My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(26)

“Of course,” he confirmed. “Although my father never tried to separate us from our mother.”

“Were your parents kind and affectionate?”

This time he hesitated. A shadow seemed to pass over his face, and he didn’t reply. He walked on to the doors at the far end of the room and waited for her there. Sophie reminded herself it was not her concern and strode after him.

“The music room,” he said, opening the door. That was apparent, from the pianoforte at one side and the harp, under sheets, opposite it. But Sophie was transfixed nonetheless by the beauty of the room. Three sides of the room were tall windows, offering a spectacular view of the park in front of the house. The walls were soft yellow, with long draperies of flowered silk that matched the upholstery on the chairs, and when she looked down, she realized the carpet must have been specially woven for this room. Twined through the pattern was a scroll of music, and at intervals there were whimsical harps and lyres. Someone who loved music had decorated this room.

But the most enchanting thing by far was the pianoforte. It was the most splendid one she had seen in years, the sort a virtuoso would play. Reverently she opened the lid. The nameplate bore the name John Broadwood and Sons, whom Papa had believed made the finest pianofortes in the world. “Do you play?” She touched a key. It sounded a little off tune.

“No.”

“Do you sing?” She touched another key, not sure why she was persisting.

“Not well.”

She looked up in surprise. “Not at all? I thought all gentlemen were taught music.”

Instead of answering, he asked, “Do you play?”

“Yes. This is out of tune, though.” She closed the lid over the keys. What a shame, to have such a wonderful instrument in a house where no one played it. “The headmistress of my school insisted all girls learn at least one instrument.” She looked around the room. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t lived in. There was no music on the pianoforte, the harp was covered, and everything was arranged too precisely. A music lover had decorated it, but all the music had gone out of it. “I take it you don’t spend much time in here.”

“As I do not play,” said the duke, “no.”

What a waste, to have such a beautiful room and not use it. If this had been her family home, it would have been the most used room of the house. Her father would have played while her mother sang arias and lieder. For a moment she pictured her family, before the illness that destroyed it, arrayed in this lovely room. Papa at the pianoforte, her mother singing in front of the windows, Sophie reaching up to turn the pages of music for Papa . . .

She blinked to get rid of the image of what would never be. She went to the windows, turning her back on the pianoforte. From here one could see the colonnaded entrance of the house, even more intimidating in daylight than it had been in the dark of night. Sophie studied it, realizing how far they had walked in the rain. Across the graveled drive and manicured grass, the trees they had trudged through in the dark looked very far away. Sophie imagined she could see the wrought--iron gates, as well. It was a sweeping view of the park, but it somehow made her feel lonely. Everything was perfectly lovely but too still, too remote.

Like the duke himself, now that she thought about it.

She turned. “What is your favorite room?”

“The library, where we spoke last night.”

“Shall we go there?” If she wanted to gain insight into him, better to visit the rooms where he actually spent time.

With a nod, he led her back through the Blue Room, and they passed into a gallery. The tall narrow windows didn’t let in much light, and the room was dim. “There’s little of interest in here.”

Her steps slowed as a small framed picture caught her eye. “This is Philip,” she said in surprise, regarding a pencil sketch on the near wall. “As a boy.”

“Yes.” The duke stopped beside her. “I drew it.”

She blinked in surprise. The boy in the portrait was unmistakably Philip, several years younger with longer hair and a more innocent grin. He looked joyful, sitting in the crook of a branch. The tree was a faint suggestion around him, but Sophie could just see him, climbing the tree to dangle his bare feet over a lake or a pond while he fished or threw stones in the water.

“He looks so carefree and happy.”

The duke gave her a long, measuring look. “It was a long time ago.”

“And now he’s not?” Sophie studied the sketch. It was drawn with affection. Philip had been laughing at his brother as he drew. “You must have been close as boys.”

The duke inhaled a deep breath. “Yes. As boys we were very much alike. We spent hours by the lake. It was our primary escape from lessons.”

But as men, they were very different. Sophie’s curiosity prodded her hard to keep asking. Why had they grown apart, and when? “I thought you went away to school.”

“Of course,” he replied evenly. “Between terms there were still lessons. My father insisted.”

“Oh?” This was interesting, and it was about him. “What sort of lessons?”

“Crop management. Keeping the ledgers. Architecture, when my father had a bathhouse built.” He made a mild grimace. “Very dull sorts of lessons.”

“Philip must have hated them,” she said with a laugh.