He twisted his lips to the side, clearly close to telling her absolutely not, but then something in him softened. Who knew because who knew the inner workings of this man’s mind, but there—the softening of the edges. He’d melt.
“Please,” she said again.
He sighed. But he smiled, too. “Very well. But there’s no room on the bench. Go.”
She jumped up and rounded the pianoforte, stood on the other side of it from him, her feet cold on the bare wood boards. She danced them a bit, trying to warm up after the loss of his heat.
“Get a wrapper first, Clara.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
She darted behind the curtain, found her wrapper still resting rumpled on the end of the bed, and by the time she’d thrown it on, hugged it tight around her body, and ran back to the instrument, to the man sitting at it, a soft melody curled round her. He hummed as he played, his fingers lightly hitting the keys, barely producing a sound. But in the midnight stillness of their room, she heard every note as clearly as if he played it wild and free and loud at midday.
The humming changed into song with words sung in a deep baritone a bit like every warm thing she’d ever encountered. Better, though, because of the rough edge to it. Silk and shagreen.
“A spirited lady who caught my eye, she sings her song to call me, with milky skin and rosy lip, she sings her song to taunt me.” Then he dipped back into humming once more, mumblinga few lyrics here and there as if he no longer quite remembered the words. Who could care about lyrics, though, when distracted by the man playing. He cast shadows over the instrument. Surely making it impossible to see the keys, even in the full light of the moon. His fingers knew the way, nonetheless. His hands, arms, shoulders, all moved together. He danced more than he played, and when he could not remember a word, the tip of his tongue appeared between his lips as he raised his scrunched face to the ceiling, the lyric caught in his humming throat. She chuckled and moved with him. The incomplete song stole her away. The pianoforte. Her. Him. Nothing else. Except the joy of watching him move, watching him weave music out of nothing.
She clapped when he finished. And she mourned, too. What was he doing in a dower house with a hammer when he could dothat?
She curled her hands into her belly. “You are wonderful! The song, didyouwrite it?” She leaned over the pianoforte, wanting to see him more clearly.
He laughed and rolled his shoulders. “Yes, I wrote it. The music and the lyrics. It sold well, too. Has become one of my more popular tunes.”
She liked that note of pride in his voice. Quite a bit. But something elsenotto her liking. That sour feeling squirming through her? Jealousy? Ridiculous. Yet… true.
“Atlas?”
“Hm?”
“What spirited lady caught your eye? Do you still have feelings for her?”
His laughter boomed across the room.
“It is a reasonable question, Atlas Bromley. You wrote the song about a spirited lass catching your eye. I know I am not your wife in truth, but I am in the eyes of the law, and surely I should know if?—”
“I’m pining for another lady?” He spoke around his laughter. “Heartbroken and shackled to someone other than the love of my heart?”
She sniffed. “Precisely. You said yourself you were a rogue once upon a time.”
“I’m not any longer, and I’m not pining.” He stood, rounded the pianoforte, and stopped beside her. His hands found her hips and turned her until she faced him. He grinned, the devil.
She tugged away from him.
He held her tight. “Her name is Bessy. She’s quite the beautiful specimen.”
“Specimen! As if a woman is a bug pinned for your observation?”
He laughed again, tugged her closer. “Are you jealous, Clara?”
“No.”Holy Hepplewhite, what a lie!
He dipped low, pressed his hips against hers, and brushed her ear with his lips. “Bessy is a cow.”
She rocked backward, hanging her weight in the strength of his arms at her back and pressing her palms into his chest. Immediate distraction. She’d almost forgotten about that chest. She patted it, shaking away the haze of lust his muscle shifted over her like a warm blanket. What had she been about to say? What had he said?
Oh yes.
“A cow?”
“Yes, Bessy is a milk cow. Lovely old gal.”
