keys, pausing to smooth her skirts beneath her, and set her hands the way she’d been taught—right thumb on middle C, the smallest finger of her left hand an octave below.

“It’s been ages. Honestly, I’m not sure what I remember.” The last time she’d sat at a piano and played for anyone had been before her debut. Just another innocent girl in white displaying her accomplishment to the
ton
. Making her family proud. “What shall I play?”

He shifted until he stood directly behind her. She fancied his breath stirred the hairs at the top of her head. “
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
.”

“That’s a serenade for strings.”

“There’s a piano arrangement.”

“But Mozart.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “Have pity.”

“My sister Henrietta butchers it with shocking regularity.” A surprising measure of bitterness infused his tone. “You can hardly do worse.”

She nearly turned her head to look at him, but recalled just in time their relative positions. It wouldn’t do to set her face in an embarrassing spot.

He leaned into her, his chest to her back, his cheek against hers. The scent of cheroot and brandy and male teased her nostrils. He placed his left hand on the keys and led her right forefinger to high G. “At least play the melody.”

She depressed the keys, haltingly ascending and descending the first few measures, ever aware of George at her back, one arm nearly embracing her as his accompaniment quickly turned into counterpoint. She fumbled
over a few more notes before stopping altogether. His left hand drummed out a merciless allegro rhythm. Even when she’d been in practice, she’d never have kept up.

He went on, humming the melody under his breath, until that too drifted into something unfamiliar. He kept the proper chords but changed the sequence. Improvising, the way the original composer was reputed to have done. So lost in the refrain, he hadn’t even noticed she’d folded her hands in her lap.

“If you wanted Mozart,” she observed, “you might have chosen one of his operas. I might at least attempt singing.”

His fingers came to a rest for a moment. His right arm snaked around her, encasing her fully, trapping her against the instrument. Then he pounded several heavy chords. It wasn’t until he reached a series of tinkling notes that sounded like mocking laughter that she recognized the opening strains to
The Magic Flute
. The opera, of course, had been scored for a full orchestra, but he managed to capture its spirit with a single instrument.

“I hope you don’t expect me to be the Queen of the Night.”

His laughter reverberated from his chest as his fingers reached for the high notes of the famous aria. “You don’t like a challenge?”

“I’ve got enough of one in you.”

His fingers came to an abrupt halt. “What’s that supposed to mean? You saw my portrait. I’m a simple enough man. I like my drink strong, my wagers daring, and my women—” His hands moved from the keyboard to cup her breasts. He leaned his cheek against hers and nuzzled. “I like my women willing.”

She pulled in a breath as her nipples tightened. “You’re not as simple as that, not when you hide this part of yourself from the world. You ought to be in London performing for the king.”

“I ought to be performing for you.”

“You have been. It’s been a revelation.”

“I’m not finished yet.” He squeezed gently and touched his tongue to her earlobe. “This was merely the warm-up.”

“There you go, hiding once more.”

“What I’m attempting”—he nibbled the side of her neck—“is moving along to more interesting pursuits now that I’ve fulfilled the terms of my forfeit.”

Oh, but he was persuasive. Persuasive, seductive, a true sensualist. Another downfall loomed in her imminent future, and she would gladly plummet. But not just yet. She tilted her head and ducked away. “You are trying to distract me from the subject.”

“The subject wasn’t the divine way you taste right about here?” He dipped his head for a kiss, but she avoided him once more.

“The subject was Mozart. You know, the composer. The prodigy.”

He pulled away, and the space between them filled with a different sort of tension. “I am no prodigy.”

He pronounced each syllable with exacting precision. Let there be no doubt in her mind—or his. Was he trying to convince himself?

“There isn’t a whit of shame in it.”

“Tell that to my father.”

His feet fell with dull thuds as he stalked away. Neither the candlelight nor the glow from the hearth was strong enough to chase the shadows from the far end of the room. But she could picture him, drawn up to his full height, shoulders squared, a frown etched across his face.

“Music,” he spat. “It’s a woman’s pursuit. It’s frivolous. It’s unmanly.”

She rose and followed him. “No.”

“It’s shameful.”

“No.”

“It was to my father.” He tugged a hand through his hair, leaving it in spiky disarray. “Do you have any idea what it is to have this … this
thing
inside you? God, sometimes it feels like it’s alive. It gets hungry, and it wants out. But it’s a part of you, part of yourself. You’ll never be free of it, but you have to deny it. You have to hide who you are, because it isn’t acceptable. Do you know what that’s like?”

He kept his back to her, and she wished she could see his expression, although she could well imagine. His anguished tone revealed soul-deep pain. A part of her wanted to pull him into her arms, to cradle his head against her shoulder, and run soothing fingers through his hair.

But another part of her mind recalled the past few years lived in disgrace.
You have to hide who you are
. Indeed. That part bade her cross her arms and set her foot tapping. “Yes, I believe I do.”

G
EORGE
pressed his mouth closed. Hell, he’d never meant to reveal so much of himself, not his talent and not the pain of having to hide it. He’d never expected anyone to understand.

But Isabelle not only understood, what she had endured in the past few years trumped anything his father had put him through. Trumped, took all the tricks, and cleaned out his pockets at the turn of a single card.

A Jack, no less.

“God, I’m an ass.”

“At times.” Isabelle padded closer. “But your heart is in the right place. I can’t think of too many men of your standing who would have taken up my cause with no expectations.”

George cleared his throat. “Let’s not talk about expectations,
shall we? I’m afraid many of my recent actions might not appear so worthy when examined closely.”

“Do you mean just now or earlier?” She’d come to stand before him, but he couldn’t make out her expression in the darkness. Her tone betrayed nothing. If only she’d touch him—no more than her fingertips on his forearm and then he’d know he stood on firm ground with her.

“Last night. Earlier. Just now. All of it.”

She went still long enough for a bead of sweat to trickle at his temple. The only sounds were her breath and a rustle of fabric, but at least she wasn’t stalking away—or raising her hand for a slap. “You didn’t seduce me last night. You comforted me.”

“And just now?”

“I ought to expect you to try again where you’ve succeeded once. Isn’t that what men do?”

Men, yes. The sort of man his father had raised him to be.

“But you haven’t succeeded this time,” she went on, “have you? I haven’t let you. Yet.”

Such promise in that one word. He reached for her, but his fingers only caught the edge of her skirt before she slipped away. “You’re not making it easy.”

“That’s because you’re going about this the wrong way.” Still that hint of promise—it accented her words like a grace note.

“What other way is there?”

“Patience. Let me come to you.”

“I’ve never been long on patience.”

“And don’t use seduction as a means of avoiding things you’d rather not talk about,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Perhaps tonight, I ought to return the favor and comfort you.”

What in blazes was she talking about? Last night, she’d been frantic over Biggles and her son. He couldn’t even lay claim to emotions like anger or hurt. Well, not
so
angry, not
so
hurt. He had no right to those feelings. She’d shown him as much with a simple, five-word sentence.

“So, Mr. Upperton—”

“After last night, hadn’t you better call me George?”