Sonata for a Scoundrel (21 page)

The response was polite, but she barely heard it. The first disaster had been averted. Now she merely had to play beautifully for Darien, without any preparation or rehearsal; and in front of the highest nobility of Prussia. At last she understood precisely how Nicholas had felt that evening at the Royal Pavilion, and her heart stretched in sympathy. And pain. But she could not think of her brother now. Only the music, only this moment.

Throat dry, she seated herself at the piano.

Her pulse was hammering so loudly she was not sure she could find the beat. She glanced at Darien once more, and he brought his violin up under his chin. His gaze met hers, nothing but confidence in his green eyes. Darien believed she could do this, and the knowledge lent her courage.

Leaning toward the keyboard, she began the introduction.

Ombra
. The piece was full of shadows and silvery silences, the beginning a subtle interplay of long-held tones exchanged between the piano and violin. Her every sense was attuned to Darien as the music reached the first abyss—two beats of stillness they must hold for an identical interval before ascending again into the dark melodic waters. Clara held her breath, sensed that Darien held his… and the release was perfect, her hands on the keys matching note for note as Darien drew his bow across the strings.

She breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

Despite the complete lack of rehearsal, despite the fact she had not played often during their travels, this was
her
music. And Darien played beside her, strong and steady. Awareness shimmered in the air between them. Darien tossed long skeins of notes from his violin into the welcoming waves pouring beneath her fingers. The audience breathed softly as the spell of music wrapped them in mystery.

Something inside her soul broke open then, something Darien had begun with his kisses. Here, performing with him, it could not be denied. It was sweet and poignant, and suffused every note.

It was love.

Despite the secrets that must remain locked in her heart, this one had flown free.

She loved Darien Reynard. This was no naïve, star-struck emotion, but something complex and nuanced, something balanced between light and shadow, the way the music balanced between sound and silence.

She played then, her heart fixed on Darien as together they wove magic. More intimate even than their kisses, this musical passion was as close as they would ever come to physical passion. Every note joined with his, every beat echoed in her, and she gave herself up to it.

He watched her as they played, his dark hair falling across his forehead, a wild light in his eyes. Despite the simplicity of the piece, she had never heard him play better, the notes from his violin deep and yearning and vibrant. Tears rose in her throat when they reached the last stanza, the end of the music waiting and inevitable.

And then it was over. The crowd applauded, with a few cheers for punctuation. It was a warm enough reception, even though the audience had not received the Becker they’d been expecting.

Clara rose and took Darien’s offered hand.

“Well done,” he murmured. “Very well done.”

Together, they bowed, his bare palm warm against hers, his clasp solid. She tried to let go, to make him take a solo bow, but he would not release her, and so she received the acclaim with him in equal measure. It felt astonishingly good, as though she were basking in the warmth of a full summer sun. And though the audience might think they were clapping for Nicholas, she accepted her due, for the performance
and
for the composition.

Darien took her arm and led her from the stage.

“What of Nicholas?” he asked, as soon as they reached the wings

“He will be fine.” She felt her cheeks flame at her brother’s mortifying condition. “By morning, I expect.”

“You played wonderfully,” he said.

Hidden by the shadows, heedless of the applause surging behind them, he pulled her into his arms.

She went willingly, their joined music still echoing through her. His lips touching hers was simply the next movement—an inevitable extension of the intimacy they had experienced onstage. Clara set her hands on his shoulders and lifted herself onto her toes, pressing more deeply into the kiss. She could not help it, any more than she could help the music scribed in her soul. The feel of his arms around her was fierce and exhilarating, and she opened her mouth to his, taking his breath and giving hers in return.

“Reynard! Reynard!” It was clear the audience would not be denied an encore.

He lifted his head. “I must—”

“Yes,” she said. “Go back onstage.”

Still, neither of them seemed able to let go, their bodies melded tightly together in the dim light, shielded from view by the folds of curtains. Heat flared between them, and Clara wanted nothing more than to slip her hands under his coat, to get as close to this amazing, talented man as she could. This man who had partnered her perfectly in the music, as though their souls converged.

The rhythmic thud of feet on the floorboards added to the din, and Darien slowly opened his arms.

“Don’t go far,” he said, as if afraid of losing her.

“I’ll be with Nicholas.”

“Good. Your brother has some explaining to do.”

Darien gave her a smoldering look, full of promises and questions, then turned and strode back into the lights. A full-throated cheer went up as he retrieved his instrument, pacifying the beast of the crowd.

She watched him a moment more, hands cupping her elbows as desire tangled with fear. Would Nicholas be all right? Did Darien suspect? And most of all, would he kiss her again?

When Clara entered her brother’s dressing room, he was still unconscious. His gold hair was disarrayed, his cheeks flushed, and suddenly she saw the little boy her brother used to be, not the troubled man he had become.

“Dear Nicholas,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

She should not have pushed so hard for them to come to the Continent—but she had wanted it, the way a beggar craves a fire in midwinter. Even with all the reasons to go, there had been one compelling reason to remain in London. Her brother’s sanity. Seeing him sprawled and rumpled in his chair, lost in drink, reminded her how fragile he was. There had been almost no sign of his melancholy while they toured England, so she had convinced herself that he was well. That he was, indeed, cured—because she wanted it to be so.

Her throat tight with worry, Clara went to the washbasin and dampened a cloth, then gently washed Nicholas’s face. The notes of Darien’s encore drifted down the hall. Would the maestro demand they leave the tour? Wouldn’t it be best if they did? Questions spun like whirlwinds through her, moving so quickly she could not grasp them, or even begin to answer.

She must wake Nicholas and get him back to the hotel. She smoothed her brother’s hair back and pulled his jacket into place. Applause sounded, like waves on a distant beach.

“Nicholas, please wake up. The concert is over.” She set a hand on his shoulder. “We need to go. Wake up.”

“Hnh,” he said, his eyelids flickering.

“I see.” Darien stood at the door. His voice was cold. “And what excuse does my composer have for drinking himself insensible and placing all of us in an impossible situation?”

Clara took a step toward him. “I—”

“Don’t bother. It was a rhetorical question.” Disapproval flashed in his eyes. “I’ll fetch the footmen to help with your brother. And I will have some explanations. From both of you.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

D
are managed to hold his temper during the short coach ride back to the hotel—though he wanted to shake Nicholas until he came to his senses. And kiss Clara until she lost hers.

Damnation.
This
was why he did not tour with others. He had no control over Nicholas, and yet the man had far too much power over the outcome of the concerts.

So much for the master’s influence. Bitter laughter dried in Dare’s mouth.

He could not manage his composer. Worse yet, he couldn’t manage his own emotions where Clara was concerned. His doomed affair with Francesca Contini had taught him never to mix passion with music. It had been a painful lesson, indeed.

Why was he unable to remember it when Clara was in his arms?

A fortnight. That was all Dare needed, and the musical duel would be over and he would send the impossible Becker siblings back to England.

He clenched and unclenched his fists in rhythm with the horses’ hooves. Across from him, Clara was nearly invisible in the dimness. But though he could not see her, he was far too aware of her: the scent of lavender, the faint rustle of her skirts, the sheen of a stray bit of lamplight caught in her fair hair. The hot memory of his lips over hers.

When the footmen swung open the coach door, Dare leapt down and took a deep breath of the cool night air.

“Remove Mr. Becker from the coach and carry him to his room,” he directed. “Clara, you will come with me.”

He held out his hand and assisted her down, then tucked her arm through his. There would be no escaping.

“But…” She glanced to the footmen, hefting Nicholas from the vehicle. “I need to—”

“I’ll send Henri to tend him.”

Dare burned—with anger, with desire. With the aftermath of the performance he and Clara had, so unexpectedly, so brilliantly wrought.

It had been a horrible moment, when he announced Nicholas and the man had failed to appear. Dare had kept his bearing confident, but tension spun taut in his gut, the sick fear of failure he hadn’t felt for years. The future had flashed before him—King Ludvig’s disapproval, Dare’s defeat at the upcoming duel, Varga strutting and crowing while Dare was stripped of his dreams. Then what?

A gaping hole beneath his feet.

He had nearly plunged into it right there, an abyss of failure, full of misery and the poverty he had spent his life escaping. Then Clara had stepped onstage and given him one look from her luminous eyes, and the world had righted again. The floor was solid, his violin steady in his grasp, the pulse of the music true and sure.

More than sure. The music had flown then, the way he had always dreamed it could. The magic he had felt waiting in Becker’s compositions had at last fully opened, and he had played straight into its heart. With Clara.

They reached his suite and he ushered her inside.

“Monsieur.” Henri greeted him, then turned to Clara. “And mademoiselle. Is everything well?”

Dare handed his coat to his valet. “It is not. Would you please go tend to Nicholas? He’s in need of assistance.”

“Of course! He is ill?”

“He was reckless with a bottle of cognac,” Dare said. “Take him a tincture.”

“Oh, would you?” Clara’s expression was anxious, her cheeks pale. “I know he’ll feel simply dreadful in the morning.”

“In many ways, no doubt,” Dare said. The man’s aching head was the least of his concerns. “His remorse had best be enough to keep him from such behavior again. I won’t have it.”

“Darien,” Clara said, “I promise you—”

“Don’t make promises on your brother’s behalf.”

Dare forced his shoulders to relax. It wasn’t her fault Nicholas had shown such bad judgment.

“Good evening, then,” Henri said. He sent Clara a thoughtful glance, then returned his attention to Dare. “I will stay with Mr. Becker to ensure all is well.”

Dare did not miss the speculative light in Henri’s eye as he left. Certainly the valet was aware of the impropriety of leaving Clara alone with him. She seemed too distressed to notice, however.

“Please, forgive Nicholas.” Her silver-blue eyes were stricken. “He is fragile, and I should have known… If you must blame someone, then blame me.”

“And how is it your fault?” He took her hands. “Did you purchase that bottle for him? Open it and pour it and make him drink to the dregs?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No, but I ought to have seen how troubled he has become.”

“You possess a mirror that reveals your brother’s thoughts? A crystal ball that shows his every state of mind? Clara, I cannot blame you. Nicholas is responsible for his own choices.”

“No.” Her voice was small and miserable. “He wouldn’t have come to the Continent… and Varga’s horrible insults… You don’t know.”

It was impossible to cling to his anger in the face of such unhappiness. He led her to the settee and sat beside her, keeping a firm grip on her hand.

“Then tell me,” he said.

She looked at him and took a deep breath. “Nicholas is more sensitive than you realize. When our mother died, he fell into a terrible melancholy, and I fear it is returning.”

Genius always had its price. She shivered, and Dare slipped an arm around her shoulders. He would have to take care not to push Nicholas to the breaking point, but it was difficult to excuse his behavior that evening.

“Your family did mention his troubles,” Dare said. “Is drinking heavily one of the signs?”

“No.” Her brows drew together. “But that may only be because we could not afford spirits before. I don’t know.”

“I will try not to be too hard on him, though I must take him to task.”