Page 14 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

I shake my head, dispelling the enchantment he weaves around me just as sure as Arachne and her loom. Only, instead of a shuttle threading the nearly unbreakable bonds around me like silken strands, it’s his scent, his eyes, his very presence. I feel as if I am now the prey caught in his web, and I refuse to allow those thoughts any purchase.

Pushing away from him, I drag myself further from this scent, allowing clarity to once reign supreme. I breathe, standing there until my thoughts are back under my control, my own. My gaze touches on all the instruments as the ball of anxiety continues to grow, morphing until I am sure I’ll be sick.

“You needn’t agonize over all of these. I am well aware someone of your means might not have had the education afforded them to learn. Just do what you are able, and I’ll judge those on their merits.”

Of all the haughty… Gone are the webs covering my eyes, and once more I am able to see him for what he is—the villainous rapscallion that means to tear me from my home by foisting me onto some unsuspecting male. He will rue the day he interfered in my life.

Stepping away from the harp, I walk over to the pianoforte and study it. Though it is leaps and bounds above the one at my home in both looks and quality, it should still play the same. I sit on the bench and curl my fingers into my palms, sighing at the small bite of discomfort.

It settles me, soothes me, allowing me to somehow think a bit more clearly. I harness the sensation, using it to fuel me, painting the keys with my ire. Instead of looking at the notes in front of me, I merely play what I wish, choosing notes and chords that are purposefully discordant. Music is a decadent mix of mathematics and passion, and the pianoforte has always been my favorite mode of combining the two. Perfection. Endless perfection.

As I play the wrong notes, however, I must confess the delight I feel flooding my system as Foxford glances over at me, his face screwing up into the most sour of expressions. Though no offense is meant toward Pleyel and his music as the notes sit right in front of me, it is far more fun to make a lark of it and bang away on the keys.

“It is enough,” Foxford finally cries out, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair with enough force that wouldn’t be at all surprising if he ends up yanking the stuffing out. “Were you not taught anything at all? Surely you should have some modicum of education in this manner. Or are you merely playing me for a fool?”

I glance up at him, eyes wide as I blink, fully slipping into the role of a milk and water miss. “I do apologize, but I do not understand. Is this not what you requested from me? To play the pianoforte for you? I’m merely going by the music that is already placed in front of me. Perhaps if there is a different sheet of music?”

He rises from the chair, still all manners and decorum, and strides over to me, his fingers now gripping the air as he makes fists. Coming around the pianoforte, he stares at the music and then glances back at me. “This is what you were going by, yes? You were playing these notes?”

“Why yes, Your Grace,” I simper. “Every note I played is a note contained in this music.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the look of bewilderment on his face. “Would you care to show me and teach me the errors of my ways?”

A tinge of red crosses his face as he clears his throat and pulls a piece of music out from behind the current set. “I am not the one on trial here, Lady Teresa. It is not in my interest to play the pianoforte but yours. Please then, let us try another.”

I glance down at the new piece he puts in front of me. Ahh. An Irish air by Thomas Moore. I am quite familiar with this one. Nodding, I sit there, my fingers poised as he hovers by my side.

His nearness unsettles me, muddling my brain until I’m certain the mistakes I make will no longer be on purpose. “Would Your Grace not be more comfortable in your chair?”

“I am fine right here. Now play.”

As if I am some prized pet in need of showing off, I crack my fingers and once more set them to the keys. This time, it only takes a few strident notes for him to pull them away and force them into my lap. “You must be in jest. I know the sound of this one, and those are not the notes.”

“Are they not?” Again, I blink up at him before peering at the music.

“Are you in need of spectacles? Those cannot be the right notes.”

“If they are indeed incorrect, pray tell me what the notes are so I may pluck them for you.”

“Bah. You are near useless with the pianoforte. Can you at least sing?”

“Oh indeed, like a bird, Your Grace.”

“Then let us have that.” His eyes bore into mine as I stand and come around the pianoforte in opposition to him.

Opening my mouth, I let out an off-key squawk, fairly butchering “No One Shall Govern Me,” yet another nod to the plight in which I find myself.

From on the other side of the large instrument, Foxford drums his fingers, his face looking rather pale and wan, beset with an odd mixture of both being ill and angry. It’s glorious to look upon him and see the discomfort I’m causing. No doubt he’s mentally adding up how much extra coin it would take to offload me onto another male.

“Please desist from this unharmonious noise that drips from your lips. Did you not tell me you had the voice of a bird?”

“But, Your Grace, is not the crow a bird?” At that pronouncement, his face takes on a red hue once more.

“Whichever foul fowl you seem to align yourself with, it is needless, incessant caterwauling, and I insist you never open your mouth to sing again.”

“Is that an official insistence, Your Grace? Just to be sure I understand.”

“Are you daft, girl?” Throwing his hands into the air, he turns toward the servants near the door. “Fetch some needlework and paints.” Turning back to me, he spears me with a heated glare. “I will find something you’re good at before the day is done. If not, I will apply you to lessons until you are ready for a proper coming out.”

“Does that include singing, Your Grace?”