Page 60 of Never Beguile a Duke
“Why would you hide this from them?” Winifred asked, rising, then walking to the desk.
The Duke of Beaufort followed.
“Their intentions may be noble,” he said, lifting the top sheet from the stack. “However, they would demand I play for them—more than they do already—and I cannot stomach the criticism that would follow the performance.”
She turned. “From what I know of your friends, none of them would denigrate your effort to create something beautiful.”
“How can you be so certain of its worth?” He crumpled the paper into a ball. “None of my music compares to a master’s ability.”
Winifred stopped his arm, grabbing his wrist as he pitched the wadded page toward the fireplace. The paper fell short and rolled under a wing chair.
“You are mistaken.” Using her body, she blocked him from retrieving the parchment and destroying it.
His eyebrows raised at the inappropriate contact. “You’re willing to sacrifice your innocence to protect a bit of music?”
“First,” she held up a finger, “we’ve already established that I previously surrendered my virtue to a man I believed loved me. And second… absolutely.”
The strangest expression crossed his face as though he’d never considered his efforts to be worth such a damaging cost, and he stared at her, his mouth partially open.
“Would you like to hear it?” he finally asked.
“Very much so,” she replied, reluctantly moving away from his warmth and retrieving the paper from beneath the chair.
He collected the page, peeled open the edges, and smoothed the parchment flat against his leg. After resuming his seated position on the floor, the Duke of Beaufort lifted the guitar from its stand, set the instrument on his lap, then raised his eyes to Winifred.
“Do you intend to stand while I play?” he asked as he positioned his fingers over the strings.
Shaking her head, Winifred strode across the floor and claimed the spot beside the Duke of Beaufort. Once she was settled, he leaned forward, squinted at the rumbled squiggles on the sheet, then strummed a haunting chord, which he followed with a succession of melancholy tones.
Winifred held her tongue, struck silent by the stirring melody. When he completed the tune, the final harmony fading, she clapped, causing him to blush scarlet.
“I do hope you’ll save this song,” she said, picking up the paper. “I’ve never heard anything quite as moving.”
He returned the guitar to its stand, then said, “Perhaps you’ll allow me to play it on your wedding day.”
Lowering the page, Winifred fixed him with a stern glare. “As I’ve previously explained to Your Grace, I have no intention of taking a husband.”
“I thought you were jesting.” He pulled the sheet from her hand. “Don’t all women wish to marry?”
“For several months, my only desire was freedom,” Winifred said, a hard edge in her reply. “It seems quite unkind of you to recommend that I give it up so quickly.”
She doubted anyone, save his closest friends, had ever dared speak to him with such frankness, for the Duke of Beaufort’s jaw dropped to his chest.
“I apologize, Miss Fernsby-Webb,” he stammered as the color drained from his face. “I wasn’t suggesting… that is, of course, the decision you make regarding your future should make you happy. I only meant that there are certain benefits that come with a union.”
“Such as?” Winifred tilted her head.
“Companionship and conversation.” He ticked off two fingers.
“Many marriages result in the husband and wife descending into silence and separate lives.”
“Financial stability,” he said, adding a third.
“Nora is engaged to a duke.” Winifred waved her arm, dismissing the concern. “And you confirmed your willingness to assist him until the threat of Mr. Curtis is vanquished.”
“Physical pleasure.”
She gestured around them. “Is that not the very reason we’re currently in your chamber?”
