The Princess and the Pauper (10 page)

She shut the door and stepped nearer to
the bed. “Am I disturbing you?”

“
No.” He forced a deep, drawn
breath into his
starved lungs, then gradually exhaled. “How was your
walk?”

She curled her slender fingers
around the bedpost.
“Unusual.”

Her skir
t brushed the foot of the bed. His
toes almost grazed her skirt. What was she doing so close to him?
Earlier in the day, she’d backed away from him in obvious mistrust.
Her fear had twisted his innards, for she’d never treated him with
suspicion, and he was unfamiliar with the unnatural feeling. But he
now found her inexplicable courage equally disarming.

“
Unusual?” His pulse quickened
under her probing stare. “How so?”

“
T
he house is empty. Why?”

“
I
have yet to fill it with useless
things.”

When he
’d purchased the property six months
ago, Lady Hickox had papered the walls and draped the windows in
anticipation of rollicking gatherings, where she would act as
hostess to celebrated artists, politicians and other demigods. Grey
wanted no intrusion into his private world, however, and had
refused to furnish the mansion, much to her displeasure.

“
I suppose that will
change,” he
considered in a low voice, “now that you’re here.”

She cocked her head.
“Why would it change
because of me?”

“
What will you do in an
empty house?”

“
What will I do in a furnished
one?”

Rule it, he thought, then frowned.
What game was she playing?

T
heir dance had to end. If he wanted to be
free of her and the past, he had to regain control of his impulses,
and there was only one way to do that—to confront her and
everything she had ever meant to him, to stand before it all, and
then to turn away from it.

He whispered,
“Will you play for
me, princess?”

There was a bright, unexpected light in
her eyes—a passionate flame—not borne of anger, as he’d assumed
when he’d called her “princess,” but borne of . . .
hope.

The hairs on his arms bristled. Hope for
what? he wondered. What did she believe would come of her music
play?

He sensed the change in her, in
himself,
and
his heart thudded, low and fierce . . .

Emily flexed her fingers.

Rees
studied her with unmistakable heat in
his eyes, and her every pore burst with gooseflesh. She thought
she’d buried her sensual feelings for him, that they might not even
exist after so much time. But as she wondered how it would feel to
hear such soft words whispered against her skin, her blood
simmered.

An unfinished kiss still lived in her
memory. She watched him on the bed, under the glow of lamplight,
with his mussed hair and partially unbuttoned shirt, and the
smoldering longing returned, burned hotter.

She hadn’t fully understood the
fire between them five years ago, but she understood it now.
D
esire. It
had almost ruined her. But that danger was now gone.

She was already ruined.

Emily
grabbed the bedpost again, needing
support. Suddenly, there was so much more at stake than their
friendship. There was forgiveness. And the possibility of a life.
Together.

But i
f music failed to rouse him? Then he
hadn’t dormant affections for her. What would she do then? Live
with him in misery? Pray for indifference?

She trembled as she
retrieved a violin.
She had never played with such a sense of urgency or fear. And if
she couldn’t play?

With a deep breath, she sat on
the edge of the winged chair
. Her heartbeat sounded in her ears. She couldn’t
fit the instrument comfortably under her chin or raise her arms
high enough, the shoulder seams so low, they pinched her muscles
when she tried to lift them.

“
You cannot play in that
dress
.” His
voice dropped to a throaty timbre. “It gives you no freedom of
movement.”

The roughness in his words made
her skin prickle even more.
He was right, of course. She couldn’t play in the
restrictive garment. And her first instinct was to run to the
dressing room to disrobe in private. But then another thought came
to mind.

She
stood and looked out the window,
awash with moonlight and raindrops. She could see Green Park from
her vantage. Her former house was not too far away. A proper,
aristocratic family lived there now. She had walked by the house
only once since losing it, and the domestic tableau she’d seen
through the window had nearly crushed her heart. Even now, the
memory of it pained her.

If she ever wanted to be happy again,
she needed to be bold.

Without another thought,
she
set aside
the violin and reached for the top button of her dress. She
unfastened it, not caring that the drapes were wide
open.

Emily
knew the moment Rees noticed her. His
steady breathing switched to a more quickened pace. He had once
desired her. Might he still?

Shivering with anticipation, she
unhooked
every button to her pelvis and slipped out of the garment.
It dropped to the floor in a pool around her feet.

Next she raised the hem of her
chemise, exposing her leg
s. Without looking in his direction, she lifted
her left foot and rested it against the chair’s cushion. Gently she
rolled the silk stocking over her knee and down her calf. Her own
touch hastened her pulse. Or perhaps it was the feel of his searing
eyes on her. Or both.

She removed the stocking
and
released
it in an innocent manner before performing the same teasing
exercise with her right leg. Finally, she uncrossed the laces of
her chemise. She hadn’t worn a corset. There was no sense in
propriety now that she was living with Rees. And that made her next
step all the more liberating. She pinched the short sleeves of her
linen chemise and pulled the undergarment off her shoulders, down
over her breasts, belly and waist, and off her hips. It, too,
flittered to the floor.

Rees
stopped breathing.

She smiled.

Lastly
, she unbraided her hair and fanned
it across her backside. For the first time in a long time, she felt
powerful again. She had Rees captivated. His feelings for her were
not all scorn and indifference. There
was
still something between them.

His robe was draped over the
back of the winged chair, and after a wonderful moment in the
moonlight, she pulled on
the fleece and tied the stays. Then, as if she
hadn’t done anything particularly scandalous, she settled back into
the chair.

She could still feel his heavy gaze on her
when she placed the instrument under her chin, but her nerves had
calmed, and she was strengthened with hope. Though her fingertips
were still sore, after a few moments, the music itself distracted
her, and she fell into a trance.

Emily
didn’t know the name of the lullaby.
She had heard it on the night she’d discovered Rees was her mystery
violinist, on the night her world had changed forever. And she
hoped the music would arouse lost, precious memories in him, as
well.

She closed her eyes and pushed away
all other thoughts until she and the violin were alone in the
room.

“
Stop!”

Startled, she ended the play and blinked a
few times. Looking over her shoulder, she found Rees upright in
bed, struggling for breath.

“
What is it?” she asked,
bemused.

“
What are you doing?” he
demanded. “I want freedom, not torment.”

“
I
—I don’t understand.”

He
bounded to his feet,
reeled and knocked over the oil
lamp on the bedside table, igniting the fuel.

“
Rees!
”

Emily
grabbed her dress and smothered the
flames. He, too, stifled the fire with a bed sheet before stomping
out the blaze.

Her bones shaking, her heart in her
throat, she stumbled toward the window and pushed open the glass to
let out the smoke.

“
Are you mad!” she cried and
crossed the room, smacking him on the cheek. Her fingers quivered
and ached. She couldn’t regain her composure. “You would burn us
both alive?” She slapped him again. “Why?
Why?
”

“
I didn’t
mean—
”

But she hit him again.

“
Enough.” He snatched her wrists
and
pulled
her onto the bed, into his lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to
break the lamp. Are you hurt?”

Strong arms embraced her. Tender hands
cupped hers.

“
I don’t think so,” she
said softly, still trembling.

He fingered her wrists, palpated
her palms and fingers as if searching for wounds.
And then he pressed
his mouth over her sensitive skin.

Her breath trapped in her
throat.
He
bussed her palms, her fingertips, and she shuddered with long
suppressed want.

“
Rees,” she
gasped.

His
kisses deepened, lingered, and she
trembled even more. He lowered his head and pressed his ear against
her breast, her thundering heartbeat. “Don’t ever play that music
again.”

“
W—what?”

He raised his head until his
lips almost touched hers. “I play that music for you,
princess.
I
play it for you. Do you understand?”

No.

No, she didn’t understand. She
had not heard the piece in years.
Would he ever play it for her again? Or
did he mean for the music to die?

She would not let it.

“
When you ask me to play,” she
breathed, “I will play what pleases me.”

She
felt his every muscle grow
taut.

“
I see.”

He released her, pushed her off
his lap and onto the bed. The room fill
ed with cold air from the open
window, and she sensed the chill even more when he left the bed,
pulled on his boots and headed for the door.

“
Where are you going?” she
wondered.

“
To find a more agreeable
bedmate.”

~ * ~

Grey sat
in the luxurious armchair, watching Lady Hickox brush her long
blonde hair. He hadn’t seen her in almost a month, and she ignored
him now, intent on her reflection and beautification ritual. He
didn’t mind the quiet, his gaze falling on the crackling fire. But
soon the snapping flames reminded him of a pair of fiery eyes,
flowing crimson hair and a burning soul.

Grey.

He heard the music even now. It welled inside him. He
remembered her passionate fingers in the moonlight, dancing over
the strings, conjuring the haunting lullaby from days past. Why had
she played
that
sweet song? What had she meant to do to him? Other than
torture him?

Grey
.

And then
he remembered her beautiful, naked body in the window, the taste of
her fingers in his mouth, and his muscles hardened again. Torture.
There was no other reason for her performance tonight. Savage
torture.

“
Grey!”

He
snapped his gaze toward the vanity and the woman in the chair, but
damn, hers was not the face he’d wanted to see. He shut his eyes
and rubbed them, trying to banish the sensuous memory of a princess
in his bed.

When he
looked toward Lady Hickox again, she eyed him with unreserved
umbrage. At forty-four years of age, she maintained a radiant
complexion. Her robe was partially opened, revealing the cleft
between her lush breasts. And those breasts rose and fell steadily
with each sharp breath.

“
I called your name three times,” she said, heaving with anger
or desire or both, he couldn’t tell. “Why are you here?”

Because
another woman tormented his senses, his mind, his very
soul.

Instead,
he murmured, “I’m here for your amiable company.”

“
You desire my amiable company, do you? After so many weeks
away?”

At the
crispness in her voice, he sighed. “I was composing.”

He hoped to mollify her with the half truth, for he
had
been preparing for
his concert at the Royal Albert Hall, but it was not the entire
reason he had stayed away from her. He had also stopped desiring
her. She, more and more, wanted to revel in a glittering world of
excess, a world that had recently lost its charm and now repulsed
Grey. He wasn’t even sure why he had come to her tonight, other
than to escape Emily—and the suffering she’d provoked.