Chapter 38
GRACE
“Why are you playing dress up and performing in a questionable establishment?” Drasko asked Grace on their ride home.
“Why are you there?” Calmly, she removed her ridiculous wig and tossed her head, shaking her hair that fell onto her shoulders.
Was she embarrassed? Not a bit. Was she afraid of his wrath? She knew there wouldn’t be any. She expected him to scorn her, perhaps. But no, her husband was, as usual, calm, and it confused her and secretly delighted her—he was nothing like her guardians.
“I’ll rephrase my question,” he said without any hint of hostility or bitterness.
“I don’t forbid you to pay social visits, go to parties, play whenever you want, whatever you want.
But by God, Grace, have better judgment.
I said you have your freedoms. But a place like that? Why? Is that some sort of rebellion?”
“Soon, places such as that will be the only ones I am allowed to play at. Ristofori won’t allow me to play in his orchestra. And the wealthy will not accept me in their houses. They don’t say that. They are simply not available .”
“The Duke and Duchess of Trent?”
“Ha! They will never invite me to any of their gatherings anymore. The marchioness won’t see me, though months ago it was agreed that I would play at her Summer Ball. None of them want to associate with me. I suppose. Because…”
“Because of me. To be precise, because of the scandal with the earl.”
Grace didn’t answer. Drasko was the wealthiest man in Europe, yet rules were rules, and the titled simply had more of them.
“You should understand,” Drasko said, “that there is one thing that’s more powerful than reputation and can salvage even the worst one.”
“Money?” Grace guessed.
“Not just money but its amount. I will make a deal with them,” he said. “I will make the duke come and beg you to play.”
“Hmm.” She stared at the pink wig in her gloved hands. “Because he wants your diamonds? He can get them elsewhere.”
“He cannot. You underestimate what the Mawr Auction is about. It’s not about art or beauty, though they are obvious. It’s about the display of power and competition.”
It was the first time Drasko was discussing the auction with her.
“The duchess?” He glanced at the wig on Grace’s lap. “She wants to be the Queen, but she can’t. And since the Queen will not bid on jewelry that she is gifted anyway, the duchess has only one way to shine—and that’s to snatch the crown jewel of the auction.”
“So, you want to blackmail her?”
“Simply business, darling. Isn’t everything?”
The mischievous glint in his eyes was back. He would want something from Grace, she knew what exactly, and for the first time, she wanted him to say it. That he wanted her, wanted another night. She was growing fond of their bedroom business deal.
Their carriage pulled up to their house. Drasko stepped out and glanced at her outrageous costume yet didn’t comment. He offered his arm to her, not a sign of disappointment on his face as if he hadn’t just caught her performing at a viper’s den accompanied by a half-naked theatrical group.
“And what do you want from me?” she dared him as they walked inside.
“I want you to play for me. Whenever I want.” He nodded to the doorman and pulled away from her.
She held back from chuckling in surprise. “That is all?” she inquired as he was already walking away.
He stopped short and turned to meet her gaze. A smile grazed his lips as his eyes swept over her dress again.
“That is all. Have a good night,” he said and walked away.
Disappointment washed over her as she returned to her room and cast her gaze at her reflection in the mirror.
Those masked performances at the Elysium used to be a taste of unattainable freedom.
It had felt like that tonight, right up until her husband walked into the green room.
Any indication of ridicule or disdain on his part, and she would have defied him.
But with his calmness, her little act of rebellion had lost its charm.
She felt dirty as if she had betrayed her own worth.
Grace listened for the signs of him in his room next door.
Nothing.
She tossed her wig into the corner and threw her earrings onto the bureau.
She simmered with disappointment as she took off layers of makeup, tugged irritatedly at her bodice and skirts as she got rid of her silly dress.
She wanted some sort of punishment from him, expected his bitter remarks, perhaps crude comments, him saying, “I want my night.” She wanted him to demand it too, the idea arousing and replaying in her head over and over.
She wanted him to take her, forcefully, so that she could get what she wanted—one more night—without having to ask.
The night they had spent together invaded her daily existence.
The images, equally disgusting and arousing, had populated her head.
Until they didn’t stop. Would not stop. Infected her mind throughout the day.
Until the shame was tucked away, and all that was left were unexplainable erotic visions that chased her everywhere.
The memories didn’t fade. They only grew more insistent.
But in order not to go insane—and Grace was honest with herself—she needed more of her husband.
But—Grace stood by the full-size mirror and studied her naked body—her husband didn’t want her.
The thought was hurtful.
Her eyes paused on the edgy scars on her arm.
Did they make her ugly?
She looked at the dark reddish scar under her ribs, the mark of the sickness that she’d had since childhood, the one that Rivka had healed, or so Grace hoped. Her fingertips cautiously patted the scar.
Had Drasko seen it that night? Resented her for that?
She bit her lip, turned away from the mirror, and put on a sleeping gown and a robe over it.
Music played in her head, filling her with joy at how it felt to play on stage.
Then the memory of Drasko’s hands flickered in her mind, his crude warning, “I will lift your skirt…” Then his indifferent, “Good night.”
She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think of anything but him. She had to play. This time, to play out her fantasies.
Grace lit a candle and padded out of the room.
The house was quiet, the second floor dim and empty. So were the stairs. The servants would be asleep. Him? Perhaps, he’d gone back to the Elysium.
The floor was cool under her bare feet as she opened the door to the pitch-black music room and walked to the piano.
Weeks later, and her heart still fluttered at the sheer beauty of it, shimmering in the candlelight that beamed off the gilded ornaments.
Grace set the candle on top of the piano, took a seat, opened the fallboard, and touched the keys.
The sound seemed so loud in the dark, in the emptiness of the sleeping house. Yet, instantly, it seeped into her pores, bringing balance to her disjointed thoughts.
The music burst from under her fingers as she started playing a tune from memory. She hummed until the words broke off her lips.
“ The spell of the moonlight , the whisper in the dusk, ” she sang. “ One glance. One touch. The memories of us .”
Grace sang, forgetting herself and all her worries. When the song was over, her hands slid back onto her lap, and she closed her eyes.
Her heart expanded tenfold, too big for her chest, her feelings too deep for the man she’d once mocked on her wedding day.
A shift in the air made her eyes snap open—she wasn’t alone in the room.
There came a soft rustle of clothes behind her, a faint trace of whisky and smoke in the air, instantly making her body come alive at the familiar sensation. Him .
Something touched her hair. Her heart boomed.
“I like hearing you sing,” he said softly from behind her.
She wanted to turn but was afraid to break this moment and held her breath as she felt his big form move closer. His leg went over the bench on the left side of her. His body shifted down her back. His other leg swung over the bench until he sat behind her, his legs on each side of hers.
She trembled at his closeness, the anticipation of more of it.
His lips tickled her earlobe as his husky voice said, “You are enchanting, do you know that?”
His hands came into the view of the candlelight, gently picked up hers, and brought them to the piano keys.
“Will you play?” he asked against her cheek. “Just for me, darling. Play.”
He let go. His one hand rested on her waist. The other gently pulled back her hair on one side, exposing her neck, and a soft kiss in the crook of her neck sent goosebumps along her skin.
If only it was humanly possible to focus while he was touching her!
Her eyes fluttered closed as another little kiss grazed her skin, right behind her ear, her entire body on edge at the touch.
“Play,” he whispered.
She opened her eyes and pressed the first keys.
What would she play? What would make this moment last?
“ Come dream with me, ” she sang as her fingers touched the keys.
Both his hands slid to her thighs, the fabric of the gown so thin it felt as if it weren’t there, her body completely bare underneath it.
“Sing,” he whispered, his big hands moving back and forth along her thighs in unbearably soft caresses.
Arousal swept over her, soaking her between her legs as he planted firefly kisses on her skin, the little fires traveling into her very core.
She tried to think of the words, of the chords she was supposed to play, neither her fingers nor her voice keeping up with the rhythm of his kisses.
“ Come dream of what won’t be. ” Her voice trembled.
The light only showed the front of her gown, his legs clad in trousers on each side of her, his hands on her thighs starting to gather up the fabric, the hem of her gown rising to her mid-thighs, exposing her knees.
His hand snuck under it, to her inner thigh.
She faltered on the keys.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes, kept on playing, trying to keep the tune. She tried thinking of anything but his hand, slowly making its way between her legs. Until his fingers were there—a gentle touch on her tender parts, making her gasp, sending shivers of pleasure from her sex through her body.
Her fingers might be talented. His were wicked as they slid deeper, explored her flesh, first carefully opening her up, then moving in rhythmic strokes.
She moaned between the words. Her breathing turned shallow.
His other hand pushed open the robe and cupped her breast, his fingers brushing against her nipple as his other hand stroked her sex.
“Open wider for me,” he said huskily.
She was shy and embarrassed, her mind willing her to protest. Yet her body knew exactly what it wanted, how to react, how to take him, asked for more as she bucked into his touch.
His kisses on her neck grew deeper. His tongue swiped at her skin.
She forgot the words, forgot the music. Her hands aimlessly caressed the silent keys, pressing them disjointly, in cue with the little fires that licked her flesh as she dissolved in pleasure.
“Will you write a song about this?” he whispered.
A needy mewl escaped her. “Do you…” His fingers grew more insistent, knowing exactly how to make her body sing. “Do… ah…. do you want me…”
“Yes, I always want you, darling.”
“To write a song…” She moaned.
“Yes.”
She half-opened her eyes to see her gown hitched up and bunched up at her waist, her legs spread shamelessly for him, his fingers working her sex.
With a grunt, he bucked against her. His fingers continued their wicked game, delved lower, pressed harder, until they eased their way in, burning her flesh with slight pain at the invasion, then pleasure.
Her mind was blank, but her body wanted more.
Another finger penetrated her, the two of them slowly thrusting in and out, his thumb rubbing her clit.
The outer rim of pain where he stretched her was nothing in comparison with the pleasure deep inside her, the way it grew gradually, like a music piece with its timid start that slowly grew into a climax.
Her hands dropped to his thighs. Her back against him, she was pushing herself into him.
She turned her face, captured his mouth in a kiss, and moaned as his tongue parted her lips.
His mouth on hers, his hand between her legs, his kiss undid her, funneled the pleasure that spiraled inside her until its crescendo rushed through her body in a powerful wave.
She tore her mouth from his, threw her head back against his shoulder, and moaned into the darkness, repeated cries leaving her as she clamped around his fingers. She forgot about shame, melted under his mouth, playful and gentle on her neck as he worked her through her release.
Until it subsided, and she pushed her legs closed, suddenly aware of what had just happened.
His fingers eased out of her. His hands disappeared. Her nightgown fell to her thighs.
“There.” He planted a kiss on her temple. “Your moans when you come are as pretty as your singing.”
Without another word, he rose from behind her.
In a moment, he was at the door. He halted and turned around. “Would you like to play for me again sometime?”
Don’t leave , she begged. “Yes,” she whispered.
In a second, he was gone, leaving her restless and lost.
Suddenly, the room was too empty, the darkness too unwelcoming, the air too cold and lonely. Void of him…
She didn’t understand why he did what he did, why he left her wanting more instead of taking everything he could from her. And oh, he could. And she would give herself to him so eagerly.
Unless he knew what he was doing and wanted to torment her.
Why? She didn’t know.
But he was already punishing her by leaving her wanting more.