Page 83 of Duke Most Wicked

Viola beamed at her pupil in a way that made West’s breathing hitch. She truly did love his sisters. They were so lucky to have benefited from her tutelage and her friendship.

Every morning when West awoke he thought about Viola and how to make her smile that day.

Are you certain you’re not smitten with her?There was Jax’s voice again.

Was he?

The audience thought the musicale had reached its conclusion. Some had even begun to stand. West quickly took the stage, lifting his arms to quiet the guests. “Thank you for attending our musicale. There’s one last performer that I think you’ll very much enjoy. We have in this room thedaughter of the celebrated composer Mr. Louis Beaton. Please stand, Miss Viola Beaton.”

Viola rose gracefully. He avoided looking at her for fear the audience might see his admiration.

“If you’ll give her a warm welcome, perhaps she’ll be induced to honor us with a performance.”

The applause was thunderous. Everyone took their seats again, anticipation coursing through the room. Viola’s name on everyone’s lips.

West felt quite pleased with himself. Viola wasn’t meant to be hiding in the wings, turning pages for other musicians.

She was a shining, brilliant star. Anyone could see that.

As West listened to her play he stopped thinking and his body relaxed. This must be one of her father’s works. It was strident and at the same time subtle. It made youfeel. You couldn’t remain impassive.

The way she played piano, rapt and swaying with the music, her fingers so assured and the sound of it, heartbreakingly beautiful, was just so sensual and superb. The music entered him, inhabited his mind, took control, and he was hers. There was nowhere else he’d rather be than here. Listening to her play.

She seemed to have forgotten that anyone was watching her.

It was her ability to lose herself in the music, to become an instrument herself. To give this stunning gift to the onlookers. Every person in the room rapt, captive, some openly in tears, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

Some with smiles lighting their faces. Others in a trance, watching her, swaying with her; when she moved, when her hands crashed down upon the bass keys, they moved as well, as though she were their puppet master, and the music had entered them as well, and she was controlling their bodies.

She’d find pleasure in the same way that she played. Giving herself to it.

She’d sing and sigh in his ear, holding him while he stroked her smooth skin and found the hidden places, the whorl of her navel, the heat and honey between her thighs.

He wanted to taste her, tease her, until she sang a whole symphony for his ears alone.

She might be his music instructor, but he’d be the one teaching her the art of love. How two bodies came together. Bodies that walked around all day wearing so many layers of clothing, eyes and faces hidden by bonnets, toes hidden by boots, fingers by gloves.

So many layers of propriety to peel away until they were there, in his bed, with nothing between them. Then they could properly explore, learn the lay of the land.

How had she been coming and going from his home for so many years without him noticing her? He’d been so blind. He’d been sunk inside his mind. His mind that trapped him, like he was an old sea chest, wrapped round with chains and flung into the ocean. Happiness couldn’t escape from such a prison. But Viola had found a way to reach him.

She played the final notes, drawing them out with consummate musicianship.

The audience burst into applause, and an audible murmur of approbation swelled around him. One gentleman even leaped to his feet shouting “Bravo, bravo, Miss Beaton!” as though he wanted to throw roses at her feet.

In that moment, it hit West with blinding clarity. It wasn’t right for this woman to be relegated to the role of caretaker, amanuensis, or music instructor... she belonged on the stage.

She couldn’t hide away behind those plain gowns and that severe hairstyle. Everyone knew the truth now.

She could be playing for kings and emperors. She could have the world at her feet.

She could have him at her feet.

Scattering rose petals over her body and tracing their path with his lips. Loving her body and paying tribute to her power.

His sisters gathered round her, smiling and congratulating her. They all joined hands and took a bow. Footmen drew the curtains closed.

West started toward the curtains, wanting to congratulate Viola, to tell her some of the thoughts crowding his mind, when Countess Chittenden, in a yellow turban ornamented by two red feathers, pushed her daughter, Lady Winifred, forward.

---