Page 40 of The Viscount's Promise
Her voice was uncertain and faint. Even so, his name on her lips had the same effect on him as before, reawakening that blinding need for her, undermining his better intentions. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath to rein himself in and met her gaze. There was a glazed confusion in her pewter eyes. Chest aching, his body screaming in protest, he nonetheless smiled comfortingly at her and, because he could not resist touching her again, cupped her ruined cheek in his palm. She stiffened for a moment before she tilted her head with a small sigh, relaxing into his touch.
Her features, normally so guarded and tense, relaxed. She closed her eyes, her long lashes brushing her cheeks, the faint line that always seemed between her brows smoothing. Her lips, still swollen from his kisses, lifted up at the corners in a small smile. In that moment, as he stood gazing down at her, he had the mad idea that he shouldn’t fight this pull. It had been a losing battle thus far, had seemed to grow harder to fight as time passed. He imagined sleeping beside her each night, waking beside her each morning, facing that hidden spark of hers in endless conversations, endless bouts of passion. Suddenly the idea of surrendering a bit of himself to her, an idea that had seemed so abhorrent a moment ago, held a wonderful appeal. Two damaged souls, coming together. Perhaps learning to heal with the other’s help. She opened her eyes then, looked up at him with such happiness in her expression, and the words very nearly ripped from his lips proclaiming his intentions to court her.
At the last minute, however, he halted his overeager tongue. This was all too new. He needed to think it over, consider it, come to terms with it. Pulling back from her, he murmured, “We should return before we’re missed.”
Disappointment flitted across her face, but she nodded and took hold of his proffered arm. There was time, he thought as he led her from the dim library and began heading back toward the drawing room.
The sound of voices reached them as they came closer to the party of guests. Malcolm’s steps faltered. The noise of it, the company of others, seemed too intrusive after the life-altering intimacy he’d shared with Emily. Something had changed between them irrevocably. She had touched something deep in him, in a place he had not allowed to be trespassed upon for too long now.
He glanced down at the woman at his side. Though she hurt, she was willing to give of herself in such a way. Perhaps, he thought as he felt the insistent pull toward her, it was time to let some light into that part of his soul.
• • •
Malcolm half expected the unfamiliar feelings that had awakened in him at Emily’s hands to vanish overnight. Mayhap it had been the electricity and anticipation of the storm that had broken over the house in the night. Perhaps the general air of romance from the wedding had finally worked its way under his skin. As he settled in for a restless night, he thought that the bright light of day must do something to wash away those troubling thoughts and return him to some semblance of normalcy. Surely the foreign urgings of his heart were no more substantial than smoke.
As he opened his eyes to find the sky blue and cloudless, washed fresh from the rain that had bathed the countryside mere hours before, he looked deep into his heart and found it unchanged.
Why was he not panicking at this sudden about-face of his most firmly held beliefs? He should be packing his bags and heading back to London to immerse himself in all kinds of debauchery and vice, to cleanse himself of the mad wishes swirling about in his head. The firm and steady beating of his heart, however, made that all fade to the merest echo.
His intentions toward Emily felt so easy and natural. The lack of panic, however, was itself beginning to panic him. He took a deep, cleansing breath. He had made no promises, nothing was set in stone. It was not as if he were going down to propose to the girl that very minute, after all. And there was no guarantee that she would accept him if he did. There was plenty of time to study these burgeoning emotions, to determine where they would lead, to see if she felt the same.
He took his time readying himself for the day. The desperate urgings in his breast to see Emily had to be tamed, after all. His valet was called, his wardrobe gone over with care, each piece picked with precision. His cravat he insisted on having retied twice, his jacket changed out. Even after the man left him, Malcolm fiddled with his cuffs and combed his hair again. When every inch of him had been gone over thrice, he took a deep breath and strode from the room, trying his damnedest to keep his steps slow and solemn but failing miserably.
He made for the ground floor, heading straight for the breakfast room, when the faint strains of something light and happy reached his ears. As before, he was drawn to the sound, a veritable puppet on a string, his path veering off from its set course. He knew where that sweet music would lead him, what he would find at the end of that melodic trail. Anticipation heated his blood, his steps quickening almost against his will.
Once at the music room door, he listened raptly to the rise and fall of notes from within. Silently he moved forward, pressing on the wooden panel, letting the door swing inward. The sight of her, seated on the pianoforte bench, her head bent industriously over the keys, had him sucking in his breath. He had always thought her attractive, beautiful even. How had he not seen how stunning a creature she truly was? A shaft of light from the open drapes caressed her, illuminating the porcelain curve of her cheek and the fiery brilliance of her hair. The latter had been softened; while usually pulled back into an uncompromising bun, today several curls had been worked free to frame her face. He ached to go to her, to take one of those curls, to press it to his lips...
A soft woof dragged him back to the present. Belatedly he spied Bach on the floor beside her. The dog looked at him with curiosity, its long ears perched forward, its tail thumping rhythmically against the polished parquet floor. At the animal’s notice, Emily gasped softly and pulled her fingers back against her chest. The abandoned instrument hummed with the last notes before falling silent altogether.
Malcolm swallowed hard as her gray eyes met his. “Good morning,” he managed.
A hesitant smile lifted her lips. “And to you as well, my lord.”
“I had thought,” he murmured softly, coming into the room, “that perhaps we were done with the ‘my lords’ and ‘my ladys.’”
Malcolm watched, entranced, as a rosy blush stained her cheek. She looked away, and he knew without being told that, had he not brought the small tell to her attention before, she would be pressing her hand to her scarred cheek.
“Are we done with that, then?” she asked, a bit breathlessly.
He drew closer to her. Bach sniffed his boot, and he reached down to scratch the animal behind the ear. “I do believe we have,” he said quietly.
Her gaze skimmed up to meet his, her eyes soft and luminous. “Very well, Malcolm,” she whispered.
When she continued to sit there, her fingers gripped tight in her lap, he said, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I can leave if you wish, so you might resume your practice.”
“You are not intruding,” she said.
“What was that you were playing?”
“A Haydn piano sonata.”
“It was much more cheerful than what I’ve heard you play on previous occasions.”
She shrugged, her fingers caressing the ivory keys gently. “I’m in a much more cheerful frame of mind, I suppose,” she murmured.
A spurt of pleasure filled him until he thought he would burst. “Will you play it again for me?”
She dipped her head in acknowledgement, raising her hands over the keys, and began to play.
