Sonata for a Scoundrel (25 page)

“Yes, my beautiful one,” he murmured. “Find your release for me—let me see it.”

The feel of his hand closing about her taut nipple tipped her into a surge of sensation. Waves of fire clenched through her body, ripping a soft scream from her throat. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. She was swept by tingling heat, every inch of her body suddenly, fiercely alive. If not for Darien holding her, she would have fallen in a fluid heap upon the floor.

The waves receded, leaving her trembling and languorous in his arms. He gently lifted her leg and set her foot back down on the carpet, let the chemise drop to cover the astonishing place between her legs. The place he coaxed such untoward sensations from. Oh, she’d touched herself before, curious, but had only ever felt a vague, dissatisfied tickle. Nothing like the surging, powerful sensations he evoked in her.

He took a step back and began unlacing her corset, dark head bent to his task. As the stays loosened, Clara took a deep breath. The corset slipped to the floor, and she shed her chemise on top of it. No modesty—not when she knew how the sight of her nakedness affected him. She could see the erratic pulse in his neck, the stark hunger on his face.

With a sideways look, she set one foot on the chair again and untied her ribbon garter. Slowly, slowly, she pushed the silken stocking down. His eyes followed the movements of her hands and he licked his lips. She repeated the action with her other leg, then turned to face him, naked and breathless.

“Now what?” she asked.

His smile was feral, with an edge of triumph. “Now we move on to the advanced course of study.”

He untied his cravat, casually, as if he were alone, undressing after a concert. His fingers on his waistcoat were unhurried.

“Let me.” She reached to help him with the buttons, but he brushed her hand aside.

“So impatient. But now it’s your turn to watch.”

Despite his studied movements, his voice was full of checked urgency, as if he were eager to tear his clothing off and only rigid control kept him from doing so. The deliberation tightened the coil of tension winding about them, set a spark of awareness low in her center.

He pulled off his waistcoat and began to unbutton his shirt at that same maddening pace. A sigh of impatience escaped her. At last the flat planes of his chest were exposed, his skin framed by the brilliant whiteness of his formal shirt. He shrugged the garment off over shoulders sleek with muscle.

Now the trousers. His hands paused on the flap, then he loosened them and his drawers together and let them fall.

Oh. Oh my. She had not truly seen him last night, but he was as imposing as she had thought. Her face must have reflected her momentary uncertainty, for he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

“I’m not.”

It was not fear. It was desire and anticipation and the knowledge that their bodies belonged together, in some deep, primal way she could not explain.

He pulled her against him. One hand under her chin, he tilted her face up to his kiss. Sensations ran through her like a melody, his lips over hers, his arm firm about her waist. And the scorching shock of their bodies standing skin to skin. She gasped, and he slid his tongue inside, tasting her mouth.

It was all heat, and softness laid over hardness. Gasping breaths, and her hands clutching his shoulders as he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. The sheets were cool against her back, but he was a fever running deliriously through her. He knelt above her, his dark hair sweeping against his cheekbones, his skin gleaming in the lamplight.

When he spoke, his voice was roughened with passion. “I’m going to taste you.”

She blinked. “Haven’t you already?”

“No. Not fully.” As if to demonstrate, he lowered his head and plundered her mouth again for a long second.

Leaving her gasping, he lowered himself, his skillful lips now at her breast, sucking and teasing. She arched into the touch, sparks scattering through her.

“Delicious,” he said. “Yet not enough.”

With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he slid down her body. He trailed kisses over her ribs, across her belly, licked the curve of her hip, then knelt between her legs, pressing them wide. His fingers played again, tickling and teasing sensations from her. Ah, he was a master indeed.

“But—”

“Shh. Remember, you are still a student.” He set his hand over the mound of her womanhood and the pulse inside her grew more insistent.

Was he truly going to taste her
there
? It was scandalous and tantalizing, and suddenly she burned for it.

He moved his hand, then leaned over and blew softly against her skin. The caress sent a shiver through her. Her legs were wide, but he pressed them open even more, making a place for himself there between her thighs. Then, slowly, he touched her with his tongue.

Ah. Ah yes.

He explored her, his tongue slick and warm as he savored her secrets. She shuddered with sensation beneath his mouth. Then he slipped a finger inside her and she gasped, lifting her hips clear off the sheets. His laughter tickled against her. A second finger joined the first and he slid them back and forth, his tongue still caressing her until she thought she would go mad from the need burning through her.

A need left unfulfilled as he pulled back. She could feel him watching her, and slowly lifted her eyelids. The look in his eyes was possessive, his gaze moving over her as though she were a perfect score of music, written solely for him to play.

“Are you ready for the next tutorial?”

“Oh, yes.”

She was ready. Beyond ready. And she welcomed it with everything in her soul.

“There is one thing.” He slid to the edge of the bed, then returned a moment later, a packet in his hand. “French letters, to prevent conception and... illnesses.”

He offered no further explanation. She watched, curious, as he removed a long sheath and pulled it over his member, fastening it tightly about the base with the attached ribbon. Then he knelt over her again, his hands to either side of her shoulders. She felt his manhood between her legs, pressing against her slickness.

It was easier this time. Her body opened to him and he slid in, deeper and deeper, stretching until he filled her completely. His gaze searched her face, clearly watching her for any sign of pain or discomfort.

There was none, only the slow sweet build of pleasure. And beyond that, the yearning of her soul, answered.

“Darien.” She whispered his name, and left the rest unsaid.

Slowly, he began to move in her, stroking back and forth. She tilted her hips, finding the counterpoint to his rhythm. Together they strove, reaching for a song just out of hearing, reaching for the edge of the stars.

He quickened his pace, both of them breathing more heavily. It was a symphony of desire: the slip of the sheets against skin, the faint creak of the mattress beneath them, the rasp of pleasure in his throat, her own sharper gasps. Faster, closer. Brightness spun at the edge of her vision.

He threw his head back, neck taut, and together they whirled into that vortex of pleasure. A firework lit in her center, the explosion of light and sparkle flashing through her entire body until she felt she was made of nothing but sparks and air.

She clutched his shoulders and swallowed her cry of delight. Darien shuddered, his movements slowing until they lay in a moment of stillness. Clara closed her eyes. She could almost feel the night sky heavy above them, the revolving earth carrying them breathless through space.

The immensity of it, the joy, was almost too much to bear. A tear stole from the corner of her eye, quickly cooling as it ran down her temple and into her hair.

“Clara.” He brushed the moisture away with his thumb. “Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes and smiled up at him, at the concern and unexpected vulnerability in his expression.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

More right than he could imagine, cradled in that perfect moment under the spinning sky.

***

As the coach traveled through the Prussian countryside and into Austria, Dare watched Clara, and thought.

He had taken her innocence, though she had offered it gladly. Still, she was his now, in ways he could not explain even to himself. Hungry compulsion rose in him every time their gazes met.

When the musical competition was over, he would ask her to be his companion, and openly reveal their affair. Until then, they must be cautious. Nicholas was far too volatile. Any hint that his sister and Dare had been physically intimate could send the man spiraling out of control. Dare could not take that risk, though it was unfair to make Clara hide in the shadows.

Impatience made him curl his fingers into his fists. With a deep breath, he released them, leashing the emotions pulsing through him.

Less than a fortnight until the duel, and then everything would be laid bare, into the light. Until then, he must keep sight of his goal. He would be victorious—in all things.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Concertgoers of Europe! Will you acclaim the mawkish melodies offered by the second-rate composer Nicholas Becker? Or will you stand up and proudly applaud the true musical masters of our time? Consider well, as the course of history is in your hands!

-Varga Virtuoso (a street handbill)

T
he coach slowed through the crowded streets of Vienna. Clara watched out the window as tall, ornate buildings scrolled past, interspersed with gardens and statues. People wore heavy coats and thick pelisses against the chilly air, and there were far fewer umbrellas than in London during the spring.

“Worried that we’ll be in another cold, provincial hotel?” Darien asked. “Never fear. We’re staying at the Hofburg—the imperial palace.”

Nicholas lifted his head. He had said little during the three-day journey from Prussia, spending much of the trip in reading. It had given Clara far too much leisure to think about Darien. Their gazes had tangled time and again, unsettling her until she had taken refuge in the corner of the carriage and closed her eyes.

Under pretense of napping, she replayed every touch, every caress of their nights together. Now a new melody was singing through her, clear and passionate. Her fingers itched to set it to paper. In her heart she called the piece
Amore
, though she could never reveal its truth to her brother. No, she must come up with a more innocent title.

“I thought Emperor Francis was a supporter of Varga.” Nicholas closed his book of poetry and gave Darien a questioning look.

“That doesn’t mean he will stint us his hospitality,” Darien said. He stretched his arms along the seat. “Perhaps we can win him over. After some serious rehearsing, of course.”

“Of course,” her brother said, his voice thin.

Clara’s breath tightened with worry. The last two rehearsals had been painful to overhear. Darien unrelentingly pushed Nicholas, which only served to make her brother more withdrawn and anxious.

She understood, though. Only too well.

Darien pressed Nicholas because of the night Clara had accompanied him. He heard the echo of what the music could be, but Nicholas could not, quite, give it, and so the rehearsals disintegrated into swamps of sullen notes and sticky passages. There was no lightness to the music—and that way lay failure. For all of them. Ten days until the duel. She tasted lead at the thought.

Still, they were in Austria now. Perhaps things would improve at the palace.

***

Dare set his violin case down and surveyed his suite. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains at the windows, the décor in the green and gilt rooms elegantly understated. Servants bustled in with his luggage, while others hurried to set the table in the sitting area with tea, coffee, and an assortment of pastries.

“It is comfortable,” Henri said with a glance at the furnishings. “At least the Viennese understand good taste. Unlike that English Pavilion.”

He gave an exaggerated shudder. Clearly his French sensibilities had been forever offended by the excesses in Brighton.

Dare noted the rich aroma drifting from the table. “Not to mention the Viennese coffee. Later we’ll visit the Café Frauenhuber. I think Nicholas might like to take a cup of
schwarzer
alongside the ghosts of Mozart and Beethoven.”

He hoped an outing just for pleasure would help ease matters. Their recent rehearsals had been fraught with frustration, and the music had suffered. Indeed, he ought to be less hard on Nicholas. After all, Dare had experienced one of the most transcendent musical evenings of his life because the man had been too indisposed to play. But even that could not excuse the composer’s highly unprofessional behavior that night.

As for his own behavior… Dare tugged at his cravat, ignoring Henri’s look of annoyance as he mussed the perfectly tied knot. He had not been able to resist Clara. He had not even tried. Their physical union had been a natural extension of their one night of perfect music—twining notes yielding to twining bodies, the two of them striving together and making something glorious.