Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(15)

It was very different from her mother's attitude about her father's death. “You know your dear papa would want me to be happy,” Marie had told her. “He is in heaven now, but I am still alive. Always remember the dead, but don't dwell on them. Your papa doesn't mind that I have gentlemen friends, and neither should you. Do you understand, Tasia?”

Tasia hadn't understood. She had resented the way her mother had recovered from Ivan's death with such apparent ease. Now she was beginning to regret the harsh judgments she had made about Marie's behavior. Perhaps Marie should have stayed in mourning longer, perhaps she was self-indulgent and shallow, perhaps she had too many gentlemen friends…but she had no hidden wounds, no festering grief. It was better to live fully rather than be haunted by the memory of what was lost.

Luke wasn't conscious of where he was going. He kept walking until he found himself in his bedroom. The massive bed, draped in ivory silk and poised on a rectangular platform, had never been shared by anyone except him and his wife. It was sacred territory. He would never allow another woman here. He and Mary had spent their first night together in that bed. A thousand nights together. He had held her when she was pregnant, had been at her side when she had given birth to Emma.

His head was filled with the waltz. The melody pounded in his brain until he groaned and sat on the edge of the platform. He clasped the side of his skull as if that would keep the memories from coming.

Difficult though it was, he had accepted Mary's death. He'd been out of mourning for a long time. He had family and friends, a daughter he loved, a beautiful mistress, a life that kept him too busy to dwell on the past. It was just the moments of loneliness he couldn't seem to conquer. He had been friends with Mary since childhood, long before they had fallen in love. He had always gone to her first, to share happiness or grief, to pour out his anger, to find comfort. When she died, he had lost his best friend as well as his wife. Only Mary had filled that place in his heart. Now it was painfully empty.

Half in a dream, he saw Mary seated at the piano, her hair blazing in a pool of sunlight from the window. The waltz had poured from her fingertips…

“Isn't it lovely?” Mary cooed, her hands dancing over the keys. “I'm getting much better at it.”

“Yes, you are,” he agreed, smiling against her brilliant red curls. “But you've been practicing that waltz for months, Mary Elizabeth. Are you ever going to play another one? Just for the sake of variety?”

“Not until this one is perfect.”

“By now even the body has it memorized,” he complained. “And I'm beginning to hear it when I sleep at night.”

“Poor man,” she said lightly, continuing to play. “Don't you realize how fortunate you are that I've chosen such a divine piece to torment you with?”

Sliding his hand under her chin, Luke bent her head back and kissed her upside-down. “I'll think up some torments of my own,” he warned.

She laughed against his mouth. “I'm sure you will, darling. But in the meantime, run along and let me practice. Read a book, puff on your pipe, shoot something with your gun…whatever it is men usually do in their leisure hours.”

Luke slid his hands over her full br**sts. “They usually prefer to make love to their wives.”

“How bourgeois,” she murmured, arching willingly against his palms. “You're supposed to go to your club and talk politics. Besides, it's the middle of the day.”

He kissed the side of her neck. “I want to see you na**d in the sunlight. Come to bed with me.” Ignoring her protests, he lifted her in his arms, and she gave a surprised laugh.

“But my practicing—”

“Later.”

“I may never accomplish anything great in my life,” she said, “but after I go, they'll always be able to say ‘My, she played that waltz to perfection.’” She stared over his shoulder at the abandoned piano as he carried her upstairs…

Remembering, Luke felt his mouth twist in a bittersweet smile. “Mary,” he whispered, “you did play it to perfection.”

“My lord?” His valet's voice broke the spell. Luke started, and looked toward the mahogany bureau. Biddle was standing there with an armful of starched white shirts and cravats. A lean, small man in his forties, Biddle was never so happy as when he was putting things in order. “Did you say something, sir?” the valet asked.

Luke stared down at the patterned carpet, taking a deep breath. The ghostly echoes faded from his ears. He made his voice crisp. “Pack a change of clothes for me, Biddle. I'll be staying overnight in London.”

The valet didn't blink. It was a request he had obeyed hundreds of times before. Everyone knew what it meant. Tonight a visit would be paid to Iris, Lady Harcourt.

Tasia was still sitting at the piano when Emma returned to the music room. The girl was dressed in a simple blue frock that matched her eyes. “I've had my breakfast,” Emma said in a subdued tone. “I'm ready for my lessons now.”

Tasia nodded matter-of-factly. “Let's choose some books from the library, then.”

Emma wandered to the piano and touched a key. The single note hovered in the air. “You were playing my mother's waltz. I always wondered what it sounded like.”

“You don't remember her playing it?”