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As I slide my hand over Ada’s back, feeling the silkiness of her skin beneath my palm, a sense of calm washes over me.
It’s her. Ada Belcourt.
Maybe I like the way her mouth turned down when Gregory kissed her fingers. Maybe I enjoyed watching her grow stiff when he led her to the dance floor. Her obvious dislike for him makes me feel like I’ve found someone who gets it. Someone who sees past the wealth and the titles. Who sees the monster he really is.
But as I glance at her, watching the pulse thump through her neck, there’s something more. Her body is so reactive to me. So pliable. So incredibly irresistible.
I don’t like her because she obviously dislikes the Count. She’s awoken something inside me that I thought died a long time ago. She makes heat burn through my core. I’m already addicted to her presence.
I hate Christmas. It reminds me of death. I haven’t celebrated it in four years, and this year wasn’t supposed to be any different. Attending the Christmas Ball was a show of support for the King and Queen, who have always been kind to me. It was a message to the King that I’m on his side. Nothing more.
I’m not supposed to stay here tonight. I’m supposed to leave right after the royal greetings, which have already happened. My lawyers have warned me against spending any time with the Count. There’s too much at stake.
I definitely shouldn’t be stepping in between him and a woman he’s interested in.
But I just…don’t care. Can’t stop myself. Need to be near her.
My pants are tight and my blood is running hot, and I want to be alone with her. I want to watch her tuck her hair behind her ear and reward me with a shy smile.
I want a lot more, too, but I’m not sure I deserve it.
7
Ada
“Where are you taking me?” My voice is low.
“Away from prying eyes,” the Duke answers.
A thrill shoots down my spine, settling deep in my womb. I clench against the emptiness between my legs, letting my eyelids flutter closed for a moment.
Does he have any idea what his voice does to me? How his hand on my back makes my head spin? How for the first time since college, I feel like more than just a person—I feel like a woman who wants and needs and craves?
We walk for what feels like a long time, but it’s probably only a few minutes. The sounds of the ball fade in the distance as our footsteps echo in the hallway.
“Here,” the Duke says, his voice low. He pushes a heavy wooden door open for me, and I step through, taking a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
We’re in a medium-sized room with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Farcliff Lake. The night sky is dark, with a big, yellow moon hanging low in the sky. In front of the windows is a grand piano, gleaming bronze with the light of the moon.
I gasp, recognizing the piano even in the darkness. It’s the custom-made Blythe grand piano, made for the previous royals.
This piano is a thing of legends. King Charlie’s mother used to play, and it’s rumored this piano cost over two million dollars to make. I walk up to the instrument, almost afraid to touch it. Different types of wood are inlaid so perfectly that the instrument looks like a watercolor painting. I run my fingers over the polished wood, eyes wide and heart thumping.
“You should play it,” the Duke says, stripping his tuxedo jacket off and laying it over the arm of a sofa. His white shirt stretches over his chest and arms, betraying the raw power of the muscles coiled underneath it. His broad shoulders taper to slim hips, and I wonder if there’s a deep V carved between his hips.
My cheeks burn. I shake my head, gulping. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” He settles onto the couch, letting his arm hang over the back of the leather sofa. His other elbow rests on his jacket, his head propped between his thumb and index finger. He watches me, eyes hanging low.
I stand next to the piano, letting my hand drift to the cover protecting the keys. I shake my head. “It’s not mine to play.”
“No one’s touched it in years. Not since the Queen Mother died. Instruments are meant to be played.”
I glance at the Duke. He looks completely at ease here, his ankle resting on his opposite knee. Head still propped in his fingers. Arm slung over the back of the sofa.
How did he even know this piano was here?
“Ada,” he says, and a shiver tumbles through my veins. Say it again, please. Say my name. I glance at him, eyes widening. He nods to the instrument. “Play for me.”
