My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(32)

“A beautiful view,” she said to the man gazing out at it.

He turned. His gaze moved from her face down to her feet, sending that unwanted shiver of awareness through her again. “Yes.” He turned back to the landscape as she came to stand beside him. “The lake is a dammed stream that goes well into the woods. That’s where Philip and I used to go as boys. We kept a punt or two tied beneath the bridge and would row ourselves out of sight of the house to swim and fish.”

“How delightful.”

“It was.” He hesitated. “I must apologize for earlier.”

She knew what he meant, but she instinctively flashed a bright smile. “For kidnapping me from London?”

He smiled wryly. No, she knew he wasn’t sorry for that. “For earlier, when I asked you to play.”

“Oh! I did warn you the pianoforte was out of tune . . .” She tried to make light of it, but he looked at her with knowing compassion in his eyes, and she fell silent.

“It brought up sad memories for you, which was not my intent at all. I apologize.”

She had to swallow a sudden lump in her throat. “Not at all. You couldn’t have known. In truth, I ought not to have played that piece. It’s been so long since I sat at a pianoforte . . .”

“You must have lost her as a child,” he guessed.

Sophie forced another smile. “Yes. I was twelve.”

“How tragic. I’m very sorry,” he said with honest sympathy. “Was she musical?”

Her smile turned real. “Yes,” she said warmly. “Very. When I was cross or rude, she would sing her scoldings at me. Our house was always filled with music. That was her favorite piece, one I heard her sing many times . . .” Before Mama lost her clear, high soprano. Sophie blocked it from her mind. “I believe it was a cruel disappointment when everyone realized I had no voice and only modest talent on the pianoforte, no matter how much I practiced. And then at school—-”

“Did they not have a music master at school?” asked the duke when she broke off, on the brink of terrible memories again.

“No, they did. But it was not the same,” she murmured. No music lessons at Mrs. Upton’s could match watching her mother sing for the czar, or spending her evenings fetching ale for the tympanists in the orchestra in Milan. No teacher could give the same feel to music as Papa did, a life and emotion that no one ever learned at a school for young ladies. He could have wrung a performance from that out--of--tune pianoforte that would have left tears in the eyes of every listener, and no one would have heard a single sour note.

“My father encouraged me to draw,” said the duke. Sophie glanced at him in astonishment, but his gaze was fixed on the distant lake. “He himself sketched, although his was a more architectural bent. He drew the buildings, I drew the people who lived in them.” He raised one hand and pointed to the right. “There, past the corner of the house, is the bathing house he designed.”

“Do you still draw?” she asked softly.

His hand fell back to his side. “No.”

“Why not?”

A gust of wind blew a spray of rain at them. Sophie couldn’t resist the urge to turn her face into it, breathing deeply of the soft, moist air. She would never admit it aloud, but it was a magnificent evening. In London she would have made a grimace at the rain for the damage it would do to her slippers on her way around town. Tonight she could simply stand here and savor the quiet, beautiful landscape.

When she opened her eyes, the duke was watching her as if mesmerized. There was a focused intensity in his face, nothing reserved or cold about it. Their eyes met for one charged second, then he turned back to face the rain. “For the same reasons you stopped playing, I expect. Other things claimed my time and attention.”

For a while they watched the rain in silence. “This house has always been my escape,” said the duke at length. “Even as a boy when I had lessons to do, there was a lake and the woods to explore when lessons were done. Now that it’s mine, it’s mine alone—-my mother dislikes it, and Philip prefers other entertainments. I am loath to fill this one place of refuge with unpleasantness and anger.” He turned to her. “I should not have coerced you into coming here. I was furious at Philip but—-well. It’s done now, and the rain is beyond my control. Can you accept my apology?” He held out his hand.

Slowly she put her hand in his. He wore no gloves, and she had none. “Yes, Your Grace.”

One corner of his mouth crooked up. “Might we dispense with that? Ware will do.”

“Very well. Ware.” Her smile this time was tentative but real. He still held her hand, and his fingers tightened a fraction before he released her. Sophie hid her hand behind her skirt and wiggled her fingers to erase the warmth of his skin against hers.

“I thought to dine in the breakfast room. The dining room is . . .”

“Much too magnificent for an ordinary supper?” she finished when he hesitated.

“I was searching for a word other than oppressive,” he replied, one of those true grins lighting his face.

In spite of herself she smiled back. “Too large for two people?”

He laughed. Sophie started in spite of herself. He had a wonderful laugh; it was a pity he didn’t do it more often. “Far too large.” He offered his arm.