Secrets of a Soprano (22 page)

“Your gown is
torn. Would you like to slip away and repair it?”

Max’s whisper tickled her ear from behind. Given the jostling of enthusiastic guests offering her compliments Tessa was unsurprised to look down and find a piece of the gold lace on her bodice hanging loose from her left shoulder.

She was worn out. Exhausted from two hours of smiling and chatting until her teeth ached. Two hours of ignoring the too-frequent presence of Edouard Delorme who kept suggesting she slip away with
him
, for purposes only too obvious. Two hours of somehow knowing, despite the throng, exactly where Max was and with whom. And that whom was always a woman—a young, comely, and no doubt eligible woman. Going apart with him was probably a stupid idea, but she needed to escape.

With relief she sank into the cushions of a comfortable sofa in a room that was, by the standards of the Piccadilly mansion, small. The arrangement of quite ordinary furniture was graced with evidence of a cheerful untidiness: a mahogany sewing table had a couple of pieces of cloth and several ribbons protruding from the lid; the corner escritoire was scattered with letters; next to the fire a ragged basket appeared to be the sleeping quarters of an absent, and sharp-toothed, dog. A room that was lived in but not, Tessa guessed, by her formidable hostess.

“This is my cousin Sarah’s sitting room,” Max said. “She lives with my mother but she won’t mind us using it. No one will look for us here.”

Tessa raised her eyebrows.

“I thought you’d like to be alone for a while. Can I find you some refreshment? Knowing Sarah, she has a bottle of Madeira tucked away somewhere. Or I could ring for tea.” This last suggestion was spoken with very little enthusiasm.

“Nothing, thank you. But I would like to sit for a few minutes.”

“Put your feet up.” He reached for a footstool and positioned it in front of her. Gratefully she raised her feet and relaxed, enjoying the sensation of being cared for. Not that Sofie and Angela didn’t pamper her, but it was, after all, their job to do so. Domenico’s concern for her comfort had been strictly the protection of a valuable investment. She might as well have been a gold bar in need of regular polishing.

“Are you tired from your performance?” he asked, taking the seat next to her. When he’d said she wanted to be alone, he apparently meant alone with him.

“Hardly,” she replied, staring at her golden slippers and trying to ignore the fact that eighteen inches of air separated her bare arm from his dark evening coat. “Not as I would be after a full opera. But making conversation is weary work. I don’t enjoy it, at least not in large crowds. In fact I don’t much enjoy assemblies of any kind.”

“Your reputation says otherwise.”

“My reputation says many things,” she replied.

“I hope now it has been restored, at least as far the guests in this house are concerned. The newspapers and the rest of the public should follow.”

She managed a wan smile. “Thank you. Perhaps now the other stories will cease too. I should do something about this lace.”

“You can use Cousin Sarah’s sewing things.”

“Unless I remove the dress,” she said with a reproving look at his interested expression, “I can’t do it myself. Perhaps you should find Cousin Sarah.”

“Cousin Sarah is much too busy running around doing whatever a lady’s companion does when a lady is giving an entertainment. I couldn’t possibly tear her away from her duties.”

“Someone else then. A housekeeper? Your mother’s dresser?”

“I could help you.” He edged a little closer.

She looked at him askance.

“I can sew,” he assured her.

“What an unusual accomplishment for a gentleman.”

“My nurse taught me. I was a careless little boy and tore my clothes a lot. She used to complain about the piles of mending and one day I offered to help. In this instance I’m glad I had no brothers to laugh at me, nor sisters either.”

“Didn’t your parents object?” she asked, intrigued by this peep-show view into Max’s childhood.

“I don’t imagine they ever knew. My father had nothing to say in my upbringing.” His relaxed features stiffened for an instant. “As for my mother, what she might or might not approve of remains unpredictable to this day.”

“And are you a skilled seamstress?”

“I believe I can manage to stitch up that lace as a temporary measure. If you don’t find my skills adequate you can get your maid to do it again later.”

“Very well. I place myself—or rather my lace—in your hands.”

“Let’s see if we can find a needle, and thread of the right color.”

He rummaged through Cousin Sarah’s workbox, examining and discarding several spools and a rat’s nest of embroidery silks. “What about this?”

“Close enough.”

Max reclaimed his seat next to her, uncoiled and snapped off a length of dull yellow silk with an air of competence, then licked the end. Holding a needle at about half an arm’s length, he aimed the thread at the eye with exaggerated concentration. The awkward way he attempted to jab the strand through the tiny slit dispelled any illusion of proficiency. The intent eagerness on his harsh features made her see not the grown man but a small boy, determined to succeed in an unfamiliar task.

“Uh, Max,” she said, suppressing a grin without much success. “When did you last sew anything?”

“I think I was about seven,” he replied, “but I’m sure it’s not something you forget. There!” He held up the threaded needle with a triumphant flourish.

“You seriously expect me to let you come near me with that?”

“It’s hardly a lethal weapon.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I won’t prick you.” His voice and the atmosphere grew thick.

“Do your worst then,” she murmured.

He surveyed the damage with an eye that held a glint of something not commonly seen in the assessing look of a modiste or ladies’ maid. A wide expanse of bare skin offered itself to his examination and she was nervously aware that the tiny bodice of the dress barely covered her nipples.

He stood up. “I think I should sit on the other side.”

“But the tear is on this side.” The protest came out in an unmelodious squeak.

“You’ll see.”

She was rather afraid she would. And that he would. See too much.

He reseated himself on her left and, since there wasn’t much room on that side, his thigh, rock hard yet palpably alive, jammed against hers. Heat emanated from him like the Italian midday sun and a flush infused her from her scalp down to the tips of her gold-enclosed toes. Bending his long torso across her, he inserted his left hand into the edge of the bodice where the lace was damaged. Trying to escape the arm that rested across her chest, she shifted around and leaned back into the cushions, giving him better access.

“Good,” he said, and lowered his head. His face was inches from her bosom and sultry breath warmed her skin. “Now keep still or I
will
prick you.”

An earthquake couldn’t have budged her. Exposed and embarrassed, half reclining on a sofa completely at his mercy, she closed her eyes and reveled in her prostration. The soft cloth of his sleeve, closely fitted so she could feel the quivering muscles within, caressed her. She imagined Max’s bare skin against her own and ventured to peek at his face. The hard planes were set in concentration as he applied himself to the task of placing the rent lace against the satin. Yet she caught his gaze flickering downwards to the breasts pushed up by her specially constructed singer’s corset. When their eyes connected she hastily lowered hers. To his mouth. Had she ever noticed how beautiful his lips were? Not full, but well-shaped, they softened his harsh features with creases along the cheeks when they broadened into a smile or, as now, into a grimace of concentration. For some reason her nipples hardened. No, she knew the reason.

Having arranged the tear to his satisfaction Max held it in place with his left thumb while the back of his hand lay flat on her shoulder under the gown. Tessa’s whole world narrowed to that spot. She fought to breathe.

Carefully he inserted the needle through the fragile lace and the heavy satin beneath, drew it through and extended his arm. The look on his face turned comical when the thread followed all the way and swung useless and free.

“You’re supposed to tie a knot at the end,” she whispered.

“I forgot that bit.” He frowned. “We’ll have to start again.”

“We?” Her nervous tension had slipped away like the thread, leaving her relaxed, amused.

“I will have to start again. Don’t move.”

She had no intention of moving when she was enjoying herself so much. Watching him make heavy weather of his simple task, that internal warmth blossomed into tenderness. He looked so young, so much like the old Max.

When the strand was knotted to his satisfaction, he repeated his arrangement of the gown. Tessa watched his long fingers, more adroit this time, and drifted into a state she scarcely identified. Happiness, perhaps. A clock ticked but otherwise there wasn’t a sound in the room except Max’s breath. His dark hair brushed her cheek and prickles of excitement arose at his slightest touch on her skin. A tremor emanated from somewhere inside her, centered on the left side of her chest.

The knot held. With infinite care and without a single prick he affixed the lace back to the satin with long inexpert stitches that made her ache with tenderness.

Too soon he straightened to survey his handiwork. “What do you think?” he asked, raising a smile at the eager pride in his voice.

“The Parisian dressmaker who made the gown couldn’t have done better,” she said with a hitch in her voice, and meant it. She rather thought the dress she’d earlier donned with such revulsion might become her favorite.

“Now how do I detach the thread?” he mused.

Before she could suggest scissors he bobbed his head close to the shoulder, bit through the silk filament and tossed the needle aside. His lips had to move less than an inch to find the sensitive skin over her collarbone where they lingered a long moment before progressing up her neck. It was a smooth move, and the thought glimmered that he’d been planning it. She really didn’t care. She heard a little moan of pleasure—hers? his?—as he nipped her lobe then sent warm breath into the hollow of her ear, followed by a gently probing tongue.

“Oh God, Tessa!” he whispered, drawing her close. “You’re so beautiful.”

Then he kissed her. Gently at first he nibbled her lips, then harder. Her mouth opened to his on a sigh and he ravished the sensitive flesh with his tongue. Heat spread through her body, unfurled by his kiss. And she responded, pulling him closer with both hands. As a quiet, barely attended corner of her mind acknowledged, this was what she’d craved since the footman had interrupted them in the spare bedchamber of his house.

She made no protest when a hand found her breast, rather strained to meet it, urgently presenting herself to his caress. His fingers penetrated beneath satin and the silk-covered buckram of her stays to find a nipple that crested to a harder peak at his touch. Never breaking their kiss, he tugged at her clothing. While the miniscule bodice of the gown yielded without argument, the corset was made of sterner stuff and a growl of frustration expressed his failure. His body pressed hers back until she lay semi-reclined, half swooning when the heat of his mouth moved to the tender cleft of her breasts. Fine hair tickled her chin and his scent filled her nostrils while a yearning ache centered itself deep in her
fica
. Then he pulled at her skirts, struggling to gain a purchase on the stiff satin. The air of the room cooled an ankle, then a silk-clad calf, and his hand reached her knee and the bare skin above her garter.

“Max!”

He grunted incoherently and continued the upward progress of his hand. Faint alarm clashed with desire.

“Max, we should stop,” she whispered.

He raised his head. “Don’t make me stop. Please.” Brown eyes glowed with a passion she feared and a tenderness she wanted more than anything in the world.

Could she do this? Could she give in to the importunities of Max’s desire and her own longing without disaster? Should she? Conflicting urges shook her as she met his hot, pleading gaze.

“Tessa?”

She couldn’t speak and could answer only with the movement of her head. A shake or a nod? Denial or surrender? Retreat to safety or a step forward into an unknown future that could offer happiness, or agonies worse than any she’d yet suffered.

“Ahem.” Someone had entered the room.

“Damnation,” Max muttered, struggling to his feet and standing in front of her to shield her from the newcomer. “Bedeviled by footmen.”

“My lord. Her ladyship sent me to find you and request your immediate presence in the drawing room.” The liveried servant showed commendable lack of emotion or curiosity and bowed his way out of the room.

“Next time, my love,” Max said as he helped Tessa adjust her gown—thank God for that intractable corset or things might have been far more embarrassing. “Next time I kiss you I’m going to make damn sure there isn’t a footman within half a mile.”

“Mrs. STURRIDGE respectfully informs the Nobility, Gentry, Subscribers of the Tavistock Theatre and the public that her Benefit is fixed for this Tuesday when will be performed Le Nozze di Figaro with Mrs. Sturridge in the role of Countess Almaviva. Madame Foscari will appear at the entr’acte to sing THE SOLDIER TIR’D.”

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A
n urgent matter
at his estate called Max out of town and he told himself it was a good thing. He needed to put some distance between himself and Tessa. A few days at Tamworth reminded him how much he loved the place: the rolling Staffordshire acres, the mellow brick of the Tudor mansion and its multi-styled accretions, appended over the decades as the Earls of Tamworth augmented their wealth and consequence. Despite its grandeur the house still remained a manor house at its core and there was no place in the world Max felt more comfortable than in his boyhood home.

As he rode and inspected the fertile farmland, he almost convinced himself that there was nothing between him and Tessa but healthy lust and a wistful regret for the past. Once he’d dreamed of bringing her here, of living with her and their children in this enchanted place. Now he couldn’t imagine it. Tessa had grown into a different person. She was a creature of cities, a glorious empress of silks and jewels, ballrooms and theaters, a queen of the night. The idea of her sharing his rural peregrinations, plain cloth riding habit splashed with mud and hair disordered by the wind, was absurd. He didn’t even know if she could ride.