Sonata for a Scoundrel Page 8

  Clara’s own chignon was far too simple, though she had added ostrich plumes dyed to match the teal of her dress—and blessed Madame Lamond again for including them. Still, her coiffure was noticeably lacking compared to the profusion of rolls and curls so popular with the ladies of the court.

  Darien Reynard laughed—how quickly she had come to recognize that sound—and she glanced over at him. She could make out a bit of his black coat, a gleam of light on his dark hair as he bent his head to answer yet another gorgeously gowned lady. Clara sighed and turned her now-empty cup of lemonade between her gloved palms. The air in the gallery was close and sticky, and she longed for the sharp sea wind. At least on the beach her solitude had felt like part of the greater whole.

  That morning she’d risen early, finally free to follow the call of the ocean. All night the waves had hushed through her dreams, beckoned her to the shore. In the early light the water lay pale and lucent. The strand behind the hotel had been quiet but for a few people: a boy prodding at the pebble-littered beach with a stick while his mother looked on, a white-capped girl hurrying head-down, her cloak wrapped about her thin figure.

  Small stones had clattered softly under Clara’s feet as she walked forward, directly to the water’s edge. A constantly changing edge, a fascinating edge, where the sea pulled and sucked at the land. Heedless of the foam at her feet, she had bent and dabbled her fingers, then brought them to her mouth. Salt. But not a simple brine, for there had been a wildness, a rough tang to the flavor. Her first taste of the sea had not disappointed.

  Clara sighed and took a shallow breath of the cloying air, so far removed from the freshness of the shore. She leaned back, simply another inanimate pillow lumped on the settee, and studied the pattern of the carpet. The cross-hatched red and gold was obscured by a variety of splendid footwear, but she had managed to count forty-four repetitions when a well-modulated voice broke her concentration.

  “What have we here? ’Tis a neglected diamond, left to shine in brilliant solitude.”

  She glanced up to find a brown-haired gentleman beside her. His look was assessing, and for a moment she felt like a bird watched by a cat.

  His companion, a fellow with a thin nose and richly brocaded waistcoat, nodded.

  “Indeed, but her beauty has obviously blinded you. She is not so colorless as a diamond, not at all.” He raised a quizzing glass and surveyed her through it. “I declare her a rare sapphire.”

  “Milady.” The first speaker went on one knee before her, in a decidedly theatrical gesture. “You must forgive our poor manners—it is only that we are struck by your air and must make your acquaintance. I am Lord Rawley, and this stiff fool is my friend, Viscount Tilson.”

  “Not so foolish that I cannot spot a perfect jewel at twenty paces,” the viscount replied. He tucked his glass away and made her a very precise bow. “But please, tell us who you are before my friend perishes of curiosity at your feet.”

  “I am Miss Clara Becker.” She could not help smiling at them in turn.

  “Indeed.” Lord Rawley leaned closer and plucked the empty lemonade cup from her hands. “May I fetch you some more refreshment, Miss Becker? I declare, it would make my evening complete.”

  “No, thank you.” Amusement bubbled through her, though she knew she ought not to encourage the fellow. Clearly he was a dandy.

  “Say yes,” the viscount urged, “for then Rawley will go away and we might share some pleasant conversation in his absence.”

  “Your conversation is as empty as this vessel.” Lord Rawley waved the cup for emphasis. “No, what she needs is a bit of fresh air. I beg you, Miss Becker, allow me to escort you on a brief promenade. There is no better sight than the Pavilion lit up at night. There are the most clever gaslights outside. Really, it’s indescribable.”

  “Too true,” Viscount Tilson said. “For a man with your limited vocabulary.”

  Clara blinked at the speed of their conversational volleys. “It is exceedingly kind of you,” she began, “but I really don’t think…”

  “I must admit,” the viscount said, tilting his head, “the air inside is warmer than one would like, although it is far worse in summer. We must be grateful the king chose to repair here for the winter holidays.”

  “And the marriage of his—” Lord Rawley checked himself, though Clara was certain he had meant to say illegitimate, “daughter.” He exchanged a look with his friend that Clara could not decipher, then turned his brown eyes to her again. “Dear, dear Miss Becker. Do not say the thought of a breath of cool night air is disagreeable to you.”

  “I do not have my pelisse,” she said.

  The excuse sounded weak, even to her ears. Still, she did not think she should be stepping out with two newly met gentlemen. It did not seem quite the thing. She glanced toward the set of floor-to-ceiling doors—one standing open to the night. There were a few figures on the terrace, strolling slowly to and fro.

  “You are among the court now.” Lord Rawley stood and offered his hand. “No need to spend the evening perched here like a milkmaid on a stool. You will not be gone above two minutes. Why, your absence will scarcely be noticed.”

  That was true enough. Indeed, for the better part of an hour she had sat abandoned, her presence completely unremarked. Despite being acutely aware of every step Master Reynard took about the room, she was invisible to him. As for Nicholas… She shook her head. Let her brother enjoy his success.

  “Very well,” she said. “A short stroll.”

  It would break the monotony, and her new acquaintances were diverting.

  “I shall recite a sonnet to your eyes.” Lord Rawley took her hand and drew her to her feet, then tucked her arm firmly through his. “Or, no, to your hair, as fine and pale as moonlight. Or perhaps—”

  “Pray, do not torture us with your verse,” Viscount Tilson said. “Miss Becker has done nothing to merit such a terrible fate.”

  Lord Rawley ignored this comment as he led Clara out through the open door. “There now, you must admit this is better.”

  It was. The cold air bathed her face and soothed the sting of heat from her cheeks. Clara took a long breath, savoring the salt tang, though it was cool enough that she would not like to linger overlong.

  Viscount Tilson stepped up to her other side. “The dome of the Saloon is quite impressive, but we need to walk out a bit farther to admire it properly.”

  He linked his arm through hers.

  A frisson of alarm went through her. She was, to all effects, trapped between the two men. Clara tried to slow her steps as they maneuvered her toward the shadows.

  “I think this is far enough,” she said. It was difficult to sound at ease with her throat tight from apprehension.

  “Ah no, my dear,” Lord Rawley said. “It is not nearly far enough.” Something in his tone made her skin prickle.

  “Gentlemen, I must insist we return to the gallery at once.” She forced her voice to be calm, though fear flavored her mouth.

  “We will return you, in good time. But first there is so much we’d like to show you.”

  Lord Rawley held her arm fast and leaned uncomfortably close, the scent of his cologne thick about her. The look he gave her was predatory, the guise of the lighthearted dandy wiped from his expression.

  Clara swallowed. It seemed she had rather dangerously misjudged her new acquaintances.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Clara thought furiously. Her escorts had cut her out of the fold quite neatly, and she was certain neither Nicholas or Master Reynard had noticed her departure from the gallery.

  The only thing she could do was scream. Surely she was close enough to the terrace that someone would hear. They must hear. She drew in a deep breath—but before she could cry out, a new voice cut through the night.

  “Stop.” The tone was one of absolute command, and her unwelcome escorts abruptly halted. “Return Miss Becker at once.”

  They pivoted to face the Pavilion, and Clara sagged with rel
ief. Master Reynard stood facing them, fists on his hips, his expression forbidding in the dim light.

  Lord Rawley released his hold on her as if scalded.

  “Master Reynard, we beg your pardon.” The menace she had heard in his voice was entirely gone. He looked like a cur cowering before a mastiff. “We didn’t realize she was your—”

  “Go.”

  Master Reynard jerked his head, and the man hurried past without another word, giving the maestro a wide berth.

  “Viscount Tilson,” Master Reynard said, stepping down onto the grass. “I would have thought better of you.”

  The viscount inclined his head stiffly and led Clara to within a pace of the gathering storm that was Darien Reynard. He held out his hand, and Viscount Tilson all but pushed her into his arms.

  “We did no harm,” the viscount said. “But I see we were mistaken in our assumptions. My apologies. Good evening, sir. Miss Becker.”

  He walked away, his gait suggesting he would have liked to run, but for his dignity. As soon as he was gone, Master Reynard took her by the shoulders.

  “Miss Becker,” he said, his voice hard. “I had thought you too sensible to be lured out by a pair of rakes intent upon your seduction.”

  Clara blinked up at him, the anger in his voice unmistakable. “I really don’t think—”

  “You must start thinking. This is nothing like your old life. There are dangers here you need to comprehend, men who will be attracted to your beauty and wish to take advantage.”

  He thought her beautiful? A rush of heat sped through her, dispelling some of the cold fear she had felt moments ago.

  “We were only—”

  “Another few paces and you’d have been out of the light altogether. Look.”

  He moved forward, still holding her, and she took two hasty steps back. She could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint spice of his scent.

  “We are completely out of sight,” he said. “Anything could happen to you—would have, had I not seen you slip out the door with that pair of knaves.”

  “Surely someone… I was about to scream, I assure you.”

  “That would have been easily dealt with, too.”

  Clara narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think so. I am not as helpless as you seem to believe, Master Reynard.”

  “Go ahead.” He lowered his voice. “Cry out.”

  “It would not do for anyone to find us out here.”

  “Now you consider it. Come, Miss Becker. Try me.” His fingers wrapped more firmly about her shoulders, his thumbs resting just at the edge of her bodice.

  Oh dear. The way he said the words made a curious tingle brush over her. She tried not to notice how close his hands were to her bare skin.

  “Very well.”

  She took a quick breath and opened her mouth to scream. In an instant, he pulled her smoothly against him. His warm lips descended, covering hers completely, and her cry dissipated into a gasp, a sigh exhaled into his open mouth.

  Darien Reynard was kissing her, and it was the fiercest sensation.

  His mouth moved possessively over hers, demanding and hungry, and Clara was caught up in a current of wild, passionate energy. She felt that same current when he played, but instead of his violin he had her beneath his hands. Oh, but his touch sent music vibrating through her, sweet and singing. The spaces beneath her skin rang with the notes of his kiss.

  After a long, exhilarating moment, he made to lift his head, but she wove her fingers through his hair and moved her lips beneath his, mimicking his sure caress. He made a rough sound in the back of his throat and slid one arm around her, molding her against him. His other hand drifted to her neckline, the thumb stroking along her bare collarbone, and she was lost.

  “What the devil!” Nicholas’s voice sliced through the darkness. “Bloody hell, get away from my sister!”

  Darien Reynard thrust Clara from him. Too late. The blaze inside her died instantly to ash. Their kiss had ended too soon—and far, far too late.

  “Mr. Becker.” Darien turned, keeping himself between Clara and her brother. “It’s not what it seems.”

  Clara took a halting step forward. She swallowed, her throat tight with shame and fear.

  “How could it be other than what it seems?” Nicholas’s voice was hard, fury giving it a biting edge. “Prostituting my sister was not part of our agreement, sir. We will return to London immediately.”

  He brushed roughly past the master. Taking Clara by the arm, he began towing her back toward the terrace.

  “Nicholas!” She yanked from his grasp. How could she explain? “We cannot leave the tour. Master Reynard was only demonstrating to me—”

  “I could see what he was demonstrating, and I’ll have none of it.” Nicholas glared at Darien. “I’d foolishly discounted your wicked reputation. But you will not have another chance to lay hands on my sister. I should call you out, sir.”

  “No!” Clara stepped in front of her brother and laid a hand on his chest.

  So quickly the most wonderful experience of her life had turned to disaster. The very idea of Nicholas dueling Darien Reynard made her blood turn to ice. She was not sure her brother had ever even held a pistol, let alone fired one.

  “Listen to me, Nicholas,” she said. “Think of Papa. Think of what we left back in London. We cannot return to that.”

  She would do anything to keep from slipping back into that gray, anxious existence.

  Darien spoke, an undercurrent of tension beneath his words. “There is no excuse for my behavior. I offer my most sincere apologies, Miss Becker. And Nicholas, I swear to you I will not touch your sister again. Stay. We have just begun. Don’t let this dreadful mistake be the end of things.”

  “It is the end,” Nicholas said with a sharp shake of his head. “Clara and I will return to London at first light. And you, sir, are not welcome to perform the compositions of Nicholas Becker ever again.”

  “But—” Clara began.

  “No.” Her brother cut her off. “We will go immediately to the hotel and pack our belongings. The clothing, of course, belongs to Master Reynard and will remain behind.”

  Darien’s face was set, unreadable in the dim light. He made them a bow—very correct, very formal. It was clear he knew that arguing with Nicholas would gain him nothing.

  “I will summon the coach for you,” he said. “The footmen will escort you from the Pavilion. Good night.”

  He moved past them without meeting Clara’s eyes, strode across the terrace, and disappeared back into the Royal Pavilion. Silence, heavy with failure, filled the air between her and her brother.

  “Nicholas.” Clara stared into his eyes, beseeching. “I have been imprudent tonight, but truly, it was not Darien Reynard’s fault. In fact, he saved me from worse trouble…”

  She could not continue, could not risk seeing her brother storm back into the gallery, intent on confronting the knaves who had led her outside. Better that was left unsaid. She would not embroil Nicholas in a senseless duel to protect her honor.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets, rumpling the elegant line of his coat. “Damn the money, anyway. Your virtue’s worth far more.”

  “My virtue was not in danger.”

  She tried not to dwell on how she had felt in Darien’s arms, the feel of his fingers moving over her bare skin as he tasted her lips. The kiss he had called a “dreadful mistake.” She shivered.

  “It’s too cold out here.” Nicholas pulled his hands from his pockets and took Clara’s elbow, steering back toward the terrace. “High time we were quit of this blasted place.”

  ***

  Dare tossed an extra cravat into his traveling bag, and ignored the look on Henri’s face.

  “You will not accompany me,” he said. “Don’t argue.”

  “But, monsieur.” Henri lifted his hands in dismay. “Your boots, your coat—”

  “I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself. The only way to convince Nicholas Becker to c
ontinue on the tour is to remove myself from his immediate vicinity. I have faith in you, Henri. If anyone can talk Nicholas around, it’s you.”

  Eyes dark with worry, Henri shook his head. “You place too much trust in me, monsieur. What shall I tell him?”

  “Anything, so long as he agrees to stay on.” Dare tucked his shaving kit into the bag and closed it firmly. “But I will also write a letter, if you wish.”

  “Please do so.”

  The writing desk in the suite held paper, pens, and ink. The force of Dare’s impatience splattered the ink across the page, and he made himself slow, forming his angular words more legibly.

  Nicholas,

  Without you and your compositions, this tour is nothing. I entreat you to reconsider. Do not throw away your chance at greatness. Think of what you will be giving up. This door will not open again.

  Take your sister back to London, but do not abandon the tour. Henri will accompany you in escorting your sister home, and then you can rejoin me in Southampton. I will increase your salary commensurately.

  Again, my sincere apologies.

  - Darien Reynard

  Henri took the letter with a doubtful expression. “Monsieur. Were I Miss Becker’s brother, I would not like to continue my association with the man who took such liberties with my sister.”

  “Damnation, Henri! It was just a kiss.” Dare would never admit to anyone how quickly he had lost control of himself.

  Anger—at Clara, at his own inattention, at the court that turned a blind eye—had made him act recklessly. He should never have kissed her. But, Christ, that kiss. He had meant it only as a warning.

  A warning that turned to a conflagration between one breath and the next. Suddenly there had been nothing but the night, Clara’s lips beneath his, and a blaze of desire, burning bright and hot.

  He had behaved abominably. If Nicholas had not found them, Dare would have been as bad as any rogue of the ton. He’d been a heartbeat away from parting her lips and licking his tongue into the moist hollow of her mouth, an instant from slipping his fingers beneath her bodice and caressing the sweet curve of her breast.