In the Arms of an Earl (4 page)

“Quite right.” He held out his hand. “Forgive my lack of manners. Colonel Frederick Blakeney, at your service. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Brooke. Again.”

She hesitated, wondering if she should shake a gentleman’s hand while dressed in her nightclothes. Summoning all the dignity she could, she placed her hand in his, surprised when he squeezed her fingers. His hand was warmer than she expected, and she almost forgot to pull away. When she did, she looked up at him. His interested gaze had never left her face. Heat rose through her, reaching her cheeks and flooding the rest of her the way it had when she’d first met him. She didn’t know how she’d ever thought Jeremy Parker the handsomest man she’d ever met. She swallowed, but her throat remained dry.

“I should go.” She would have to walk around him if he didn’t move first.

He didn’t.

“Why not play some more? I enjoyed listening to you. Unless you’re tired, of course.”

Lucinda’s words about his musical aptitude flooded her thoughts. “I could play all night, Colonel Blakeney. But I’m not fond of playing before an audience. I’m afraid my talent is not quite up to performance level.”

“I beg to disagree. Please, indulge yourself. I shall disappear into the corner again. Just pretend I do not exist.” With an elegant bow, he took his former position on the divan near the back of the room.

Jane stood by the fire, her fingers tingling. Her mother would have an attack of nerves were she ever to learn her daughter had played the pianoforte at midnight for a handsome stranger.

But Mamma was not there.

Rolling up her sleeves, she sank onto the bench, her earlier enthusiasm returning.

“Do you know any Mozart?”

She nodded, oddly pleased he shared her preference. “I adore Mozart.” She paused before adding, “But I’m to play Haydn for you tomorrow.”

“That last piece did not sound like Haydn.”

A tiny voice inside her head urged her to excuse herself. Although he was not presumptive in the least, the stirring of something akin to intimacy was blossoming between them, despite his sitting several feet away. Of course, he would recognize his own composition, even if played by her inexpert hands.

“It was yours,” she admitted, listening through the empty, hard silence for his response. Perhaps her poor playing had offended him. “I did not mean to presume…”

“No, Miss Brooke, you misunderstand.” His voice sounded heavier. “I have not heard it played in such a way as I envisioned it when I wrote it. The performer today was perfection, but perfection was not the quality I sought. You have given it…” His voice wavered as he thought of the right word. “A soul.”

Was he mocking her? Jeremy Parker would say something similar to capture an admirer. But even though she barely knew the colonel, she didn’t think he was cut from the same cloth as Jeremy.

“It is truly the loveliest thing I have ever heard.” She hadn’t meant to speak so softly. Her collar was suddenly too tight, her sleeves too confining. She quickly touched the keys and played before either of them could speak again.

She played a Mozart sonata, stumbling at the
menuetto
, but then picked up again when she reached the final
allegretto
, which she relished. As the hour wore on, she fell deeper and deeper into the music, and forgot where she was.

Forgot he was there.

Only the keys fluttering beneath her fingers were real. The warmth from the fire and her energetic movements caused a bead of sweat to slip down her hairline to her cheek. She brushed it away, tugging at her collar to cool off. A moment later, she pulled her tight braid free of its ribbon, and her hair swung about her face and shoulders.

“If I may suggest, Miss Brooke…”

She startled and hit the wrong notes. “Colonel Blakeney?” she asked, feeling silly.

She fumbled with her neck ribbon again, grateful to find it still tied. Her hair was another matter. She searched around the bench for her hair ribbon, but it was gone.

“Your right hand is a little weak. Have you played this music very much before?”

“It is usually my best piece.” She chewed her lip, swallowing back the humiliation. This was precisely why she seldom played before an audience, no matter how small. “I haven’t had much in the way of formal training, Colonel Blakeney.”

She swiftly closed the lid. She wasn’t aware he’d moved from the corner until he was beside her.

“May I?” His earnest voice broke through any barriers she’d erected. He wasn’t at all the imposing, demanding maestro Lucinda had intimated. She moved away from the bench, but he shook his head. “Please, sit, Miss Brooke, and I will show you what I meant. You have talent, to be sure. You only require some practical lessons to perfect your skill.”

When they’d met at the musicale, his talent, and not his appearance, had overwhelmed her. Standing in the flickering firelight with his eyes shadowed and the faintest hint of whiskers on his solid jaw, he was splendid. The missing hand had shocked her at first, but she’d seen amputees returned from the war. His shoulder flinched from an invisible push, and she averted her gaze. He sat on the bench, his swarthy skin even more flushed, whether from embarrassment or nearness to the fire, she did not know.

Nothing of the rogue like Jeremy Parker lurked in his eyes. His intention was not seduction, but assistance, given without expectation of any kind of payment. This was perhaps the closest she would ever come to a master’s instruction, and she could not pass up the opportunity no matter how unconventional. She took her seat again, sitting as close to the edge of the bench as possible.

He played the higher octave. Even one-handed, his obvious talent was enviable. After a few minutes, he stopped.

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind copying me.”

Jane placed her fingers on the keys his had vacated. She stumbled more than usual and was relieved when he nodded abruptly, cutting her off.

“If you would allow me…”

He slipped his hand beneath hers so her fingers rested on his. Stunned, she kept her hand there because she didn’t know what else to do. He played again, and her fingers moved with his, dipping and rising over the keys together. She missed a few notes at first, but he promptly repeated the measure until she moved in time with him.

Every time the music compelled him to play farther up the keyboard, she was forced to follow. Her arm brushed his chest repeatedly, the soft lawn fabric of her night rail scraping his brocade waistcoat with a slight swishing sound. A long strand of her hair snagged on his button, and she stopped to untangle it. When she pulled at her hair, she accidentally jerked him toward her. His jaw skimmed her forehead, and when he laughed, his warm breath, smelling vaguely of sweet sherry, fanned her face. She struggled with both hands, but her hair was hopelessly knotted.

“Dear me!” She couldn’t hide her horrified embarrassment. His left arm pressed her breast for one heart-stopping moment. He moved away and made quick work of her hair, giving it a gentle tug until it slid free of his button.

When she stole a glance at him, his smile had disappeared. In an instant, she realized what he must have thought—she’d shrunk at the idea of his wounded arm touching her.

“I…I did not mean to offend you, Colonel Blakeney,” she stammered.

A dark flush spread from the top of his open collar to his jaw. “My dear Miss Brooke, you’ve no need to explain. I understand my—infirmity”—his mouth twisted—“is disgusting to the gentler sex. I often forget how much it repulses young ladies.”

He rose to his feet. She stood when he did and knocked over the bench. Sheet music spilled from its hidden cabinet, scattering across the floor in a sea of white.

“Oh no.” Groaning, she sank to the floor. The colonel knelt beside her. She hugged a bundle of papers in her arms and looked at him in earnest. “You’re wrong, sir.”

His nearness allowed her to make out every detail of his face…the dark, shadowy promise of a beard in the morning, the coal-black eyes…and the saddest, sweetest mouth she’d ever seen. His nose resembled one she’d seen on a Greek statue at a museum. It was perfect, except for a slight scar on the tip.

“I am wrong, Miss Brooke?”

“I am not disgusted by your injury.” She swallowed, amazed at her new boldness. “Any lady who would reject a man because of an injury he’d received in the war is not gentle at all. A true lady would look past an infirmity and see the real man.”

He did not speak. She dropped her gaze. No doubt, he thought her reckless and unladylike, to speak so frankly.

He took the music from her and set it aside. Before she could stop herself, she reached for his hand, which moved toward hers at the same moment. His fingers clasped hers, flooding her with a warmth that went deeper than his touch.

“Where do you come from?”

She wondered if she’d ever be able to speak again, past the lump in her chest and the sudden flames licking at her feet and spreading through the rest of her. “Weston, in Hampshire.”

His laughter broke the spell. “I’m afraid I meant a more mystical place. You must be part fairy or some other magical creature. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Fire rose in her cheeks again, and she realized she was still holding his hand. Worse, she was holding his hand dressed only in her night rail and flimsy shawl. Yet she didn’t pull away.

“My mother has always said I was”—
stubborn, obstinate, impossible
—“different.”

“Your mother is right.”

He rose to his feet, keeping hold of her hand. “If I may be so bold,” he murmured, and pressed her hand to his lips.

Her knees buckled at the touch of his soft mouth on her skin. In all her twenty-one years, she’d never been so intimately touched by a man. He held her hand close to his face, turning it slowly as if he examined a priceless piece of statuary. She’d always disdained silly girls who allowed themselves to be compromised, yet here she was in a darkened parlor past midnight, her hand imprisoned in a stranger’s caress.

His fingertips skimmed the sensitive skin on the back of her hand. She ought to pull away, but didn’t. Couldn’t. A stifled gasp escaped her. He released her, his chest rising with an agitated breath.

“Forgive me,” he said simply. “I am not trying to compromise you, Miss Brooke. Your hand appeals to me.”

She stared boldly into his eyes. His expression was one of utter peace and calm. “Thank you,” she replied, because she was quite at a loss to say anything else.

He laughed, but wasn’t mocking her. As he stepped back, the room grew darker and colder.

“You should return to your chamber, Miss Brooke. Perchance I will see you on the morrow.” The clock on the mantel struck four. “It’s morning now. I fear you will be bleary-eyed at breakfast. And you are expected to play for me tonight, are you not?” He gave her a friendly wink.

She shrugged. The motion caused her to lose her shawl. She feared her face was as bright as a peony and knelt to get it. When she rose again, he was staring quite fixedly at her. She’d forgotten how thin and threadbare this night rail was. It was quite plain from his surprised look he’d noticed more than just her hand.

“Good night,” she whispered, choking on her own words. What was she thinking? Worse, what did he think of her? Perhaps he thought she was the kind of girl a man could easily compromise. She certainly hadn’t rebuffed him. Mortified, she moved past him.

“I haven’t played in such a long time. I’ve missed it.” The yearning was unmistakable in his voice.

She paused and faced him again. “You’re so much better than I am. I wish I could play like you.”

“I’ve had good masters, and a rather indulgent mother.” His lips twitched, but the hint of a smile vanished with the appearance of a frown. “It is difficult now, with one hand, of course.”

She had no reply. What agony he must have suffered, losing not only his hand, but his most obvious talent. She could not imagine being unable to pursue the one thing she loved the most.

“I’ll say good night, Colonel Blakeney. Thank you, again, for your instruction.”

He closed the lid of the pianoforte and pressed his hand to it. “It is I who thank you. I had forgotten…”

His voice faded, and she studied his face. He was younger than she’d first thought. Suffering could age a person. She’d witnessed the men from her village coming home from the war. Although she’d been a child, she’d wondered at their haunted eyes, stark in their youthful faces.

He regarded her, seemingly lost in the silence. She was aware of her loose hair, flowing freely down her back. Lucinda would certainly pout in the morning after taking the trouble of plaiting it for the new portrait.

“I’ll see you at breakfast.” She wondered why the silence between them was suddenly awkward, though she’d shared the bench with him for three hours without a second thought.

“Breakfast it is.”

She hurried from the room and didn’t look back. He called good night, but she was already halfway up the stairs.

She reached Lucinda’s bedchamber and closed the door behind her. She’d never done anything so daring in her life and couldn’t begin to think of the consequences of her actions. What if Colonel Parker had heard the music and investigated? He might not have said anything because Colonel Blakeney was his friend. But he could write her father, or worse, send her packing in the morning for bringing such an insult to his home.