Chapter 8 #2
She sighed as if it was really quite annoying. “Well, ladies are supposed to be cheerful. We’re not supposed to go about all mournful.” She frowned. “Though I suppose some do, but those are usually artists and poets. Ladies like myself are not permitted to be artists and poets.”
“Or singers?” he teased carefully.
“Oh,” she snorted. “I can sing quite a good deal. I’m often trotted out and made to sing. You know I do a very good Queen of the Night.”
He laughed. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “Your voice is heaven. It’s a rather challenging piece, but I’d wager you make short work of it and make it seem easy.”
She nibbled that lower lip again. How he wished to soothe it with his mouth.
“I spent hours practicing with the strictest tutors,” she admitted at last. “I have worked with the greatest masters all over Europe, just like a princess.”
“That’s very fortunate.”
“Is it?” she queried.
He nodded. “To work with the greatest musicians?”
“They’re all rather sad,” she said, tracing the keys.
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because they’re not valued enough, not truly,” she said with surprising intensity. “They have to scramble for their bread and teach students who they don’t really wish to be teaching. They wish that they were composing instead, but they must teach me and those like me.”
He shook his head. “You are a wonderful student. There are far worse. I’m sure that they encounter many a tone-deaf individual.”
She groaned and lowered her hands to her lap. “Oh dear, it is true. But you must have been a wonderful student too,” she said, as if wishing to move the attention away from herself.
He nodded. “Like you, I have been lucky. I’ve had the greatest tutors, grand masters from all over Europe.
Grandmama loves to have artists come and stay, and musicians and singers too.
So if there’s ever anyone you wish to invite, you should tell us.
And magically, though it’s really Grandmama, they shall no doubt appear. ”
“That makes it sound like you expect that I shall be here throughout the year or at other Christmases.”
“You’ll always be welcome,” he assured. “After all, you’re family, or about to be.”
Her brows shot up. “How true. I had considered this, but I keep forgetting. And I thought perhaps you meant something…”
“Something else,” he ventured, gazing down at her, and then he couldn’t stop himself.
He reached towards her face.
Most gentlemen tucked errant locks of hair behind ears, but instead he slid his fingers into her soft, dark curls and pulled one gently loose. He uncoiled it, slipping it against her cheek, letting his fingers stroke against her silken skin.
She sucked in a soft gasp. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“You look too perfect.”
She blinked. “No one could ever look too perfect.”
“Yes, they can,” he said. “Perfection isn’t real. Nothing perfect actually exists,” he said softly.
She blinked again, apparently frequently surprised by him. “What?”
“Nothing perfect exists,” he repeated. “My grandmother taught me that when I was quite young. She’s taught the whole family. We should never strive for perfection. It’s not possible. It just causes fear, agitation, and the desire to always be chasing after something that can never be caught.”
She stared up at him as if he had grown a second head. Her brow furrowed and she sucked in a quick breath.
“I’m sorry. Have I upset you?”
“My entire life is based upon the attainment of perfection. Are you deriding my entire way of life?”
He frowned, his insides coiling with distress, for he had not meant to upset her. “I suppose I am. I’m terribly sorry.”
“You should be,” she exclaimed. “You think I sing very well. You think I play very well. And it’s because I’ve attained perfection.”
“You haven’t,” he said before he could stop himself.
“What?” she demanded.
Though it seemed terribly risky, he clarified even further. “You haven’t attained perfection. There’s always another step,” he said. “And what you have is better than perfection when you sing and when you play with me.”
“That sounds very arrogant,” she warned.
“Well, you already accused my family of being arrogant, so why not embrace it?” he said playfully, praying he was not driving her away. “You’re yourself when you play and sing with me,” he dared to say. “You’re authentic, and that is far better than any sort of perfection.”
“And if I’m authentically terrible,” she mocked, an edge to her voice.
“How could you ever be authentically terrible?” he queried.
She shrugged, her entire body tense, despite the carefree gesture. “I don’t know, but I’ve certainly been made to believe that anything less than perfection is…”
“Terrible,” he finished, his heart aching now for a very different reason than his usual melancholy. It ached for her. Bloody hell it did. For the young woman who was made to pursue something that no one, no matter how hard they tried, could ever grasp.
She nodded.
“Now that, Seraphine,” he whispered softly, “is terrible.”
And before he could stop himself, he clasped her chin, tilted her face towards him, and kissed her. He kissed her there on the piano bench, kissed her for all he was worth, tempting her just as she tempted him, tempting her to abandon all paths to perfection and simply be here with him.
She opened to him like a flower to the sun.
As their bodies and mouths melded, all thoughts slipped away.
All need for anything but this moment and their kiss vanished.
How he needed her to see that she needn’t pursue anything.
She was already heaven. Just as she was.
She did not need a prince. She did not need to do anything, be anyone, or use the perfect turn of phrase.
She was an angel to him. Fiery and bold and full of wonder.
And then, slowly, he drew back from the kiss, taking in her transformed face, a face soft with pleasure and free of worry.
He turned to the piano, and he began to play.
She did not play at first.
She seemed too startled, too captivated, too taken in by that kiss, which was good. It was exactly what he wanted, and then, as if she had forgotten every expectation that she had of herself, she began to play too.
This was no preordained piece.
He was playing by ear.
He kept playing the same refrain over and over, hoping beyond hope that she would join him, that she wouldn’t strive for the rigidity that music often had, but that she’d choose playfulness. He hoped that she would make her own variations on his tune.
When she did, he could not stop his smile because he knew that she was slowly being pulled from the path that was causing her pain, and she was being pulled onto the path that would bring her joy.
And in the end, that was what mattered most.