Sonata for a Scoundrel (28 page)

Dare leaned forward and took her hands in his, smoothing her fingers flat.

“I…” She blinked, but did not pull her hands away. “I admit to some concern about my brother, but he will be ready for the competition. I’ll see to it.”

Despite her confident words, worry shaded her eyes.

“Can you?’ He pressed her fingers more firmly between his own. “Nicholas cannot fail me now.”

She nodded, perhaps unwilling to voice assurances they both knew would be empty.

“Enough of this,” he said. “I am not here to make you miserable. Indeed, I plan to do just the opposite. Forget about Milan, about your brother. For now, there is only the two of us.”

Standing, Dare pulled her to him. For a brief time they could set aside the worries swirling around the tour like dark fog—burn it away with the flame of their passion.

He kissed her, demanding. Clara moaned softly and leaned into him, her body warm and delicious, her tongue boldly tangling with his. She ruled his senses in ways no other woman had.

He slid his hand up to cup the back of her neck, plundering her mouth with an urgency that took him by surprise. He needed to lose himself in her. No schooling tonight, no games of mastery and provocation. Just Clara, spread out on the sheets, his for the taking.

Without breaking the kiss, he stepped her backward until they reached the large bed. At least the emperor didn’t stint on the size of his mattresses, or perhaps he knew that his guests were prone to assignations.

Clara’s mouth was intoxicating, and the sounds of arousal she made sent his control teetering. He forced his mouth away from hers, and released her trapped hands.

She sat on the edge of the bed to remove her shoes, her head bent close to his waist. His cock hardened even further at the sight. One day, he would teach her how to pleasure him with her mouth—her lips wrapped around the shaft, her warm tongue stroking…

Hastily, he pulled off his shoes, then took her by the waist and pushed her back into the middle of the bed. Her stockings were silky beneath his palms, her skirts a rustling wave of sea-foam green as he pushed them up, revealing her long, shapely legs. Pausing at her lace-edged drawers, he let his fingers graze the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

“Ah,” she sighed.

Much as he wanted to take her,
now
, he wanted her ready for him more. He would see the flush of passion and longing on her face, would drive her to the same precipice he stood upon. Together, they would leap into the void.

Her drawers untied with a simple ribbon, and he pulled them off, his attention on the blonde curls at the juncture of her thighs. Kneeling between her legs, he spread them wide. She did not resist, though he felt her trembling beneath his touch.

Heat and the musky scent of her arousal filled him as he bent to taste her. She was wet and sweetly salty, the nub of her pleasure already standing up for him. Every swipe of his tongue over her center made her quiver and moan. His cock strained against the fabric of his trousers.

Her moans turned to panting breaths, and Dare drew back. They would enter that pleasure together.

“Please,” she said.

“Patience.” He unfastened his trousers, then pulled on the French letter that had been waiting in his pocket.

Moving forward, he set the tip of his cock at her entrance. Then, with a single thrust, he surged inside her. The sensation of her warmth enclosing him made him close his eyes—half in utter relief, half with urgent need.

She gasped and tightened her legs around his hips. Dare let his body down, covering her, pressing her into the soft bed. Telling her in a language without words that she was wholly and undeniably his.

The pulse at her neck called to his lips, and he set his mouth there, trailing kisses up to her jaw, breathing in her scent. She let out a quiet moan, and he propped himself up on his elbows. Though his cock was begging him to slide in and out, fast and hard, she needed time to adjust. Not only was she unused to the sexual act, but he was of larger than normal size; a fact often remarked upon with delight by his lovers.

Her eyes met his, and he saw only desire in their silvery depths.

“Ready?” he asked. “I will not be gentle.”

She licked her lips, then nodded.

He laced his fingers with hers, pinning her hands to the bed. With a groan, he began to move. Each slide of his cock sent liquid fire along his nerves. Clara sighed in pleasure at every stroke as he thrust harder, deeper. It was a composition: their breaths syncopating with arousal, the bedclothes rustling in high counterpoint, the increasing tempo of his strokes as he took her, over and over.

Her voice rose, her breathy moans climbing in pitch. His release gathered inside him like lightning, waiting to explode. Then she arched and trembled, crying out. It was enough to send him reeling into the abyss. A rough shout tore from his throat as fire rippled through him, hot white pleasure stunning his senses.

Finally, when the last aftershocks subsided, he unlaced his fingers from hers and rolled to his side. She turned her head and smiled at him with the look of a woman completely fulfilled. The lingering fear that he had hurt her with his forceful lovemaking evaporated. Clara was his match—in so many ways.

He did not want to lose her.

It was a startling thought. Before, he had always considered how his affairs would end, almost before he began them. With that one, fateful exception, of course.

But now…

He traced her lower lip with his thumb, keeping his thoughts concealed. There would be time after the musical duel to explore Clara’s hidden depths to their fullest. Time then to think of promises. And futures.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Maestro Reynard Dazzles!

Despite claims to the contrary from certain disreputable sources, Darien Reynard is in fine form as the musical competition in Milano draws nigh. The compositions of Mr. Becker are lush and splendid, and one must pity those poor listeners who cannot discern the genius of his music.

-Viva Venezia

C
lara would have adored Venice under other circumstances. The canals gilded with sunlight, the graceful opulence of the buildings, the liquid syllables of Italian sifting through the air; all this was enough to fill her senses with delight.

But Nicholas was crumbling.

Although their concerts in Venice met with acclaim, Darien drove Nicholas in unrelenting rehearsals that left them both sharp-edged with frustration. Despite Clara’s efforts to keep her brother and the bottle separated, Nicholas blunted his misery with alcohol. Short of locking him in his room—which he would not tolerate—there was little she could do. Her pleas were received with stony silence.

While Darien… A flush heated her body as she glanced at him across the breakfast table. He spent his frustrations in passion. Every night since they’d departed Vienna, Darien had come to her, or she to him. The dark hours were filled with heady desire, leaving her languorous and exhausted, and her heart ever more vulnerable to this man she had no future with.

Her nights glowed with joy even as her days remained shadowed with despair.

She could not continue like this. Finishing
Amore
had been her only true solace, and now the piece was complete. She had shown it to Nicholas under the title of
Viaggio
, voyage. The composition exemplified everything Varga belittled. She knew it, but she could not change it. Silently, Nicholas had scanned the music, then handed the pages back to her, his expression bleak.

“Three more days,” Peter Widmere said, pushing his plate away. “The luggage is loaded and the coach is ready to depart when you are. Milan awaits.”

“Yes.” Darien set down his coffee cup and glanced at Nicholas. “We’ll rehearse for an hour or two before leaving.”

“I… I’ve completed a new piece,” Nicholas said.

He did not look at her, though the tips of his ears were pink. The last bits of breakfast on his plate seemed of intense interest to him.

“You have?” There was a hint of disbelief in Darien’s voice, as if he could not comprehend how such a morose fellow could continue to write new music.

After a too-strained silence, Peter cleared his throat. “A new piece—what excellent news.”

Darien’s agent affected a cheerful tone, but the furrow between his brows showed he disliked the undercurrents swirling just beneath the surface.

Darien pushed back his chair and stood. “Then we shall hear it. Nicholas, I’ll meet you in my suite.”

Peter followed his employer from the table, and Henri quickly excused himself as well.

“Nicholas,” Clara said, once the two of them were alone, “it is only a few more days. You must—”

“Don’t tell me what I must do.” Nicholas threw his fork down with a clatter and met her gaze, his eyes red-rimmed and burning. “I am in hell, dear sister, and there is no escape. Not now, not in three days.”

“Once we return to England—”

“Do you think Master Reynard will let his tame composer slip the leash that easily?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I am nothing but a trained monkey, dancing to a tune not of my own devising.”

Clara swallowed. She’d removed all of the newspapers featuring Varga’s hateful words, but clearly Nicholas had seen the comparison of himself to a pet.

“I will…” In truth, she had no idea what to do, other than somehow help Nicholas through the next handful of days.

“I’ll tell you what you will do, sister mine. You will stop composing such overly romantic things as
Viaggio
! That bit of tripe will make me the laughingstock of Europe.”

“Lower your voice.” Anger iced her heart. “How
dare
you belittle the music? You and I both know its worth.”

Amore
was the best piece she had ever written—full of fire and passion, darkness and delight.

“False gold.” Nicholas stood, his elbows stiff at his sides. “Excuse me. The master calls and I must obey.”

“Stop it. If you despise the composition so much, I will come in and play it for Darien.”

“So I may appear even worse by comparison? I don’t need any assistance from you, Clara. My own failings are more than adequate to make me worthless in his eyes.”

Her heart cracked. She rounded the table and took him by the shoulders. The muscles under her hands were tight with tension.

“Nicholas, no. He does not think you worthless. You are immensely talented, and have proven it time and again.”

His expression softened, swinging into the despair she so feared. “I can’t, Clara. I can’t go on like this. There are days when…” He averted his eyes, his next words coming low and shaky. “When I would rather not live.”

The words sent a knife through her, sharp and desolate. Even in his darkest hours in London, she did not think Nicholas had contemplated taking his own life.

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. There was only one way to save them, to give Nicholas the strength to continue to Milan and play the way Darien needed him to. The solution had been there, crouching in the corner of her mind for weeks now, but she had been too selfish to bring it into the light.

“Then we will end this,” she said. “I… I will stop composing.” The words scraped her throat. Scraped her very soul, leaving her raw and bleeding. “After Milan, you may tell Darien your musical well has run dry, and we shall return to London.”

“Home.” His voice held so much yearning she swayed from the force of it. “Truly, you would do such a thing? Stop composing?”

It would be like cutting off a limb: an essential part of her removed, forever. But her brother was equally essential. She had to change her course to keep from driving him to the pit of melancholy, and beyond.

“I must,” she said. “Nicholas Becker will compose no more.”

At least she had finished with a brilliant piece of music.
Amore
would live on, though all else in her life would wither.

She could not bear the gratitude on her brother’s face.

“I must finish packing,” she said, whirling for the door. “You’ll have to rehearse without me.”

“I will.” Nicholas’s voice was clear, and stronger than she had heard it for weeks.

***

As the coach left Venice, Clara pretended to be riveted by the passing scenery. She had not missed Darien’s searching glances. He knew her well enough now to tell something was amiss. If she met his eyes, he would see too much; the signs of weeping she could not eradicate, the sorrow burdening her breath.

In marked contrast, Nicholas was giddily lighthearted.

“I can scarcely believe we’re on our way at last to Milan,” he said. “What a journey this has been.”

Henri raised an eyebrow. “Your practice session must have gone well.”

“Indeed.” Darien left off looking at her, and gave Nicholas a half smile. “Not only is
El Diavolo
in hand, Nicholas shared the first movement of his new composition. And it is superb.”

The sun dimmed on Nicholas’s face, but Clara was the only one to notice.

“I’m pleased your musical association is bearing such fine fruit,” Peter said.