Page 12 of The Dove
“Not hiding so much as enjoying country life,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.
“I cannot say I blame you,” George said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve heard the hunting there is magnificent.”
Adam snorted sarcastically. “That, it is … better to be the hunter than the prey, eh?”
George chuckled at that. “You are right about that. London during the Season makes me feel like a prized buck being inspected by every eligible chit who crosses my path. Mother is insufferable. She has steered me toward at least six debutantes this evening alone.”
Adam did not reply to that, simply lifting his champagne flute and finishing it off.
The fool did not know how fortunate he was to have a mother at all. What he wouldn’t give to have his own mother here to nag him about marriage and steer eligible chits into his path. He had almost made up his mind to say so when Mrs. Bellingham lightly tapped a fork against the side of her champagne glass, gaining the attention of her guests. Biting back a curse, he swiftly grabbed another champagne flute from a passing footman. His window of opportunity for escape had just closed, the little intermission having gone by faster than he’d expected.
As they were herded back to their seats, conversation eventually faded to a dull buzz, then dispersed altogether. Downing his champagne in two swallows, he handed his flute off to yet another footman and moved toward the back row of chairs pointed at a small, elevated dais in the center of the room. Perhaps he could slip away while everyone was engrossed in the performance. He’d been here far longer than he’d intended as it was, and the room had begun to feel too small, closing in around him more and more with each passing second. Being accustomed to the large, open rooms of Dunnottar and the sprawling countryside of Scotland, he could not fathom how the residents of London could stand their cramped townhomes and overcrowded city streets.
Noticing that a harp and stool had been placed at the center of the dais, he twisted his mouth to smother an amused smirk. He’d heard whispers of the absent harpist and wondered whose milky-faced daughter had been coerced into performing in her place. He could not decide if watching the unfortunate chit struggle through her compositions would prove tortuous or entertaining.
The silence in the room erupted into whispers and gasps as said chit entered the room, her gown a sweep of navy silk gleaming in the candlelight as she ascended the dais.
Adam’s hand curled into a fist as she sank down onto the stool as if it were a throne, keeping her back erect and her chin tilted at the haughty angle of a queen. His fingers itched to wrap around the slender column of that graceful neck, to leave his bite marks all over the delicate slopes of her bared shoulders. She kept her eyes lowered, making him want to approach her, grasp her hair and tilt her head back until she raised those eyes to his … until she looked at him and those deep blue depths shimmered with unshed tears and she made that little sound of fear mingled with arousal in the back of her throat.
While he wrestled against his baser urges, the shock of laying eyes on their substitute harpist mingled with annoyance in his gut. He was supposed to confront her whenhewas ready, appearing in front of her at the opportune moment.
Instead, she had caught him off guard, turning up in the very last place he would have expected her—and in the most unexpected way. He almost laughed aloud at the irony of it all—because, ofcourse, their harpist couldn’t have been just any chit. Following the predictably unpredictable pattern of his existence, a twist of fate would place her at the center of the room he occupied. It had even ensured she was set on display, so he could stare at her openly, tracing the lines and curves of her body, running his gaze over her from head to toe just as he wished to do with his hands.
He saw the moment his little dove recognized his presence in the room, drawing satisfaction from the way her breasts swelled as if she sucked in and held a sharp breath. The way her eyes flickered up to meet his for a fraction of a second before lowering again. The way she took her lip between her teeth and shifted on her stool, trying to compose herself in order to perform. One corner of his mouth twitched, a smirk he couldn’t control pulling at his lips in the face of her discomfort.
It did not take much imagination to picture the gooseflesh appearing on the surface of her skin, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Like any creature stalked by its predator, she sensed the danger lurking just on the other side of the room. His mouth practically watered for a taste of her, for the sensation of her skin giving way beneath his teeth as he latched onto her and closed his jaw.
It required every ounce of his discipline to keep from stomping down the narrow aisle between rows of chairs and grasp her by her hair, dragging her out of the room in full view of the Bellinghams’ guests.
Instead, he slouched in his seat a bit and watched as she lifted her fingers to the harp strings and imagined those delicate hands of hers on his body, sliding over his chest and abdomen down to his cock. As she plucked out the notes of her first piece, he soaked her in with his gaze, something he’d done often when she’d been with him at Dunnottar. Seeing her this way—head inclined, gaze lowered, expression softened—brought back memories of afternoons stretched out on the settee in the music room, his ledgers resting untouched in his lap as he listened to her practice.
The piece she performed now was one he’d heard her play before—Jan Ladislav Dussek’sThe Lass of Richmond Hill. She executed it as effortlessly tonight as she had months before, her fingers flying over the strings and creating the sort of heavenly notes that could soothe any savage beast. He found himself moving his fingers with her, his mind plucking the notes out of the air as if he could see them; as if by moving his own hands, he could make music with her. A symptom of what his mother had called his ‘gift’—this ability to understand music, its muscles and ligaments stretched over the bones of structural notes. He’d never fully understood it, simply recognizing this as a part of himself, as much as his brown hair and peculiar eyes.
He was loath to take his eyes off her, but could not help glancing around the room to observe the others who watched her. The whispers upon her entrance had faded, and their pious judgment seemed to have momentarily ceased, giving way to appreciation for her artistry. He found tears in the eyes of some women, those who were moved by the music floating up from the fingertips of a fiery vision in silk.
When the first piece ended, the room erupted into thunderous applause, the sound seeming to startle her out of a trance. She blinked and stared about the room as if shocked by it, the reaction that was her due after such a beautiful performance. He joined the others in clapping for her, noticing that she pointedly avoided his gaze while looking about the room, inclining her head graciously. Her lips moved, and though he could not hear her, he clearly read the ‘thank you’ that fell from her mouth.
Then, the clamor died away, and she began another composition, then flowed seamlessly into another. No more applause came, as if the entire audience had collectively decided to hold its breath, to hold still and sit in the thrall of her expertise.
Even Adam forgot himself for a moment and simply sank into the music, his fingers tapping out accompanying piano chords against his thigh for every note she played. His posture eased, every muscle in his body except for his insatiable cock going pliant, even the harsh frown that seemed to perpetually slash across the lower half of his face easing away.
By the time she’d finished playing, he felt as if he’d been floating on the surface of a stream for hours, the water flowing from the tips of her fingers and washing over him. The sudden commotion of clapping made him resurface, other sounds eventually filling his ears as the final strains of her last composition dissipated into nothing.
Shaking his head to clear it, he joined their applause politely, rising to join them in a standing ovation. Not just because the music had moved him … but so that he could keep his eyes on her, see her over the heads of the people on their feet in front of him. She slowly and gracefully rose from her seat and executed a flawless curtsy, a bland smile stretching her lips. Such a pretty little porcelain doll, putting on airs for the same people who would gossip shamelessly about her once she’d left the room. A well-trained little bird.
But, he’d trained her to do other things … like accept the crash of his palm against her arse or take the length of his cock down her throat. He’d taught her to kneel and to arch her back into that precise curve that let his cock in as deep as it would go. His thumb caressed the pads of his fingers in anticipation of reminding her, of having her in his hands once again … his to control, to rule, to bend and break.
She left the room on swift feet, descending from the dais and making a beeline toward a door Adam assumed led into an adjoining room. He clenched his teeth when the panel slid closed behind her, blocking her from view.
As the others took their seats and waited for the next performance to begin, he quietly made his exit. No one noticed him slip out, their attention remaining on the dais and the beautiful opera singer resuming her place in the spotlight for an encore. A footman went to fetch his greatcoat while he stood in the townhome’s vestibule and tried not to tap his foot impatiently against the floor as the butler attempted not to let on that he observed Adam from the corner of his eye. If it wasn’t his hair earning him such perusal, then it was his reputation. Considering that word of his ruination of Daphne was still making the rounds in London, he assumed it must be the latter.
Once he’d been given his things, he stepped out onto the front stairs. Despite the frigid chill in the air, he had opted to walk to and from the musicale. It would serve well to clear his head now.
Reaching into the inner breast pocket of his greatcoat, he took hold of the slim cigarillo case and matchbook he had stashed there. The fragrant smoke curled along with his breath on the night air as he lit it, then shook the match between his fingers to put out the little flame. He took the stairs two at a time to the street, clenching the cheroot between his teeth. He’d picked up the habit while on his Grand Tour in Spain, enjoying the tobacco in this form as opposed to the disgusting practice of taking pinches of snuff. The smell soothed him as much as the taste and the slight tingle in his veins after a few puffs … though nothing could take the edge off completely now that he’d seen her.
His little dove.
Taking a long drag of the cigarillo, he attempted to shift his thoughts someplace else. He had a plan, and it did not include going after her like some lovesick fool chasing a bitch in heat. He would not give in to the impatience that the sight of her had inspired in him. He was stronger than that, always in control. Always.
