Guilty Series (36 page)

After a few minutes, he pushed aside the pillows and the counterpane and got out of bed. The moment he did, he felt his head exploding, and he pressed his hands to the sides of his skull.

Phelps entered from the dressing room just in time to see his grimace of pain. “Perhaps a dish of tea?” the valet suggested. “With mint. It does help when you drink it, sir.”

Tea was the last thing he needed. “Phelps, I hate tea,” he mumbled, rubbing his palms over his face. “You have worked for me for thirteen years. You know how much I hate tea.”

“A chamomile tisane then? Or coffee?”

A chamomile tisane sounded worse than tea. Coffee, at least, sounded…tolerable. “Yes, have coffee sent up. I'll take it in the bath. And send a maid to tell Mrs. Cheval I shall meet with her in the music room.” Naked, he walked across to the dressing room and into the chamber beyond it, where a huge copper tub had been filled with steaming water.

After a bath, a shave, and coffee, Dylan felt considerably better. The clock struck four as he walked to the music room, where Grace was waiting for him. He paused in the wide doorway to watch her.

She was standing behind his piano and had not noticed his arrival. She was looking at the scribbled sheet music on the stand. As he watched, she played several notes in succession. Bits and pieces of herself caught on paper. He wondered what she would think of that if he told her.

This was the first time he had seen her in daylight, and the sun did no disservice to her skin, for it looked as soft and luminous now as it had the night before. The sunshine caught all the gold and caramel glints in the braided crown of her hair, a simple fashion, with none of the absurd adornments now in vogue. No feathers and ribbons sticking out, none of the frizzy curls made by hot tongs, and none of those stupid sticks with fruit on them. Though the absence of such decoration was probably due to her destitution, he was glad of it, for her hair needed no adornments. If it were down, it would be like liquid gold in his hands—thick, heavy, shining.

Dylan's imaginings of an hour ago came back to taunt him, and they were much harder to set aside when she was standing right before his eyes. He entered the room.

She caught the movement and looked up. Her eyes were an even more clear, translucent green than he had thought, a color enhanced by the deep maroon shade of her dress, one of two he had seen hanging in her flat. It was threadbare and a bit loose on her slender frame, emphasizing just how close to the bone she had been living.

“Not accomplished with piano, you told me last night,” he said as he closed the doors behind him. “Yet you do play.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, and drew her hand back from the piano. “I am aware that a composer's instrument is sacred territory. I did not mean to invade it.”

“Do not make yourself uneasy, for I am not so temperamental as that.” He moved to stand beside her. “If you wish to play, there is sheet music in the cabinet.”

He gestured to the mahogany map cabinet directly behind them, where he kept published sheet music, but she shook her head. “I meant what I said, and I would not torture you with my attempts at piano. I always preferred the violin.”

“You must keep your violin here in the music room, so that you may practice when you have the opportunity. Perhaps we might play together.”

The idea did not meet with her enthusiasm. “I believe you wished to meet with me to discuss the matter for which I was hired,” she reminded him, sounding just as a nursery governess should—prim, brisk, and efficient, prompting him to an immediate desire to tear down that demeanor.

“So I did.” Dylan sat down at the bench and gestured for her to do the same. As she obeyed, he added, “What sort of play do governesses engage in?”

She gave him a look of reproof. “I thought you wished to talk about Isabel.”

“Of course,” he said in pretended surprise, still watching her as he began to press the piano keys before him in idle fashion. “What else would we be discussing? Do you not intend to have playtime in your curriculum?”

“For her, yes.” A blush flared in her cheeks as he laughed, and she looked away.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “Play is important.”

“Your daughter seems a very intelligent girl.”

“Too clever by half,” he agreed and continued to press keys at random. He closed his eyes and focused all his senses on the woman beside him, waiting, hoping to hear something, some hint of music.

He could feel her presence so close to him; it was almost as if they were touching. His eyes closed, he turned his head slightly toward her and caught the scent of something. He inhaled deeply, savoring the light, delicate fragrance of pear oil. It reminded him of Devonshire and home.

“Isabel is quite talented at the piano,” she said. “Did you teach her?”

“No.” Dylan didn't remember that scent on her skin in her room last night, nor had she been wearing it the night before in the alley. He opened his eyes and cast her a sideways glance from beneath his lashes as he played, moving his hand two octaves up the scale with deliberate intent. “I like your perfume,” he said, his forearm only an inch or two from her breast as he toyed with piano keys. “Why do you not wear it all the time?”

Her serious profile did not change at the compliment. “It is soap, not perfume.”

“My estate mills pear soap. So does my brother's.”

“Yes. The maid who brought it so I could refresh myself mentioned that.” She would not allow herself to be flustered by his closeness or the intimacy of the subject, it seemed. “Mr. Moore,” she said, without looking at him, “if you do not wish to talk about your daughter, I shall leave you to your music.”

She started to rise from the bench, and he spoke to stop her. “If you move, Grace,” he said pleasantly, “I shall fire you.”

She sank back down beside him. “That is blackmail.”

“Blackmail is a rather harsh way of putting it,” he answered, looking over at her, smiling as he continued to play. “I prefer to call it leverage.”

“Please do not—” She broke off, bit her lip, and turned her head away from him. After a moment, she said, “I would prefer not to discuss intimate subjects such as my toilette with you.”

God, he loved the sound of her voice. Even when she tried to sound disapproving, she really could not manage it. He wondered if she knew that. Her voice was soothing, melodic, like listening to a woodland stream. Closing his eyes as he played, he said, “Very well. We shall discuss whatever subject you would prefer.”

“The nursery is empty,” she said, “and Isabel has informed me that her room is on the second floor. A little girl should sleep in the nursery. Would it be acceptable for me to move Isabel up there? Her nanny would sleep there as well, of course.”

“Move her if you like, but she doesn't have a nanny. You'll need to hire one.”

“Very well. May I also purchase suitable furnishings for the nursery?”

“Such as?”

He listened as she reeled off a list of all the things a child's nursery required—furniture, book shelves, a tea table, slates, primers, books, games, puzzles, maps, and as she spoke, the noise in his head began to fade. He stopped playing and merely listened to her talk.

“Isabel has very little in the way of clothes,” Grace went on. “She has but two day dresses, and a third reserved for Sunday. I should like to take her to a dressmaker. Would that be acceptable?”

“By all means. Have Osgoode arrange accounts for Isabel at the proper modistes and purchase for her whatever she needs. And furnish the nursery any way you please. See Osgoode for a list of shops in Bond Street where I have accounts. As for sleeping arrangements, I hope you like your own room?”

“It's lovely.”

“Is there anything you need? If so, you only need ask Osgoode or Mrs. Ellis.”

“Thank you.” Once again she diverted the topic from herself. “I wish to determine a course of study for Isabel, but to do that, I need to know what her education has been up until now.”

“I do not know. I suppose you could ask her.”

“I did.”

Given his own experience thus far, it was not hard to guess the outcome of Grace's conversations with his daughter. “And?”

“She did not want to talk about what she had already been taught, but she did not hesitate to tell me what she wishes to do from now on. She does not want to learn mathematics, and she quite rebelled at collecting butterflies or learning German. As for other feminine accomplishments, let us say she was not enthusiastic. She wants to play piano and compose. That is all.”

“Has she played for you?”

“Oh, yes. A sonata, two concertos, and a serenade, all her own. She says she is beginning work on a symphony.”

Dylan felt a glimmer of pride, which was rather an odd thing, since he barely knew the child. “She is a very talented girl.”

“Yes, she is, but I suspect her greatest talent may be that of getting her own way.” She paused, then added in a wry voice, “It seems she takes after her father in more ways than one.”

He laughed at that. Unexpectedly, she did, too. He stopped playing and turned to her, appreciating the smile that lit her face. “That is the first time I have seen you smile.” Before he could even think, he was lifting his hand to touch her again.

That smile vanished as his fingertips grazed her cheek. He paused, looking into those extraordinary eyes, eyes as green and lovely as spring. Spring, and starting afresh, and all things new again. If only he could be renewed.

His fingers were calloused from a lifetime of pounding on piano keys, but her skin felt so soft against them. He flattened his palm against the side of her face, cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed against her lips. That delicious scent of pear invaded his senses, and the noise in his head receded to a faraway hum, then it disappeared altogether. For a few blessed moments, he heard nothing at all.

He closed his eyes. He stopped breathing. He did not move. So long since he had heard the sound of silence, he had forgotten what it was like. It was like heaven.

She opened her mouth against his thumb. “Hush,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Not yet. Don't ruin it.”

Dylan felt every breath she took against his thumb, waiting. He wanted to draw music out of her and put it on paper. He wanted the taste of her, the feel of her, the peace that would come afterward.

He could hear the noise coming back. Desperate to keep it at bay, he slid his thumb beneath her jaw and tilted her head back to kiss her. The noise grew louder, but the moment he touched his lips to hers, it ceased to matter. Christ, she was sweet. Honey on his tongue.

“No.”

The word was muffled against his mouth, but he heard it, and he opened his eyes as Grace slid away from him, off the piano bench and out of his reach. He watched her back away from him and move to the other end of the long Broadwood Grand. She stared back at him without speaking.

“Grace,” he said, his voice as soft as he could make it. “Come back.”

She shook her head, took two steps back, then turned away. She flung the doors open and departed. He let her go.

In her wake, she left behind that pear fragrance and something else. Without thinking, he put one hand on the keys and pounded out a quick, hard series of notes, not the notes he always heard with Grace, but instead the austere tones of C minor. He realized he had just created the opening of the first movement of a symphony. The masculine theme. The music Grace had inspired five years ago was the feminine theme that would follow it.

Of course,
he thought, and crossed to his writing desk for quill, ink, and staff paper. He returned with them to the piano and began improvising on the notes he had just played.

The idea seemed so obvious now. The masculine and the feminine. He would use them throughout not only the first movement but also the entire piece. A symphony written to be like a love affair.

It was an excellent idea creatively, but he craved the reality even more. Even while he worked, Dylan could not stop thinking about Grace, about the scent of her skin, the shape of her body, the taste of her kiss. Over and over, he tortured himself with thoughts of her, but if he had ever harbored any doubts that she would inspire him, they were gone by the end of the day.

Dylan set down the quill and stared at the scrawled sheet music spread across the top of his piano. He had a basic structure for the first movement, the first tangible evidence that he could still compose, but he would gladly have given it back to the gods for another moment of her, and her kiss, and the silence.

F
illing a suite of five empty rooms required a long shopping list. Grace pulled the pencil from behind her ear, and, at the bottom of her list, she added two armoires.

“I don't see why I have to sleep up here,” Isabel said, standing next to her and sounding quite aggrieved that both her governess and her father were in agreement that a little girl of eight belonged in the nursery.

“Think of it this way,” Grace said, using the wall as her writing surface as she penciled in a blackboard and chalk below the armoires. “You do have the largest suite in the house.”

She glanced at Isabel just in time to see the little girl's face brighten. “That's true,” Isabel agreed. “It is even bigger than Papa's. But that's only because if I had brothers and sisters, I'd have to share. Can you put staff paper on the list? Stacks and stacks?”

“Your father said to buy whatever we needed. I think it is important to have stacks and stacks of composition paper.”

“Me, too.”

“As do I,” Grace corrected and continued perusing her list. As talented as she was, a child of Isabel's intelligence required a more substantial education than most other children to keep her from becoming bored, and she needed interests beyond her music. To her growing list, Grace added a set of watercolor paints and supplies, a child's dinner service and tea set, and an abacus.