The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(70)

And him, too, the top of his head reflected dozens of times, his mahogany curls the only glimpse of him as he spoke, the whispered words echoing around them in acoustic perfection. “The day it was finished, I stood here, alone, thinking of you.” He looked up then, to the perfect black mirror of the dome, finding her eyes instantly. Holding her attention as he said, “I dreamed of you here. In song.”

She snapped her gaze to his without the safety of the mirror. “You built me a stage.”

He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “You loved to sing,” he said, simply, as though it was enough. “And I loved to listen to you.”

She knew what he wanted. Could hear the echo of the song in her head that she’d sung to him an eternity ago. Before their mothers had arrived and he’d discovered her silly plan—one that had never been so nefarious as it had been misguided.

And damned if she didn’t want it, too.

“I miss it.”

“Singing?”

Singing for you.

The thought shocked her, and she cast about for a different reply. “Performance becomes addiction. One finds oneself craving applause like affection. Song, like air.” Her heart began to pound and she immediately regretted the words. She knew well the craving of the latter. How much had she dreamed of it from this man?

“And so the Sparrow is born.”

She nodded. “In song, freedom.”

“Are you so caged? You’ve only been here for three weeks.”

I’ve been here for three years.

She did not give voice to the words, instead saying, “Three weeks is an eternity without approval, Your Grace.”

For a moment, she thought he would fight her—push her for seriousness. But instead, he took a step back from her. “By all means, then, sing.”

“And you shall approve?”

“We shall see.” He was magnificent in his arrogance—had always been able to win her with it.

She grinned and lifted her skirts, showing her ankles as she did a small jig. “Long live the ladies, lovely legs to the floor. Long live the duchess, the Sparrow, the—”

He closed his eyes before she reached the end of the ditty, and she stopped, the final word hanging between them, at first jest and then jab, and she regretted evoking it, that word that had hung between them before, too many times.

She dropped her skirts, and Malcolm opened his eyes when the echo stilled around them. “And so? Does the space suit?”

He had built this place for her, he claimed. For the future and not the past. And even as she knew that it was impossible to forget the past that lay between them, she found herself unable to try.

She nodded. “It’s perfect.”

“Would you sing for me?”

She knew what he wanted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Likely not,” he said. “But it does not change the desire.”

And like that, she realized she wanted it, too, as though singing the song she’d sung to him years earlier would somehow free her. Free them. For something new and fresh. She hadn’t sung it in three years. Not since she’d sung it to him.

But she remembered every note, every word, as though it were a prayer. And perhaps it was. Perhaps she could exorcise the past with it.

She closed her eyes, and sang, full and free, the perfect dome sending the sound curling back to them. “Here lies the heart, the smile, the love, here lies the wolf, the angel, the dove. She put aside dreaming and she put aside toys, and she was born that day, in the heart of a boy.”

When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with gleaming pleasure, color on his cheeks and breath coming harsh. He approached her, the last notes swirling around them, and reached for her, pushing a loose curl back behind one ear. She should have stepped back from him, but found herself riveted by him, so close. So present. “Tell me, Seraphina. If there were no one—no sisters or god or goddess to protect you, no American, no aristocracy to watch and judge? What would you do if I pursued you?”

His eyes darkened with his words and she could not look away. How many times had he spoken to her like this? In liquid, languid poetry? How many times had she dreamed it?

He pressed on. “If I promised you sun, moon, stars? If I vowed to always hunt you, would you take flight? Or would you choose to be caught?”

He was close enough that she could give in. That she could reach up and press her lips to his. That she could throw caution to the wind and take what he offered. That he could catch her.

But he wouldn’t, not without her consent.

“What if we could have it back, Sera?” The whisper destroyed her, the ache in the words matching the ache in her chest. “What if we could start anew?”

She shook her head. “You should never have brought me here.”

He took a step toward her. Ignoring the words. “Would you take it?”

She swallowed, knowing she shouldn’t.

He saw the hesitation. Leaned in, willpower alone keeping him from kissing her. How did he stop himself when all she wanted was to let herself go?

He stopped for her. “Take it, Angel.”

One time. This one time, and then she would end it. Pass him on. Let him find a new wife. Let herself pursue freedom.

But this one, single time, she would take what he offered. What she desired.