Chapter 4 #2
He raised an eyebrow and stared her down. “It is my music room, Miss Fox.”
“I know that, but your disapproval of me hangs over you like a dark storm cloud. I would have thought you’d prefer to be as far from me as possible.”
She wasn’t wrong about that, but for some reason, Lion felt the sharp prick of guilt at her words.
“I find your singing pleasant,” he said stiffly, the only sufficient excuse for remaining here that he could think of.
Her lips parted. “Thank you.”
She sounded surprised. Lion found himself mesmerized by her mouth. He wished he could find every one of those half dozen Swiss lads and trounce them for knowing those lips when he didn’t.
“You’re welcome,” he managed, his voice feeling suddenly rusty.
He was hardening in his trousers at the mere thought of kissing her. What the devil was wrong with him? And why couldn’t he seem to stop staring at her lips?
“Do you play?” she asked.
“I haven’t done so in years,” he admitted.
She slid to the side on the piano bench, making room for him. “Come and take a seat, Marchingham. We’ll play and sing a song together.”
He eyed the space she had created dubiously. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Why not?”
Because if I’m sitting that near to you, I may be tempted to touch you.
No, he couldn’t very well admit that shocking, horrifying truth now, could he?
Lion cleared his throat. “My skill is abysmal compared to yours.”
“Nonsense.” She grinned at him.
And God, but it was difficult to keep himself under control when she smiled at him like that, her green eyes sparkling as if they were keeping a secret that only the two of them knew.
He could well understand his sisters’ affection for her.
The woman was a magnetic force even when he desperately wished to be repelled.
“It will be fun,” she added. “But then, is that what you’re afraid of? That you’ll actually enjoy yourself? Good heavens, perhaps you’ll even smile again.”
She was teasing him, the hoyden.
Absurdly, he found himself wanting to return her grin with one of his own.
“I’m not afraid, madam.”
She patted the bench. “Then sit.”
He felt like a dog, doing his master’s bidding.
“I won’t bite,” she added outrageously. “I promise.”
Her words sent a strange rush of heat directly to his groin. Because, curse her, he was thinking about her nibbling on his neck whilst he…
No. Decidedly not.
He mustn’t allow that dangerous thought to progress any further.
Lion stalked to the bench and seated himself at her side, trying to ignore the scent of violets curling around him.
And failing.
“Do select a song, Miss Fox,” he said curtly. “I haven’t all day.”
Addy could scarcely suppress her glee as Marchingham sat beside her on the piano bench.
Fortunately, it was a sturdy piece of furniture and large enough to hold the both of them.
The Duke of Marchingham was not a small man.
As he had folded his frame into the seat, she had been reminded of just how broad his shoulders were and how long his legs.
His thigh pressed against her skirts, crowding her as his scent teased her senses. His proximity was a problem.
She knew that much already.
He settled his hands upon the keys, and Addy couldn’t help but admire them. They were so very masculine, his fingers long and elegant, one bearing a signet ring, and for a breathless moment, she wondered what those hands would feel like on her skin. Touching her. Caressing her.
Oh, what was wrong with her?
She didn’t even like this man. Such thoughts were mad aberrations. She had known handsome gentlemen before. This one was no exception. She could remain unaffected. Her heart would return to a normal rhythm.
Addy turned toward him to find him studying her with his unnerving blue gaze. Her heart continued to beat wildly, and her breath caught in her lungs.
“Cantique de Noёl?” he asked.
And for a moment, she didn’t know what he was saying.
Addy blinked, realizing he had spoken French. The song was familiar to her from her days at the Académie Clairemont. He was thinking about the song while she was mooning over his eyes and his hands and trying not to notice how beautifully formed his lips were.
“I know it,” she said, irritated with herself at how breathless her voice emerged.
It would never do for the Duke of Arse-ingham to know she found him handsome. Or to discover the effect his nearness had on her. She would be mortified.
He regarded her solemnly, making heat creep through her. “Shall we?”
“Of course.”
As one, they began to play. Addy would have expected them to be out of time, even slightly, and yet their fingers moved fluidly together, the melody effortlessly taking shape. And when it was time to sing, their voices blended melodiously. The duke’s baritone was lovely, melding with her own voice.
Singing with Marchingham was a joy.
The realization alarmed her, one of her fingers slipping on the key and playing the wrong note. Quickly, she recovered, trying not to glance in the duke’s direction. Trying to quell the heat creeping over her like the warmth of a July sun.
“La terre est libre et le ciel est ouvert,” they sang, and Addy couldn’t resist stealing a peek at him.
It was a colossal mistake on her part. Because he was also looking at her, and their gazes met and held. It was as if a dam within her suddenly broke, unleashing a rushing torrent of emotions she had been frantically holding at bay.
A fluttering sensation began low in her belly. By the time they reached the crescendo of the final refrain, she couldn’t look away.
“Noel! Noel! Chantons le Rédempteur!”
They played the final notes, and then the silence stretched, laden with what seemed a vast ocean of unspoken words. Addy’s heart beat fast and hard. She didn’t even like this man. Why was she so overcome with… What was it that she was feeling?
Longing?
Good heavens. Surely not. Her gaze settled on the duke’s lips. They were well-formed and unsmiling, his philtrum delightfully pronounced. His jaw was rigid. A mad, foolish notion struck her. She should kiss him. Kiss the Duke of Marchingham. Kiss the forbidding sternness from his lips.
The air between them crackled with something potent and indefinable.
“That was…pleasant, Miss Fox,” he said with that unforgiving mouth.
His voice was still cold.
She blinked, forcing her stare from his mouth to his icy eyes. That was how he chose to describe what had passed between them during their duet? Pleasant?
Addy didn’t like that. Not at all.
“Pleasant,” she repeated.
“A nonsensical means of passing the time,” he added, reverting to his haughty self.
“Do you know what’s truly nonsensical, Your Graceship?” she asked, using the incorrect form of address she knew irked him. “The way you refuse to have any fun.”
His nostrils flared. “It is merely Your Grace, madam, a fact which I suspect you know and yet continue to ignore so that you may irritate me. And I don’t refuse to have fun. I am merely a man who shoulders too many burdens for frivolous amusements.”
He wasn’t wrong about the first part of what he had said. As for the second, it made her wonder just what his burdens were. Had she judged him too harshly?
Addy settled her hands in her lap, lacing her fingers together so that she wouldn’t be tempted to reach for him. “I am but a confused Yankee, frustrated by your unfamiliar customs. You ought to take pity on me.”
“Pity is the last thing I feel in regard to you, Miss Fox.”
“Oh?” The fluttering sensation spread, moving through the rest of her. “What do you feel in regard to me then, Your Grace?”
“Vexation.”
His response was instant and biting.
She scowled at him. “Is that all?”
“Frustration.”
“Do you like anyone, Marchingham?” she asked, trying to tamp down the disappointment rising within her at his words.
“Of course I do.”
“Aside from yourself, I mean,” she amended, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
He bit out a short laugh, taking her by surprise. Mirth didn’t seem like something the Duke of Marchingham would indulge in. Far too plebian. And yet, astoundingly, he had. And she had been the one to make him do it.
Addy grinned, ridiculously pleased by this development.
“You look far too happy for a woman who is about to find herself sleeping in the stables tonight,” he said mildly, one ducal brow winging upward.
“Has the Duke of Marchingham just deigned to make a joke? Because if so, I will have to write to the newspapers. I’m sure it ought to be reported across the land. At the very least, it should be marked down upon an ancient scroll so that this sacred moment will forever be remembered.”
He laughed again, and Addy found herself alarmingly affected by the way his smile transformed his face. His lips curved upward, and amusement gleamed in his eyes. She couldn’t look away.
“Do you know, Miss Fox, that I’ve never met a woman capable of such astonishing insolence?” he asked conversationally.
Addy laughed. “I would be disappointed if you had. I consider myself an original.”
His lips twitched. “Quite.”
He was so proper and stiff-backed. Everything about him was perfection, from his neatly combed golden hair to his freshly shaven jaw, right down to his tweed trousers and coat and the well-shined leather of his boots.
It made her long to muss his hair, to shock him.
Addy told herself that was why she reached out, grasping a handful of his shirt, why she pulled him to her and sealed her lips to his, kissing the Duke of Marchingham.