The Secret to Seduction (8 page)

With all appearance of sobriety, the earl obliged her and leaned forward to turn the page. His mouth was solemn; he even had a convincing little furrow of concentration between his brows. But when her eyes darted sideways she saw that his were crackling with mirth, and something more determined.

The earl, she realized, once again intended to make a point.

Sabrina played on, giving each note its due, though a truly discriminating listener might have noted significantly more…
feeling
in her playing now. A discriminating
viewer
might wonder why her face was crimson.

The dancers across the room sped up a little to match the pace of her song.

“They’re
meant
to be enjoyed, you know,” he murmured conversationally. “Kisses.”

Sabrina felt that unfamiliar something snaking up through her like a fountain of sparks: a temper.

“Why are you tormenting me?” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“Best slow the tempo, Miss Fairleigh. You’ll give the dancers apoplexy. And you should probably open it only a little. At first.”

“Open
what
?” she all but snapped.

He turned the page, that attentive furrow still in place. “Your mouth. When you kiss.”

Plink.
She stumbled, picking out another sour note. Sophia Licari’s eyebrow leaped upward, and she leaned over and whispered something to Wyndham, who smiled.

“Yes, only a little. Best not give it all away at once, you know. Not the first time, anyhow.”

Confusion, pride, and outrage wrestled for control of Sabrina’s tongue. But it was a late arrival to her soup of emotions—curiosity—that ultimately won the contest.

“How do you
know
it was my first time?” She tried to say it loftily, but her genuine curiosity seeped into the words.

A muffled crack of laughter escaped him. “You’ve kissed dozens of young men, have you, Miss Fairleigh?”

Really, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to be coy or ironic, so she gave it up. “Of course not.”

But how could you tell it was my first time?

Sabrina lifted her eyes from the music momentarily. Across the room Mary danced merrily and Geoffrey danced gamely. Sabrina wished herself desperately across the room.

“I just found it interesting to discover you succumbing to uncontrollable passions.”

Ah. And thusly the devil delivered his point.

“I
wasn’t
succumb—”

“No? Then what do you call it, Miss Fairleigh?”

She was struck by the fact that this was a very good question. There had seemed little of passion in it at all, given that it had, in fact, been a kiss. She went silent, forced to ponder this.

“Oh, rest easy, Miss Fairleigh,” he said a moment later. “’Twas only a kiss.” The bloody man was still laughing, albeit silently.

Only a kiss.
For her, it had been a threshold crossed, a moment strangely elevating and deflating all at once. In short, it had been a profound moment for her, though in truth…well, she’d felt very little, at least physically, in that moment. And this alarmingly handsome man was mocking it.

And as she couldn’t best him in this game, she gave him honesty instead.

“I suppose I’ve never thought of a kiss as ‘only.’?” She wanted to sound firm and censorious; her voice faltered, and she knew that she sounded wistful instead.

When he said nothing at all, she risked a glance up.

His expression was odd. She couldn’t interpret it. Puzzled? Uncertain? She did know that it wasn’t guarded, or ironic, or indifferent, or amused. And these were the expressions she’d so far seen him wear.

She had the oddest sensation that she’d somehow bested him, anyway.

“Not all kisses
are
‘only,’ Miss Fairleigh.” His voice was low in her ear as he said this. It sounded like a concession.

And then in silence for a time she played on, the sweet music more jarring now for the thoughts in her head. He turned the page for her without being asked with his elegant hand, a hand that looked as though it would never do anything so gauche as stumble over a pianoforte note no matter what anyone said into his ear.

“I believe you’ve played this particular passage three times now. Though I’m not certain our audience cares terribly much. Sophia is flirting with Wyndham, Wyndham is worried that I’ll notice and care, and the rest, even my cousin Geoffrey, appear to be enjoying the dance.”

His voice was level. He was signaling, perhaps, that he’d finished tormenting her for the moment. She managed a small smile, to reward him for not tormenting her and for attempting to be charming instead.

At last, the interminable piece, along with—-hopefully—the torture, came to a finish.

A polite little patter of hands came from Sophia and Wyndham. The dancers, rosy and cheerful from a strangely vigorous minuet, dispersed and moved toward them. Sabrina began to rise from the bench, and was prepared to dart as far away from the earl as would be considered polite.

“Would you play something else for us now, Miss Fairleigh? Perhaps . . .” He sorted through the selection of music and placed a piece in front of her. “This piece.”

Sabrina glanced at the piece, and within moments knew the suggestion was tantamount to a challenge. It was subtle, the music, but she quickly saw within it moments of power and poignancy, and as she read the notes, she could nearly hear the lilt of it in her head, almost picture the story it conveyed. It was a far cry from a hymn or a minuet, and she’d never played anything quite like it before. She wasn’t certain she could. Or if she dared.

“Oh, do play another, Sabrina, one we might listen rather than dance to. I find I am quite winded after the last dance,” Mary coaxed. They all plumped happily into chairs and stared up at her expectantly, Geoffrey included, his complexion rosy, too. His cheerful color was utterly at odds with the expression he turned upon the earl, Sabrina noted. He’d held it only an instant, but it looked very much like something more powerful than resentment. Sabrina decided it must have been nothing more than a shifting shadow, or a twinge from being required to dance the minuet so vigorously.

Rhys gave the sheet of music a questioning tap, awaiting her reply.

She couldn’t help but accept his challenge.

“Thank you for your confidence in my playing,” Sabrina said wryly to everyone, and placed her hands over the keys. “I should be happy to play again for you.”

And she began the piece.

Tentatively, at first. But it swiftly pulled her in: wistful yet ardent, sweet in a way that was by no means cloying. She swiftly found the momentum of it; in moments the piece played her as much as she played it, and Sabrina nearly forgot about her audience. She saw the pages turn before her, but gave no thought to the fingers that turned the corners, or the owner of those fingers.

The piece came to a finish on a single note at the far end of the pianoforte. She tapped it delicately, and let it ring. Then sat quietly, savoring the finish of it.

There was silence.

She finally looked up, blinking as though being shaken from sleep, and was startled by the faces of her audience. Mary had a handkerchief up to the corner of her eye. Wyndham’s face reflected unadulterated respect and a peculiar sort of speculation.

But Geoffrey looked…well, truthfully he looked rather unnerved.

Sophia Licari was wearing a faint smile that didn’t precisely light her velvety eyes. It was difficult to know whether this indicated approval or not. Sabrina wasn’t certain whether she cared.

It was the earl who finally began the applause, and as the sound was right behind her it made her start. The small audience took it up fervently. Sabrina’s cheeks heated in pleasure, and a sweet warmth took up residence in the center of her chest.

She saw Wyndham open his mouth to say something.

“Rhys, will you play?” It was Sophia Licari, in that voice that made her sound like a stretching feline, speaking before Wyndham could speak. Everyone turned to her. She rose from her seat, slim and elegant as an eighth note, and made her way to the pianoforte, utterly confident that everyone wanted her there.

Interesting. The heavens must have at last aligned properly, if Miss Licari intended to sing.

And thus Sabrina’s moment was gone before she could even decide how she felt about it.

From the tense expressions on the earl’s and Wyndham’s faces, it seemed as though a wrong move or word would frighten Miss Licari back to her seat.

Sabrina stood and surrendered her place on the pianoforte bench to the earl, who scarcely looked at her. His attention was now entirely fixed on Miss Licari, who drifted over and nodded at Sabrina in passing, as if she were a servant.

Sabrina should have known the earl would play very well. He had the fingers for it, those long confident fingers meant for things requiring precision and grace. He began the song with ease; it was a lament in a minor key. Sophia stood with her head lowered, eyes on the ground, and then slowly tilted her head back and—

All the little hairs rose up on Sabrina’s arms.

It was a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard in her life. The volume was otherworldly; it seemed impossible for a human, let alone a slight one like Sophia Licari, to produce it. Her voice was an instrument, as surely as a bell or a trumpet or a battering ram. It ascended, trilled, toyed with a single note, then raced back down the register to attend to another note, flirting with it before moving on to seduce and linger over the next phrase. And as it swelled, filling the entire room, Sabrina felt it ringing inside her chest, until she felt of a piece with the song.

As much as she would have preferred not to…she surrendered to it. Tears began to well in her eyes, called up by that voice. It was so glorious it almost gave Miss Licari license to behave any way she pleased, Sabrina thought.

Almost.

Sabrina liked to think that
she
would be a bit more gracious, had she possessed such a gift. But perhaps the weight of carrying about such a talent kept one’s balance off, and hence Sophia Licari could only behave unpredictably.

Miss Licari finished. Applause seemed almost inappropriate. After all, one didn’t applaud a miracle as though it were a magician’s trick. But having no other means of expression at their disposal, the audience clapped, and Sophia Licari nodded, accepting her due.
Allowing
everyone to applaud her.

Sabrina felt small and invisible again, and when she saw the awe in the earl’s face where he sat motionless at the pianoforte but followed Sophia back to her seat with his eyes, she knew she, the vicar’s daughter from Tinbury, had been forgotten. She wondered at the prick of disappointment she felt. She doubted she’d ever see awe, true awe, reflected in anyone’s face in response to anything she’d played.

She wondered whether she cared. She had never cared very much about being admired.

Or so she’d thought.

Deuced
pride
once more. And now she was irritated, which meant temper, as well.

She laid the blame for all of this discomfort at the earl’s door.

She touched a finger to the corner of her eye to stop the dampness and turned her face toward Geoffrey, curious to see whether he, too, was under the spell of Signora Licari.

But Geoffrey was sitting very still, and his expression was carefully, studiedly blank.

She willed him to look her way. He did not.

So her eyes moved to Mary…who caught her glance, and lifted up a gloved hand to hide a feigned yawn. She gave a one-shouldered shrug and a tiny smile and rolled her eyes.

Sabrina stifled a smile of her own. Trust Mary to be impervious to a soprano.

Later, after all the guests had gone to bed, Rhys once again bent over a billiard table across from Wyndham, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

“I’ve a little test for you,” Wyndham said as Rhys took his shot. “What was the most fascinating thing about this evening?”

“Apart from whim seizing hold of Sophia?” Rhys said this around his cigar.

“It wasn’t whim that seized hold of Sophia, Rhys. It was the beautiful little Miss Fairleigh and her playing.”

“Beautiful?” Rhys idly scoffed. Though once Wyndham had said it, the word began to settle in and trouble him. “I’m the poet, Wynd. I should be the one speaking in hyperbole. Take your shot.”

Wyndham did, and gloated, and Rhys removed his cigar from his mouth long enough to hiss disappointment.

“She’s a green girl, but—”

Some errant gentlemanly impulse that amused him prevented Rhys from telling Wyndham about how he’d discovered Miss Fairleigh and his cousin in a kiss.

“But? For God’s sake, Rhys, you can talk and take your shot at the same time, you know. It’s done all the time.”

Rhys took his shot, a bad one, which made Wyndham wince and cluck in mock sympathy. Rhys straightened and shrugged. “
But
she certainly played the devil out of La Valle’s little composition, didn’t she? Miss Fairleigh.”

Rhys had thrust it in front of her in part to test her. It was an intricate, passionate little piece he’d commissioned from a musician who was much less appreciated than he ought to be and loved his liquor more than he should. And the girl had sunk right into it. She’d played it with the proper feeling, if not the most accomplished technique. Rhys admitted to himself that he’d been lost in it for the duration. That he had genuinely, without reservation, been moved.