Just as he’d expected, there was a scratch at the door. “Enter,” he called absently.
His valet of twelve years entered the room and nodded politely. “I trust you had a good evening, Your Grace.”
He’d had worse. “I suppose,” Ashley said as he rose and moved toward the wardrobe.
“Allow me, Your Grace,” Andrew said as he stepped in Ashley’s path and reached for his night robe.
“Go to bed, Simmons,” Ashley growled as he stumbled over a footstool. Simmons stuck one foot out and slid the stool out of the duke’s path with a hard shove. “Thank you,” Ashley muttered.
“Would you care for a tonic, Your Grace?” He said it with such dignity. What he should have said was, “Would you care for a drink that might make you feel a little better when you wake up, despite the fact that you’re foxed out of your skull?”
“That special concoction you make will do nicely in the morning,” Ashley muttered as he tugged his shirt from his waistband. He’d discarded his neckcloth and waistcoat hours before. But Simmons knew Ashley slept naked. So, he simply laid the duke’s robe across the bed and bustled about the room, tidying up behind him. Ashley could take care of his own clothing when he was ready for bed. He fully believed that a man, unless he was a complete fop, could disrobe on his own. Such a simple task.
“Would you like for me to look after your brother while he’s in residence, Your Grace? I noticed he didn’t bring along his valet.” The servant watched him closely.
“If Lord Phineas wants a valet, he can bloody well acquire one himself,” Ashley complained as he dropped onto his piano bench and turned to face the pianoforte. He laid a hand on the keys and plunked at them lightly, sending a gentle tune floating into the air. Having such a piece of musical equipment in his suite of rooms was a huge luxury, but he was a duke, after all. He could be as eccentric as he chose, and the censure from his peers could not be any worse than what he already dealt with. “You may go, Simmons,” Ashley directed.
The man bowed quickly. “As you wish,” he said as he disappeared as quietly as he’d come. Ashley had the best staff in England. They were loyal. They were discreet. Though it was well below his station to admit it, they were his friends. They were the people he talked to when no one else was about. And while Ashley did like to maintain a certain degree of propriety, he valued each of them, and each for a different reason.
Ashley laid his fingers on the keys and thought about the house party going on below stairs. By now, everyone would be heading for their rooms, probably with his mother’s money lining their pockets. He had no doubt there would gambling going on below stairs. It was his mother’s favorite recreational activity, after all.
He began a quick Beethoven tune, enjoying the way the sound of his pianoforte broke the quiet of the night. Perhaps he chose to play so often in the waning hours of the evening because it kept him from his melancholy musings. It kept him from absolute silence. He let his fingers tickle the keys as he played, in very much the way he would a woman’s body, gentle and soft, and then solid and strong.
The click of his door handle from behind him caught his attention, but only for a moment. “Did you forget something?” he asked Simmons.
A flutter of white lace entered the corner of his vision and caught him off guard. He looked up, startled, as the flutter settled beside him on the piano bench.
“What the devil?” he breathed softly, his fingers stilling over the keys. “Miss Thorne?” he asked hesitantly.
“Ashley,” she breathed softly, her voice like a whisper in the quiet of the night, one that threatened to shatter his very being.
“What are you doing?” He glanced toward the door, which she’d closed behind her.
“I heard music,” she said, a smile unlike any he’d seen before on her face. She gazed at his pianoforte as though it was a most wondrous object. She reached out a delicate little hand and stroked across its front. What he wouldn’t give to be a piano in that moment. Her wrist was encircled by a white lace cuff, which led to a billowy white sleeve. He let his gaze wander to her throat, which was enclosed in the same billowy lace. The lady had arrived at his suite of rooms in nothing more than a nightrail? And looking as though she was entranced. Perhaps she’d had as much to drink as he had.
“Are you foxed, Miss Thorne?” he asked, removing his hands completely from the keys. Her smile fell into a frown.
“Beg your pardon?” she asked quickly, as though shaking herself from a haze. “Why did you stop?”
“It’s not every day one is accosted by a strange lady in one’s bedchamber, Miss Thorne,” he said. “It’s a little disconcerting.”
“I did not accost you.”
“A man can hope,” he replied. And pray. And beg. And plead.
“I should not be here,” she said quickly, finally looking into his face. Her hazel eyes flashed with something he didn’t understand. She scooted to the edge of the seat as though she planned to retreat. He wasn’t quite ready for her to do that yet. He reached out a hand to still her.
“Stay,” he said softly. “For a moment.” He took a deep breath. “If you want.” He must sound like an inept adolescent. But he’d had enough liquor not to care. He still couldn’t believe that she wore nothing but her nightrail. Her toe hit the side of his stockinged foot. Even her feet were bare. It made him wonder what else was bare beneath that thin piece of virginal cloth.
“I should not be here,” she said again, as though trying to convince herself. “But I couldn’t resist when I heard the music. I had no idea you could play.”
Was he the one playing, or was she? “You came here because you heard me play?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “And it was beautiful.” She laid a hand on his leg and squeezed it gently. The touch shot straight to his heart. And other areas. “Will you play more? Just for a moment? Please?” She reminded him of an overly anxious child at Christmas.
“Miss Thorne…” he began. He should send her immediately from his chambers.
“My name is Sophia,” she said with a tiny laugh. “I gave you leave to use it, Ashley.”
His name on her lips hit him like a stab in the gut. “Say it again,” he prompted.
“Please?” she said. He’d been referring to his name. But he really just wanted to hear her talk. “Please,” she said again, her voice a little softer as she gazed at him with those beautiful eyes. He could deny her nothing.
Her hand still rested on his thigh as he turned back to the piano. It seared through his trousers like a brand. But she didn’t move it, even when he lifted his leg to adjust his seat. Only a little to the left, dearest, he couldn’t help but think. But then he laid his hands on the keys and picked up the tune where he’d left off.
He watched her face as he began to play. Her mouth fell open slightly, a harsh breath escaping her lips as the music began to fill the room. Her eyes closed, and her hand upon his thigh began to contract with the beat of the music. Dear God, she’d undo him with a simple touch.
“So lovely,” she breathed in one big rush of air.
“Yes, you are,” he agreed quietly. She appeared not to hear him. The piano filled the silence left by her wicked little breaths as she grew more and more comfortable against him. She leaned into his shoulder, the ruffles of her nightrail squished against his body. The side of her breast touched his arm, but she appeared not to notice.
No one could be such a practiced flirt, not even the most jaded of courtesans. He’d met plenty of women and bedded more than his share, and he’d never seen such an intriguing combination of innocence and beguiling beauty. She moved so that her breast brushed him, and he could no longer concentrate. His hands refused to play. They warred with his mind, which wanted to do nothing more than touch her.
He jerked, sliding the stool back only slightly. She startled and jumpe
d at the movement, shaking her head quickly, as he did when he was properly foxed and couldn’t get his bearings. But before she could rise to her feet, he scooped her into his lap, turning her toward him so that her legs dangled over his thighs and she faced him. He wrapped one hand around her hip to hold her in place. Her warm breath touched his forehead as he ran his fingers into the thick of her hair at the nape of her neck, and he forced her to look into his face.
“Don’t stop,” she cried.
He didn’t intend to.
***
Sophia pulled back, fighting the gentle pressure of the duke’s hand at the nape of her neck, but he wasn’t holding her tightly enough to scare her. What did scare her was that she had little recollection of how she came to be in his lap. She wasn’t entirely uncomfortable being there, but one moment she’d been fully engrossed in a Beethoven tune and the next she was sitting across the duke’s thighs with his whiskey-laden breath tickling her lips.
Ashley’s thumb stroked across the ridge of her hip as he held her gently within his arms. “What are you trying to do to me?” he whispered against her mouth.
“The music,” she started, but before she could continue, his lips touched the corner of her mouth ever so softly. His hand was strong at the back of her head, but gentle as his fingers loosened and his clasp turned into an exploration. Playful fingers tickled across the back of her neck, making the hair on her arms stand up.
“What music?” he murmured as he very gently touched his lips to the opposite corner of her mouth.
There had been music only moments before. But now the only sound she heard was the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears. “Do you plan to kiss me, Your Grace?” she asked, wanting nothing more than to chase his lips with her own as he did everything but kiss her fully on the mouth.
His eyes were the color of the sky on a stormy day, ominous and foreboding, as his lips lingered there beside her cheek. “Do you want me to kiss you, Miss Thorne?” he breathed back. He adjusted her in his lap and groaned as though in pain when she wiggled her bottom against his thighs.
“I’m sorry,” she said, startling from her reverie at his torturous noise. “Did I hurt you?”
He chuckled lightly, his chest rumbling beneath her hand as it lay over his heart. “Not in the way you think,” he said quietly, his eyes flashing. Then he sighed heavily and removed his hand from the back of her neck.
His palm cascaded down the fall of her hair like water over the rocks at the edge of a brook, softly and slowly. He toyed with the ends of hair that fell over her shoulder and down the front of her nightrail. He picked up a lock of hair and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply.
“Why are you in my bedchamber, Miss Thorne?” he asked, his voice raspy and quiet.
How could she explain? She couldn’t. Not without sounding like a complete ninny. Well, you see, Your Grace… I was in my own bedchamber and I heard music. And like some great beast had clunked me over the head, I lost all sense of propriety and dashed from my room in my bare feet to come and find it. That would never do. “I’m too heavy for you to hold me in your lap,” she said instead, as she moved to rise. But the hand that was clutching her hip just tightened.
“You’re perfect for sitting in my lap, Miss Thorne,” he said. “Stay.” It didn’t sound like an order. It sounded like pleading.
She raised her elbow to rest on his shoulder and let her fingertips play in the hair over his forehead. His eyes closed tightly and she saw a muscle tick in his jaw just before he inhaled deeply and relaxed, turning his cheek into the crook of her arm. His thumb began a slow slide across her waist. When her own hand slowed in his hair, he pressed the side of his head into her hand. It made her think of the caterpillars and the way they liked to have their backs scratched. They would do anything for a good tickle.
“You like a good tickle, too,” she said quietly.
He smiled a self-deprecating smile. “It appears as though I do,” he said quietly, almost as though he was speaking more to himself than to her.
“Have you been drinking?” she asked, trying to distract herself from the feel of his silky locks running through her fingers. She moved closer to him, her right breast pressed fully against his chest. If she could, she would straddle him and press every inch of her body against his. But somehow, she feared Grandmother would not approve. Not approve at all.
“I have had a little to drink, I’m afraid,” he said, tensing below her. She immediately castigated herself for mentioning it. He was on guard now, where he hadn’t been before.
“Does this feel good?” she asked, letting her fingertips move from his forehead to the nape of his neck and back again, abrading very gently as she did so.
He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “It feels wonderful,” he said. But then he sighed heavily, a sigh of resignation, and caught her hand in his tight grip. He brought it to his lips and pressed a long kiss against her knuckles. “Why are you here, Miss Thorne?” he asked, his eyes boring into hers.
“To get you to kiss me, Your Grace. Why else?” She tried to keep from smiling but was unable. She pointed to the left corner of her mouth and tapped it gently. “You kissed me here.” Then she tapped the other side of her mouth. “And here.” She leaned closer to his lips. “And you keep calling me Miss Thorne,” she whispered heartily.
He looked at her from beneath heavy-lidded lashes. Then he leaned forward, as though to kiss her soundly. He was fully intent upon the task and smashed into her cheek when she turned her head at the last moment. A laugh rose from deep within her belly.
“Think you’re clever, do you?” he growled as he squeezed her tightly. There was playfulness beneath that gruff exterior. And she fully wanted to explore it.
“Not nearly as clever as you.”
“I’m not clever enough, unfortunately. Because I cannot figure out how to kiss a lady who has slipped into my bedchamber in the dead of night.” He swore lightly beneath his breath. She thought she heard him mention being a dolt, but she wasn’t certain.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. I can’t determine a way to get you to continue playing.” She laughed despite herself. She couldn’t determine whether she wanted him to kiss her more or to play. Neither was conducive to her mission. Unpardonable Error Number Five: Never, ever fall in love with a human. She snorted. Like that would ever happen.
“Is something amusing?” he asked, his head tilting to the side as he regarded her.
“Not in the least.”
“I distinctly heard you snort, Miss Thorne.”
“Sophia, Your Grace,” she corrected. She’d get him to say it if it was the last thing she ever did.
“Ashley, Sophia,” he whispered with a large grin. She’d never had such an odd conversation in her life.
“Ashley,” she breathed, drawing his name out, enjoying the sound of it on her lips for as long as she could. “No one has called you that in a long time?”
“A very long time,” he said with a quick nod.
Sophia leaned her forehead against his and stayed there until he began to tickle her waist. “Stop!” she cried over her laughter.
“Stop… don’t stop…” he teased. “You really should make up your mind.”
She stilled within his grasp. She might be at his home to help his daughter, but to do so, she might have to help him as well. What would be the harm in allowing the duke to kiss her? Not nearly as much harm as having him play for her, obviously. She caught both his hands in hers and squeezed gently. “I wish I could tell you why I’m here,” she said softly. Then almost wished she could bite the words back. She could easily erase his memory with her dust. But that would be a travesty.
“I should escort you back to your room,” he said with resignation.
She’d offended him by being candid about her desire to reveal herself to him. B
ut he had no way of knowing that’s what she meant, did he? Now he probably thought she purposefully kept secrets from him. And to tell him more would serve no purpose, aside from easing her own conscience. It would allow her to grow even closer to him. That would not be a good thing. “I imagine I can’t linger here on your lap all night.”
“That would be an impossibility.” He sighed deeply. “You’re not safe in here.”
“Oh, posh.” She chastised him with a gentle slap on his shoulder. “I’m perfectly safe with you.”
“You’re in my lap, dearest, and have been for more than a few minutes.”
It felt like a lifetime. Like it could be a lifetime. “And you haven’t harmed me. You make it sound like you’re some great beast with no self-control.”
“Self-control can only take one so far,” he said with a grunt.
She took a deep breath and then asked the question she knew she shouldn’t ask. “Will you play for me? For just a moment?” Perhaps she would be able to figure out why the music drew her to him, like a moth to a flame. It was absurd that it affected her so much more than other music did. But it was so beautiful. So compelling. So… perfect.
He removed his hand from her hip and laid it upon the keys. She held her breath. Then he hit a key, and the sweetest of music reached her ears. His fingers moved over the keys in the same motion he’d used to tickle her. He stiffened a little beneath her as he leaned forward and played a quick tune. She turned toward the piano, and his free hand caressed the outside of her thigh. His fingernails very gently ruched the fabric of her nightrail. She couldn’t determine which was more powerful, his fingertips playing across her skin or his playing of the piano. One warred with the other.
“I should escort you to your bedchamber,” he said again with a sigh as his fingers slowed and then stopped.