Never Too Late (20 page)

A secret panel! She felt a bit foolish when she looked inside and discovered it was simply a storage space. This area held writing paper, fresh quills, and ink bottles. Unable to contain her curiosity, she peeked into each storage panel set into the dividers.

When she arrived at the far end of the room and slid the last panel aside, she was astounded to see a beautiful—truly lovely—cello. The burnished wood of the instrument glowed.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped a million miles, not just because of the surprise of being discovered . . . that voice was imprinted on her brain and her heart.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” she said hurriedly. “I was merely curious about the way your library is organized. Your mother did say I should make myself at home.”

“By all means, pick any book you like to occupy your time.” He strolled directly toward her, past her really, to close the panel next to her gently. “I do not think, though, that my mother’s invitation grants you the right to go through the family’s drawers and cabinets.”

Her face went hot. She nodded.

“No, of course! I overstepped my boundaries. I do apologize.”

He said nothing in response, focusing his gaze on the panel he had just slid shut. Her curiosity got the better of her, as usual.

“It’s a magnificent piece of work, that cello.”

“It is a Stradivarius.”

“Really?” she whispered. “Are they as impressive as their reputation attests?”

He looked at her long enough for her to feel uncomfortable before he replied, “They are, beyond belief, more impressive than purported. This one elevates music from mere pleasure to sublimity.”

She finally deciphered the signs of his demeanor.

“That’s your cello! You used to play?”

He nodded, almost sheepish.

“Would you play something for me?”

“I have not played in quite a long time. I am unaccustomed to playing for an audience.”

“I hardly constitute an audience. It’s just me. Furthermore, I probably couldn’t tell the difference between the scales and a sonata. I’ve just never heard an actual Strad.”

She was delightfully surprised by his acquiescence and waited patiently while he set up the music stand and tuned the cello. She was actually content to witness his tuning session. When he began a concerto, however, she was struck dumb. Soon, completely taken over by the music, his eyes closed and his body swayed. Taken over by the music, he was mesmerizing. This was passion.

The piece he’d selected was nearly violent in its range. The deep bass notes vibrated through her; she could only imagine how much more visceral an experience it was to be playing, to feel the notes transmitted through his own body. A strange thing began to happen; she wasn’t sure when it started. But each stroke of the bow seemed to echo in her flesh. The swift back and forth movement of his arm tingled across her breasts; the gradual dip into lower octaves spread lower through her, vibrating through her core. She stared at his hands, working the instrument masterfully, drawing out exquisitely vibrant and moving tones. Her body nearly shook as she felt the piece build, deeper and more intense.

He opened his eyes, and the intensity of his dark gaze speared her. Could he know the tumult rushing through her body? She panted, unable to control the feelings coursing through her. His fingers, so masterfully controlling the strings, so powerfully drawing the bow, might as well be playing along her sensitive skin, so extreme was her physical response to his music. She half feared she might come to an internal crisis sitting there before him. And he might see it all.

As the piece came to an end, she whispered, “Bach was my mother’s favorite.”

“Mine as well,” said a soft voice from the doorway.

“Lady Devin—” “Mother—” They spoke simultaneously as Lord Devin rose from his seat.

“Please do not let me disturb you, Alex. It has just been so long since I have heard you play. You have such a gift.” His mother looked wistful, almost sad.

“How long has it been?” Honoria could not resist asking.

“Eight years,” he said tightly.

Since his father’s death, then. She wasn’t the only one struggling with unruly emotions. Lady Devin blinked back tears, while he put away the cello carefully. “That was lovely, son.” And she quietly left the room.

“We should do something . . . else.” His eyes burned into her.

“We’re not doing that!”

“Then we should get out of this room, perhaps even find solitary activities . . . because, at this moment, I very much want to do . . .
that
.”

“A game of croquet?” she offered.

No.

“A swim?”

His look spoke volumes. No, a swim would not prevent
that
.

“I know! Let us go riding. I would love to see more of the grounds.”

His expression darkened, and he blustered. This man who never misspoke suddenly stumbled over syllables. “Oh, I forgot—that is, I must—you are welcome to take one of the horses but—oh, ahem, I am sure a groom can accompany you—”

She was having none of that.

“A moment ago, you would have done anything to stay in my company. What happened?”

“It is . . . the horses. I know we have beautiful horses; I visit them whenever I am here, give them treats, admire their . . . size.”

Given his sharp discomfort, she appreciated his attempt at candor.

“Can you not ride?”

“Of course I can ride!” His voice turned shrill. “Every man of my stature knows how to ride a bloody horse. It is supposed to be as bred into them as tying a cravat, reading bloody Aristotle, and firing a damned pistol.” He was breathing heavily now, frustration lacing his words in a way she couldn’t interpret.

“I can ride,” he repeated unnecessarily.

“But you dislike it?”

He flipped his hand in front of his face as if to swat away her question.

“Why do you dislike it so much?”

He didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to dredge up the embarrassment and resentment. But it was already there.

“It was my father. He said learning to ride was essential. No surprise, but his reasoning was that sometimes you had to travel on a pack animal . . . a horse, a mule, a camel, maybe even an ostrich. He had quite a way with horses. He could calm a feisty stallion within five minutes and then make it dance his attendance within ten. I’d seen him do so. And I wanted more than anything to be like him. I did not want him to leave me behind. So I made a concerted effort to become an expert horseman.”

He sat back in his chair, remembering.

“I always picked the most spirited horse in the stable. If Father’s headstrong Medusa was away with him, I mounted Balthazar, a true beast from hell. I was thrown almost every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Bruised and aching, I refused to give up, even when I came to realize it was too much horse for me. Looking back, I would have learned more effectively if I had started with more amenable horses. One day, Balthazar nearly broke my neck and trampled me. I was in bed for a month. Perhaps even worse, one of his legs was broken in his frenzy. We had to put him down.”

He stared at nothing. She wanted to go to him, comfort the child who’d been so desperate to please and so badly hurt. Yet she could not.

“When my father returned from wherever he was,” he continued, “his disappointment hurt far worse than the physical pain. Rather than forbid me to ride, he sold our more spirited mounts, except for his own. He need not have bothered. I have not ridden anything more lively than a pack mule since then.”

“Many horses have more amenable dispositions, you know,” she said lightly. “By the sound of it, virtually all others would be more pleasant than Balthazar.”

“Of course, I know that. In my mind, I know it. And I have ridden some tame beasts. But when I get near any of them, my mind slips. Rationality is lost. Instead, I taste fear and have to force myself to mount. I cannot describe it sufficiently. A kind of blind panic takes over until I have alighted at my destination.”

“What a difficult burden, considering the lands you are responsible for.”

“That is what I have a manager for.” It was all he was willing to say to her about the subject. “Speaking of my manager, I recall that there are some pieces of business I must attend to, if you will excuse me.”

She nodded and watched him escape swiftly.

When she returned from her evening walk, she was not at all surprised to find him sitting in her room. But she was surprised that he was sitting in the dark and that he didn’t speak when she entered. It was improper for him to be here, of course, but they’d already broken so many bounds of propriety. His mother’s room was on the other side of the house. The servants had no purpose for being in this wing. No one would find him here. Even if they did, at this precise moment, she didn’t have the energy to care.

“You were quiet at dinner,” she said, casting about for something to say. It was true. His mother made several attempts to engage him in conversation at the table, but he participated as little as common courtesy allowed. At one point, his mother gave Honoria a questioning look, but she could only raise her shoulders and shake her head. Something clearly wasn’t right, but she couldn’t fathom the problem.

“I have a lot on my mind this evening.”

Once she lit the lamp on the writing desk, she noticed his unusually serious expression. She suspected its cause and knew the decision she’d made at dinner was the right one.

“You should know,” she began, “I’ve decided to go home to the shop tomorrow morning. There is so much to do. I’ve enjoyed this trip immensely, but now it is time for me to return to reality. Your mother has arranged for her coach to take me while she stays another week.”

He remained silent, his expression unreadable, so she continued.

“Your mother has been so gracious, so very kind. In such a short time, she’s become the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend. But I’m sure that’s just her way with everyone.”

“She likes you. She enjoys your company. You should stay.”

“She doesn’t really know me.”

“My mother is a perceptive judge of character. She knows you well enough.”

“Does she know about my sham of a marriage? Does she know about us?”

He shrugged. “Your . . . marriage . . . is not her concern. As for us, she probably suspects, as she is not blind.”

“Do you always parade your mistresses in front of your mother?” she asked, indignant on his mother’s behalf. But he sidestepped the question.

“So you are my mistress now?” He looked at her intently.

“Experiential evidence points to that conclusion, doesn’t it? That’s why you’re here right now, isn’t it?”

He shook his head slowly, looking down at his hands as he turned them over and over in front of him.

“I do want you,” he admitted. “It seems I cannot stop wanting you.” At this, her belly fluttered in sympathetic response. “But that is not why I am here. I am, after all, fully capable of controlling my rapacious lust when needed.” He quirked his mouth and stood and, as if to prove his words to both of them, moved toward the windows, away from her and away from the bed.

“I’ve never been good at reading minds,” she said, impatiently. “If you’re not here for that, why are you here?”

“I am here because I . . . because I love you.”

“Stop.” She couldn’t bear to hear. She couldn’t bear the hope stirred by his words.

“As if I could.”

“No, really, stop talking to me like this. Right now.” She was suddenly furious. “I told you already it’s unnecessary. And you can’t love me. You cannot. Infatuation it may be, and it will pass. It always does. But don’t speak to me of love.”

He strode up to her, fast and fierce. His eyes hardened like jade.

“Why not? Why do you censor me? I love you. This is not some fleeting and immature infatuation. I love you. And I have every right to say so.”

“It’s not real,” she whispered. “I am a nobody, and you are . . . you. This is an airy fiction built on paper and dust. It will end, and it will shatter us both. And we both have too many serious responsibilities to let this distract us.”

“You are not a nobody. You were born to nobility. What do I need to do to convince you?”

“There is nothing you can do to convince me. I am not nobility now. I am a shopkeeper. I earn a living, and there can be nothing between us.”

“Marry me.”

“No! Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What do you mean no?”

“No. You aren’t sincerely asking, and I couldn’t accept, even if you were. This isn’t real. It’s impossible.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I don’t know.” After a moment, she added, “We should say our good-byes then and be done with it.”

He walked up to her and put a finger under her chin to tilt her face up to his.

“I will never be done with you,” he said, low and fierce. He touched his lips to hers gently. “Do you hear me? Do I have to print it in the
Times
?” His movements were so slow, but his intent could not be misinterpreted. He drew her into him as he worshipped her skin with his mouth.

One last time
, she promised herself.
Just this once.
There was no point in denying she wanted this as much as he did. Her desire for him, keen and intense and bitter, tore at her heart and tightened every nerve in her body. Just this one last time she would revel in his touch, take whatever pleasure he offered, and give herself up to this tide of bittersweet ecstasy.

This time was different. Their previous encounters had been moments frozen in time, frenzied and near-senseless interludes where reason and logic had no place. Their first night together had been frantic and emotional, fueled by the intensity of the shop’s destruction and her overwrought nerves. Even their afternoon at the lake seemed to stand apart from her real life; they’d been transported to a temporary Eden. But this time . . . when their lips touched, when she slid her arms around his shoulders . . . this was a conscious, rational choice. What had happened between them before was like a hazy dream. This night was the one she would remember with absolute clarity. She wasn’t swept away. She wasn’t seduced. She would deliberately take what she could get and give what she could spare.