Page 45 of In Scandal with the Duke
The soft, mellifluous sound of the piano filled the air, its notes rich and emotive, drawing her to a room on the first floor. She eased the door open a fraction, just enough to see James seated at the piano. His hands moved with effortless grace across the keys. He was utterly absorbed in his music, his expression one of deep concentration mingled with a palpable passion for the piece he played. She stood captivated not just by the music but by the rare, unguarded moment of the man before her.
His playing was powerful. It was only when a tear traced a path down her cheek that she realized the emotional depth his playing had stirred within her. Startled by her reaction, Elizabeth turned abruptly to leave.
“Stay,” James’s voice, firm yet gentle, halted her retreat.
She hadn’t realized he was aware of her presence. Elizabeth walked over and sat beside him on the piano bench. She ran her fingers lightly over the keys. “You play beautifully, James.”
“My father taught me,” he said.
“Not a tutor?”
“It is not the purview of a duke to learn how to play musical instruments,” James explained, his fingers lightly dancing along the keys.
“Why had he chosen to teach you?”
“My father was a second son, and he was never supposed to inherit. He loved music, and his mother indulged his passion, over the years hiring several masters for him. When I was a lad of about five years, I followed the sound of music to a private room of his, climbed onto my father’s lap, and listened. He was pleased by my interest and started teaching me that day.”
“You miss him,” she said softly.
“I suppose I do,” he admitted. “My father often said he was not meant to be the duke, and that was the reason he was so poor at estate management. He focused on his passion and did not see that the people he trusted to run his estates were greedy and drove him to the brink of ruin. Even when he discovered the terrible state of our finances he still could not save us.”
For a moment, it seemed he might continue, but then he glanced toward the window where rain pattered gently against the glass. “Let’s get you safely home.”
Elizabeth nodded, feeling a complex mix of emotions as they rose from the bench. The night had peeled back layers of James’s character she had never expected to see, revealing depths that both fascinated and moved her.
James escorted her to the carriage already awaiting them outside. He assisted her up and tugged her into his arms once they were seated. He seemed contemplative, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, contented with the silence. The carriage rumbled into motion, and they reached her aunt’s home only a few short minutes later. James assisted her out, and once again, Elizabeth went around to the servants’ entrance to sneak inside. This risk she took to be with him was alarming, yet she could not stop the craving she owned for him in her heart.
Before disappearing into the shadows of the night, Elizabeth rose onto her toes and planted a tender kiss on James’s jaw. “Sleep well, James,” she whispered. Then, with a lingering glance, she turned and slipped through the servants’ door.
The house was silent, suggesting her aunt and mother were still out. In a few more minutes, the servants would also rise to start their day. With quiet, hurried steps, Elizabeth made her way to her bedchamber. Once inside, she shed her garments and climbed into bed, the soft sheets a cold contrast to the warmth of James’s embrace.
Though their night had been delightful, there was a heavy ache inside her heart. Every moment spent with James, laughing and talking at Vauxhall Gardens, playing chess, their long conversations, every kiss and touch on her body was seared into her thoughts. There was a shattering awareness that she was falling in love with him. The truth was inescapable. She might have to end their affair sooner than anticipated so that she was not caught in the agonizing coils of loving a man who did not believe in sentiments or marriage.
* * *
James stoodby the windows in his bedchamber, a glass of whisky in his hand. He gazed out at the dark skies, watching the lightning fork through the clouds in intermittent bursts and the rain streaking down the glass. Luckily, he had escorted Elizabeth home before the unexpected deluge arrived.
Will you miss me, James? I daresay I will look back on our moments and long for you fiercely.
Those words echoed in his mind, haunting him with their earnest intensity. He lifted the glass of whisky to his lips, taking a deep swallow, trying to drown the echo of her voice. It had only been two hours since he last felt Elizabeth’s warmth against him, her presence a source of unexpected contentment that he had never known before. Now, he found himself missing the light in her eyes when she smiled, the engaging flow of their conversation, the simple pleasure of her company.
James frowned, a sense of unease settling over him. He had never missed a lover before, never allowed thoughts to linger beyond shared moments of pleasure. Attachment was something he had always avoided, seeing no benefit in tying himself emotionally to another.
Yet here he was, feeling restless and unsettled, wanting to see Elizabeth again when he’d loved her several times that night. Yet it was not her body he craved. James realized with startling clarity that he was not satisfied with the prospect of having her in his life for just a few fleeting weeks until the season ended. He stiffened at this awareness, shocked by the depth of his own desires.
How much more did he want from her? A few more weeks? Months? Or years? Did Elizabeth feel the same?
Recalling the sweet intensity of her gaze, the way she tenderly framed his jaw and kissed him—a mere brush of her lips against his, yet it had conveyed such longing that a part of him had reached out for her.
“I want you so damn much, Elizabeth,” he murmured into the quiet room.
The possibility that he might be falling in love with Miss Elizabeth Armstrong drew a mocking laugh from James. Romantic sensibilities had always been a notion he dismissed, yet he found no other way to describe the intense, gnawing hunger he felt for her. As the storm outside raged on, James couldn’t help but feel that, perhaps, his own life was about to undergo a transformation just as powerful and inevitable.
His musing was abruptly interrupted by a ruckus emanating from the lower levels. Frowning, he left the solitude of his bedchamber and made his way down the winding staircase. The sounds that greeted him were unmistakable—loud, boisterous singing tinged with the unmistakable slur of intoxication.
He paused on the steps as the scene below came into view. His loyal butler, Mr. Brooks, was precariously supporting Alexander, the Earl of Bainbridge, who appeared to be inebriated. Alexander’s uncoordinated attempts at maintaining his balance were causing both men to stagger dangerously.
What the hell?James rushed down the stairs, and they precariously wobbled.
