With one last glance toward the door, I took a seat on the bench, pulled off my gloves, and leafed through the sheet music that rested on the bench. Most of the pieces were for serious players: sonatas, concertos, and the like. I set them aside. For a few minutes I played idly, allowing my fingers their freedom. Even with my meager talent I could appreciate the feel of this superior instrument, how easily the keys fell beneath my fingers. From memory I played a simple tune my father had sung before he’d left for India the last time. As I played, I sang with the Scottish brogue that had colored my father’s voice.
The glasses sparkle on the board,
The wine is ruby bright,
The reign of pleasure is restor’d,
Of ease and fond delight.
The day is gone, the night’s our own,
Then let us feast the soul;
If any care or pain remain,
Why drown it in the bowl.
This world they say’s a world of woe,
But that I do deny;
Can sorrow from the goblet flow?
Or pain from beauty’s eye?
The wise are fools, with all their rules,
When they would joys controul:
If life’s a pain, I say again,
Let’s drown it in the bowl.
“For one who claims to have no talent, Miss Graham, you sing with a great deal of gusto.”
My hands stilled on the keys, fingers frozen. The duke stood in the corner of the room, resting a hand on the back of a chair. Blood pounded through my veins, my every sense in a state of heightened awareness.
Handsome by firelight, he was devastating in the light of day. I had never seen such symmetry in a face. Closing my eyes, I swallowed a sigh. That he should have heard me playing and singing . . . and a drinking song, no less . . . My whole body was aflame with embarrassment. “Your Grace, I would not have . . . I-I mistakenly believed I would not be overheard.” I covered my cheeks with my hands, trying to douse the flames.
His expression lit with mirth. “I am disappointed you did not perform this for everyone last night. You sound as if you were raised in a Scottish pub.”
I stood abruptly, his mocking tone raising my ire and making me forget my shame. “My father was Scottish. And a sailor.” My words were unapologetic, meant to provoke.
“I see. Your mother had poor taste, then.”
“Say what you will about me, Your Grace”—I spat out the words, hoping to strike a blow—“but do not insult my parents.” I picked up the music resting on the piano, trying to keep my hands occupied before looking up again to meet his gaze.
His eyes gleamed with cold arrogance. “But if the truth is an insult . . .”
Rolling the sheet music up, I had half a mind to walk across the room and thump him over the head with it.
He held his walking stick in the crook of his arm, seemingly unaware of my intentions. “And here I find you once again, in a room you have not been invited to, touching things”—he motioned to the piano—“that do not belong to you. Do you still maintain your claim to being a lady?”
I immediately put a hand to my hair, checking to see that it was properly pulled back. My gloves lay on the bench beside me. The smug look on his face stoked the anger racing through my blood. “Perhaps I am not a perfect lady, but you, sir, hardly qualify as a gentleman.”
“The difference between us is that I do not mind, and it is evident that you do.” He leaned on his cane, dragging one leg behind him as he made his way around the chair he’d stood behind and sat down heavily on it.
I narrowed my eyes. “Only because the world judges my sex more severely.”
He set the cane across his lap and steepled his hands. “A fair point.”
I looked at him in surprise, not quite believing his easy agreement. I unfurled the sheet music and set it back down on the bench beside me.
“Do not let me keep you from your music. Talent such as yours should not be neglected.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides. “Sir—Your Grace—do not mock me.”
One of his brows pulled down. “Far better to be mocked than pitied.”
Though I was uncertain I agreed with such a statement, it tugged at me, and I understood how deeply he felt it to be true. I regarded him closely. “Is that why you dismissed me last night—because you thought I pitied you?”
He frowned. “You mistake yourself if you believe I wasted even a moment wondering how you felt about me.”
My softened feelings for him vanished, replaced once again by a hot anger. The man was insufferable. I shook my head. “I do not believe you. You are so consumed with feeling sorry for yourself that you are certain everyone else must be as well.”
His jaw slackened, and I felt a trace of satisfaction for having thrown him off balance just once, the way he seemed to do so constantly to me.
He sat forward, tightening the grip on his cane. “If you insist on being so candid, then be so now. Did you not feel pity for me last night? I have become intimately acquainted with the expression these past few years.” His gaze bored into me, demanding an answer.
My heart pounded wildly under the scorching power of his gaze. “If you must know, then yes, I felt some pity for you.”
The curiosity that had
