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The command sends a thrill rushing through my body. My body clenches, skin too sensitive against the silky material of my gown.
“What do you want me to play?” My voice is a breath. A whisper.
“Something sad,” the Duke replies. “Anything but Christmas music.”
I glance at the man on the sofa, remembering that it was right before Christmas when his brother was found. The anniversary of his death will be coming up next week, or the one after. I’m not sure of the exact date.
Moonlight cuts across his angular features, casting half his face in darkness. He holds my gaze, and for just a moment I see pain flash across his eyes.
He lost his whole family four years ago. He’s been carrying the dukedom on his shoulders since then. Everyone thinks he’s a recluse who has women and booze delivered to his door—but for just a moment, I see him. The real him. The man who’s been cut deep, who’s been suffering on his own. The man who has taken the responsibility for his lands, and by all accounts let the family business die.
Is that true, though?
How did he know where this piano was? I saw the familiar way King Charlie spoke to him. Like they’re friends. He’s probably at the castle all the time.
Then his face grows stone-hard, and his expression is shuttered again.
I swallow past a thorny mess in my throat and sit down at the piano bench, lifting the cover to reveal the black and white keys. My fingers drift over them. Smooth and polished and familiar.
I’m glad the couch is behind me; I wouldn’t be able to play if I could see the Duke in my peripheral vision. Even the prickling of his gaze on my bare back makes all my senses heighten.
I close my eyes and try to forget he’s here. Kicking my heels off, I feel the rightmost pedal under my foot. Then, with a breath, I start to play.
I’ve always loved Chopin. His nocturnes are full of tragedy and complicated emotions, pierced with positive moments that dissolve into nothing. For the Duke, I play my favorite one. Number 19, Opus 72, in E minor.
Playing one of my favorite pieces of music on the royal grand piano worth almost as much as my entire family’s estate sends me somewhere deep. I forget where I am. Who I’m with. Why I’m here.
It’s just me and the music, until I sense the Duke get up. He comes to stand beside the piano, watching my fingers dance over the keys. His presence only intensifies the moment. He breathes in the melody, staring at me. Feeling me.
My whole body grows electric. My breasts feel heavy. Arms feel light. A bud of heat unfurls in the pit of my stomach as the Duke listens to me play. His grip on the edge of the piano tightens as his breath grows shorter. I can almost feel it whisper over my skin, but I keep playing.
A strand of hair falls across my face. I ignore it.
It’s not until the music ends that I take my hands off the keys, place them in my lap, and I take a full breath. I lift my eyes to the Duke, almost afraid of what I’ll find.
His face is cracked open, pain and desire and wonder carved into every feature. Every curve of his lips. Every eyelash and indescribable shade of green.
“Stand up,” he rasps.
I stand.
He reaches for me, circling his arm around my waist and tugging me close. I crash against his chest, catching myself against the fine white fabric of his shirt. My eyes widen, head spinning from the closeness of him.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, his voice strained. His eyes angle toward me, dropping to my lips. His brows draw closer, as if he’s in immense pain. “Tell me I can kiss you.”
My voice catches. Breath stays stuck somewhere in my throat as my body screams at me to comply. As my fingers curl around the nape of his neck, feeling the softness of his dark hair, I finally part my lips.
“You can kiss me,” I whisper.
I expect him to crush his lips against mine. To make the inferno inside me burn hotter. To cut me open and watch me bleed out.
But he hesitates, lifting his eyes to mine. “Ada,” he rasps. “Tell me you want me to.”
My heart thumps so hard I know he can feel it. My breasts are pressed against the thin fabric of his shirt, my nipples sensitive buds against his chest. My core is burning so hot I wonder if he can sense it. If he knows how wet it is between my legs. If he understands that never have I ever felt like this before. Never have I ever wanted this as badly as I do now.
“Kiss me, Your Grace. Please.” Am I begging? Is that pathetic?
I don’t care.
