Sonata for a Scoundrel (27 page)

“Yes, master.” Nicholas rose and, shoulders slumped, left the sitting room.

“Well,” Clara said, “as long as you are both unharmed, that is the important thing.”

She threaded her fingers together to keep from running her hands over his body to make sure he had taken no injury.

“Clara.” Darien’s voice was low.

He took a step toward her, and she backed away from his enticing heat.

Their nights of passion in Prussia must not be repeated. The duel was approaching so quickly, and if Nicholas found out, it would be a disaster. She must keep a proper distance from Darien, and try to erase the yearnings of her body. But she could not deny how every moment her blood sang with the notes of his name.

Her only respite was to set those feelings down on paper, to harness the fire and longing that swept her with every thought of him. Her newest composition scorched through her, unfurled in a storm of music, nearly complete.
Amore
. The memory of their bodies moving together in the night. The mysteries of two souls woven together. The beating of her own heart, echoing his name.

“I… I ought to see if Nicholas needs tending.”

“You’re not concerned for me?” There was a teasing light in Darien’s eyes as he moved toward her.

“I am, of course! But you seem well.”

More than well. Virile and overwhelmingly male. She took another step back and felt the panel of the door against her shoulders. She could turn, twist the handle, and flee. But he had captured her gaze with his, stalked her until she was cornered. Arousal shivered through her, and she could not make herself leave.

Darien closed the last distance between them and set his hands against the door, caging her between his arms. The heat of his body, the hot scent of him, pulsed over her. He was too close. He was not close enough. Clara’s breath came in little gasps and her lips parted, as if to taste the air between them.

“Clara. You tempt me unbearably.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes intent, full of hunger.

“I…” There were no words.

Only the taut peaks of her breasts, the warmth pooling low in her center. A single phrase of melody, high and sweet and trembling.

He made a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, then lowered his head and took her lips in a searing kiss.

Yes
, her body clamored.
Yes, this
. This heat and surrender. The feel of his tongue tasting hers.

Hot darts of passion sped through her, leaving her trembling for more. He clasped her hands, then lifted them above her head and pinned her against the door. His body covered hers, hard and insistent. She wanted nothing more than to melt into him.

Slowly, he ravished her mouth. Only the force of his body against hers, the link of their hands, kept her upright. Her blood burned as if it had been replaced by pure cognac.

At last he lifted his head. She took in a trembling breath.

“Darien…”

There were a thousand reasons this was wrong, but the words of protest dissolved on her tongue. She must lie to him about her deepest self, but she could not lie to him about this, about how he made her feel. Even if she denied it, her body betrayed her.

He uncurled his hands from hers and, eyes dark with sensual promises, spoke a single word.

“Tonight.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Frenzied Fighting in the Streets!

Supporters of Darien Reynard and Anton Varga clashed this morning, in a fracas that quickly spread. The conflict began in the Café Frauenhuber, long known as a hotbed of creativity and revolution. Several minor injuries were reported…

-Vienna Today

“W
hat do you mean, you cannot play any more?” Dare set his violin in its case, then rounded on Nicholas. He didn’t bother hiding the bite in his voice. “We’ve been rehearsing barely half an hour!”

“I know.” The composer bent his fair head and stared at the keyboard in front of him. “I… during the brawl… my hand. I think I injured it.”

“For God’s sake.” Dare let out an irritated breath. “Let me see.”

Nicholas held out his right hand and Dare studied his bruised and swollen knuckles. “I’d say you’ve sprained your hand. No doubt when you punched that confounded brawler of Varga’s.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said, still not meeting Dare’s eyes. “I should have been more careful.”

“You should have mentioned it, instead of trying to play with an injury. Now you’ve made it worse, just when we can’t spare any time from practicing.” Annoyance pricked his temples. Still, no good would come of forcing Nicholas to play. “Have Henri tend to it.”

“I…” The composer glanced up. “I could ask Clara to fill in for me. At least for today. She knows
Il Diavolo
well enough.”

Anticipation flickered through Dare.

“Send her in.”

Nicholas hurried from the music parlor, shoulders bowed. The strings of a nearby harp vibrated with the air of his passage, sending a faint, discordant hum into the air.

Watching him go, Dare frowned. Something was wrong with the composer, something more than his injured hand. Was he truly on the verge of plunging into melancholy, as his sister feared? Blast it. Nicholas had to hold together for ten days. Ten days! It should not be too much to ask.

He could not go easier on the man.
Il Diavolo
was still a challenge for them both. Dare must push himself and Nicholas to their limits if they were to be victorious in the musical duel.

“Master Reynard?” Clara stepped into the room. The light from the tall windows gleamed on her fair hair. “Nicholas said I am to rehearse with you this afternoon.”

“He must rest his hand.” Dare gave her a slow smile. “And I welcome the chance to play with you. I may require you tomorrow, as well.”

The words carried a second meaning, as he had intended, and a pretty blush colored Clara’s cheeks.

“Then we’d best begin.” She settled at the piano in a very businesslike manner and began flipping through the manuscript pages.

He hid his amusement. Clara was a deer flushed from cover, but they both knew how the chase would end. If she wanted to pretend otherwise, he would indulge her. For now.

But first, there was the music to attend to. Dare lifted his violin and bow, and took his place beside the piano.

“We left off at the beginning of the second page,” he said. “The
allegro
section—do you know the spot?”

She gave him a dry look, her fingers poised above the keys. “I am ready when you are, maestro.”

Indeed, she was. Dare launched into the passage, his bow weaving and dipping, and the piano met him perfectly. Each note fell precisely where it ought, but more than that, the music carried an undercurrent of urgency. He had not felt that before, playing
Il Diavolo
with Nicholas. Perhaps it was the mutual awareness that moved between Clara and him, the knowledge of their secret intimacy filtering into the music.

Whatever it was, he prized it. The notes flew from under his fingers as they reached the
prestissimo
, the piano surging along with him. Sweat gathered at his temples and he felt the edge of the precipice dangerously near. They were going too fast, he could not quite control the
spiccato
bowing… and
Il Diavolo
tumbled to a broken halt as both he and Clara botched the intricacies of the passage.

She stared at him a moment, her silvery eyes wide. And then she laughed, a joyful outpouring of mirth, so at odds with her brother’s sheepish reaction whenever he made a mistake.

“Ah, we almost had it!” She sounded jubilant. “Again. Please.”

“A touch slower, perhaps.” He couldn’t help grinning back at her. “Let’s take it from the arpeggios.”

***

When Henri came to inform them supper was imminent, Dare could hardly credit it. Two hours had flown in a heartbeat. He reluctantly loosened his bow, pulled the velvet cloth over his violin, and closed the case.

Clara looked subdued as she shut the cover over the piano keys. Clearly she had enjoyed their rehearsal as much as he. And just as clearly, she was an incredibly talented pianist. A pity she had fallen into her brother’s shadow.

“An excellent bit of work,” Dare said. “I think
Il Diavolo
will yield soon.”

“I’ve no doubt of it.” Clara gave him a quick smile. “The octave shifts are nearly there. It’s a devilish piece indeed.”

“What was your brother thinking?” He shook his head in mock dismay. “Oh yes, I recall it now. It was a punishment for my sins.”

She slanted a look at him. “Have you been adequately punished?”

“It depends on which sins we’re counting.” He held out his arm. “May I escort you to your room? I’d think you’d like to freshen up before dinner.”

And he would like to steal another kiss. Or three. To add to his sins.

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then placed her hand on his arm. “If you insist.”

“I do.” He covered her hand with his and let his fingertips play over her bare skin.

When he slipped a finger between hers, he heard the breath tremble in her throat. Ah, Clara. So deliciously responsive. He was suddenly on fire for her, the echo of their music-making only adding to the fierceness of the flame.

They were nearly to her door when Nicholas hailed them. Blast the man.

“How did the rehearsal go?” he asked, hurrying down the hall toward them.

“Well,” Clara said. “But what of your hand?”

He held his arm up, displaying the bulky wrappings. “Henri made me place it in a bowl of ice until I thought my fingers would turn blue, then bandaged me up. But I think my hand feels a bit better.”

“Hm.” Dare narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you should rest it another day. Tomorrow, Clara can help me finish up the section of
Il Diavolo
we were working on. But by the next day, I expect you’ll be able to play.”

“When do we depart for Milan?” Clara asked.

“My agent, Mr. Widmere, will be arriving in two days. He’ll accompany us to Venice, and then at last to Milan.”

A tense silence followed this information. Nicholas glanced at the floor, chewing his lip, and Clara slid her hand from Dare’s arm.

“Well then,” she said. “I’ll see you two at supper.”

Before Dare could catch her she slipped into her rooms and closed the door, leaving him with her poor substitute of a brother. Stifling a sigh, he turned to Nicholas.

“Care to join me in a brandy?”

Nicholas looked up. “Yes, I would.”

One brandy led to the next, at least for Nicholas. Dare watched over the rim of his glass as the composer imbibed.

“Tell me,” Dare asked, “has your sister ever tried her hand at composing?”

“No.” Nicholas took a hasty swallow of brandy, and commenced coughing. When he recovered, he poured another few inches into his glass.

“No,” he repeated. “She tried a few compositions as a child, but Papa always discouraged her. It is not for women to compose.”

Dare took a sip of liquor, letting it warm his mouth. “Your sister did an excellent job with
Il Diavolo
. I’m surprised she knew the piece so well.”

“I am a very messy composer,” Nicholas said. “She must copy the manuscripts out for me, numerous times. Whenever I make changes. So, you see, she hears the music in her head, and it becomes familiar to her.”

Nicholas drained his glass, then poured another, his hand unsteady. Without a word, Dare capped the bottle and set it away.

“I see.” The explanation made sense, and yet something about it did not quite ring true.

Supper was quiet, marked by Clara’s frequent, worried glances at her brother. The more wine Nicholas drank, the quieter it became, until the clink of silver on china was the loudest thing in the room. Henri tried his best, yet not even his witticisms could revive the conversation. When Nicholas nearly fell sideways off his chair, Clara stood.

“Excuse us,” she said, her tone strained. “I believe my brother would like to retire early. Nicholas, come with me.”

She took him by the arm, and, despite his mumbled protests, led him away.

“Master Reynard,” Henri said, “I do not like this turn our composer has taken.”

“Nor do I.” Dare thrust his plate aside. “Short of locking Nicholas in his room, what can I do?”

“Pray?” There was an ironic edge to his valet’s tone. “And do not offer him brandy.”

Dare folded his arms, his fingers tapping a restless tempo against the fine wool of his coat.

“Perhaps Clara will have some ideas.” He rose, scraping his chair back. “Good evening, Henri.”

“Enjoy your consultation with Miss Becker,” Henri said, his tone dryer than sand.

The man was entirely too perceptive. At least he was discreet. Henri might not completely approve of Dare’s interest in Clara, but he would say nothing.

Clara. Dare might not know what to do with Nicholas, but his sister was another matter entirely.

He strode to her door and gave a single rap. After a long moment, it opened.

“Clara, we must discuss your brother.”

She stepped back to let him enter. After a quick glance down the hall, she closed the door and led him to her sitting area. For a moment, they sat in silence. Clara perched on the front of her richly upholstered chair, her fingers laced so tightly together her knuckles were white.