My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(31)

He doubted kissing her now would help him in that pursuit.

“I would like my song now,” he said. “Please.”

They went back through the house to the music room. Mrs. Campbell slowed in the doorway. “Oh my.”

Jack continued walking. The servants had been in while they played cards in the library, uncovering furniture and dusting. They would be swarming over the house all day, bringing every room to perfect readiness. Normally it was done before he arrived, but this time they’d had no chance. He opened the lid of the pianoforte and waited.

She recovered her aplomb, taking the seat. “Have they tuned it, as well?” she asked pertly.

“I doubt it.”

She ran her fingers over the keys familiarly. “Then this may be a dreadful assault on your ears.”

Jack grinned. “My ears are not so attuned as yours, so I doubt I’ll notice the difference.”

She muttered something like, “Be careful what you ask for,” and began to play. At first her fingers stumbled a few times, and there were a few notes that twanged, but gradually her confidence took over. He took a seat where he could watch her face, which lost some of its guardedness as she got into the piece.

Jack had learned years ago that it was best to own up to his weakness honestly, at least to himself. Mrs. Campbell was rapidly becoming a significant weakness of his—-no, strike that. He was thoroughly bewitched by her. He wanted to know more about her, from what made her laugh to what she looked like without any clothes on. He knew either of those desires, let alone both of them, could only lead to trouble.

But by God, right now he didn’t care.

She played the first piece, something he vaguely guessed was Mozart. Absorbed in watching her, Jack said nothing when she finished. Instead of rising from the seat, though, she stayed where she was. Her expression changed, becoming almost wistful. A slight smile curved her lips as she played a few trills, and then she began to play again.

He could tell this music meant something to her. The first piece she had played with more spirit than technical skill, but this one moved her. She swayed with the music, and at times her head dipped slightly, and the notes would pause. He could swear she was listening to some accompaniment only she could hear.

“I don’t know that piece,” he said when the last note had faded into a suddenly melancholy silence.

“It was my mother’s favorite,” she said softly, her eyes shadowed and focused somewhere far away.

“Did you learn to play it for her?”

She didn’t answer. Reverently she ran her fingertips across the keys, so lightly they made no sound. “It’s a beautiful instrument, Your Grace,” she said at last. “You should have it tuned properly.” A fine shudder went through her, and he realized with a small shock that she was on the brink of tears.

Damn. Of course—-she’d referred to her mother in the past tense. Jack knew what it was like to lose a beloved parent, and she was even younger than he’d been when his father died.

“I’m very sorry,” he said quietly. “That you’ve lost her.”

Without looking at him she gently closed the lid on the keys and rose from the bench. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I feel in need of some rest.” She swept that ridiculously ornate but graceful curtsy again and then walked from the room.

Jack followed her, driven by a nebulous desire to comfort her but held back by the fact that he’d been the one to make her sad. She never looked back, and when she reached the stairs she broke into a run. Jack stopped dead and listened to her footsteps echo in the hall above him, feeling like an utter cretin.





Chapter 9




Sophie avoided the duke until dinnertime. By then she’d got her feelings under control, and resolved not to play any more music. She didn’t know what had caused her to play “The Soldier tir’d” from Arne’s Artaxerxes. It had been Mama’s favorite piece to perform, and the one that won her modest fame across Europe. It must have been the pianoforte, a truly beautiful instrument even if some notes were out of tune. How Papa would have loved to play it, and how Mama would have loved singing in that splendid music room, with the wonderful acoustics.

But she should not have given in to those memories and thoughts. If her parents were here now, they would be shocked by what she’d got herself into. She had always told herself they would understand why she’d made the choices she had in life, but this . . . predicament . . . was foolish and needn’t have happened at all, if she had been able to keep control of her temper. And the only way to rescue herself from it was to keep her wits sharp and collected.

When she went down the stairs, Mrs. Gibbon was waiting for her. “His Grace is outside,” she told Sophie.

She blinked. “What, in the rain?”

The housekeeper smiled. “No, ma’am, under the portico.” She led the way through the entrance hall, past the gallery, to a pair of wide doors that stood open. With a murmured thanks, Sophie stepped out onto a flagstone terrace, lit by a quartet of large brass lanterns hanging from the roof of the portico.

The rain had become a thick mist. One could see it falling in bands, almost like clouds billowing down to the ground. The sky had lightened to a shade somewhere between gold and gray, as if the clouds had thinned under the force of the sunset. The formal garden visible from the Blue Room lay off to the right, while directly in front of them stretched a sweep of manicured lawn, dotted with tulip trees in the distance. A stone path wound through the landscape toward a lake, dimly visible in the distance only because of the woods that edged the far banks.