Page 13

He loved that sound. It truly rivaled the music that surrounded them now, and Tess was as skilled a musician as he’d ever heard. Clara’s look was one of tolerant amusement as she explained that Lady Amelia’s betrothed was the Duke of Harlow.

“Yes,” he said. “So you mentioned last night.”

Heat crept up his neck at the reminder of their evening together. Somehow now, in the cold light of day, it seemed like he had dreamt it. Surely it had been too good to be true. No one had ever made him feel like that. Like he was enough. Like he was more than enough—just the way he was.

No woman had ever made him lose himself in such a way, for that matter. The very idea of being alone with a young lady, and in the middle of the night, and so scantily dressed… Surely it had not been reality. Just a trick of the night—some strange fever brought on by the firelight, and the spirits he’d imbibed, and the late hour.

She blinked up at him.

And those eyes.

Those eyes which were filled with magic and kindness and intelligence and empathy and…impatience.

Drat, he’d done it again. What had she asked?

“Pardon?” he said stiffly.

She let out a huff of air that seemed to be a mix of amusement and exasperation. “I’d asked if you had been paying attention to society gossip these past few years.”

“Oh, uh…” For a moment he panicked. Was she referring to her own plight? For he had heard about her family’s ruination, though that was because he’d gone to visit his great aunt when it was the topic du jour. Even then he might not have paid attention but for the fact that Aunt Gertie had seemed personally affected by it. Clara’s mother had been a dear friend of hers and she followed the gossip closely, and so he had as well.

Clara sighed. “If you’d been paying attention to the goings on in society, you would know that the Duke of Harlow has…” She threw her hands up. “Well, I suppose you could say he’s gone rogue.”

He arched his brows. “Rogue? How so?”

Her lips twitched with mirth. Over what? He knew not, and nor did he care. He found himself urging her silently to give in to the smile. He would give a fortune to see it again, right now in this moment, and directed at him.

Goodness, he felt a bit like an addict must feel. He’d never been prone to gambling, he rarely over imbibed, and he’d never once touched opium, but he found himself gaining a new understanding of the sort of debilitating need that fueled those addictions. He would sell his soul to the devil himself to be the recipient of another one of her grins.

He didn’t need to go to such extremes, it turned out. She was smiling at him now. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” he asked.

She shook her head, leaning forward slightly and lowering her voice as though letting him in on a secret. “You have a tendency to be quite…focused, do you know that?”

A laugh escaped and caught him quite unawares. His laughter sounded rusty and harsh compared to hers. “So I have been told.”

Too focused. Too intense. Too serious. Too rigid.

But she did not seem to be complaining. She merely shook her head. “Do you know, I do believe that if you used that sharp focus of yours to listen to others you would be quite the ideal conversationalist.”

He blinked. “Ideal conversationalist? Me?”

She nodded. “Absolutely. I think your biggest problem is that you are so wrapped up with your thoughts that you rarely pay attention to the chatter going on around you.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped. There was some truth to it. His brain was typically racing away, either off on a tangent or trying to figure out what he ought to say next, or what reaction was expected of him. He clamped his mouth shut with a hmm sound, determined to think on that at a later date.

Clara’s laughter was soft and soothing. “If you had paid attention earlier you might have learned that the Duke of Harlow rather notoriously neglects his duties.” She lowered her voice again. “And his bride to be.”

“I see.” He stiffened at the thought of it. How anyone could walk away from the responsibilities he was born to was a matter he could never understand. He might not have wished for an earldom, but he would never shirk the duty that came with it.

“Yes, well…” She shrugged. “It seems as though Lady Amelia’s family has grown tired of waiting for him to return. If the duke will not come home, then she shall be sent to him.”

“Oh, I see.” Now the conversation about Italy made far more sense to him.

Clara patted his arm in a decidedly maternal gesture. “You did splendidly this morning.”

“Well,” he said, his voice gruff with irrational pleasure. “I have a fine instructor.”