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Perhaps he’d spoken the truth—that some men could be trusted. Some men had souls.
She glanced at the clock over the fireplace. It was almost five o’clock.
“That’s the end of our lesson,” she said.
He stopped playing. “I find myself disappointed.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “You play well.”
“Except for the fingering of my left hand.”
“You cannot help that,” she said. “Your middle finger is crooked. You cope extraordinarily well, considering.”
He flexed his fingers. “My only trophy of the war,” he said. “But I consider myself lucky, compared to the many who never returned from battle. But it does mean I struggle with the arpeggios.”
“It’s not insurmountable,” she said, making notes on the music with her pencil. “Here, if you move from your forefinger to your fourth finger in this passage, it should help. Not even the trained ear would be able to tell the difference.”
“Show me.”
She placed her hands on the keyboard. “Like so.”
He leaned closer until their bodies touched, and placed his hand over hers. The skin was warm and smooth, with the faint abrasion from calluses gained, no doubt, from swordplay while training as a soldier.
Solid, capable hands. What might they feel like against her body?
He ran his forefinger along the back of her hand, tracing the veins. Her blood warmed at his touch and she caught her breath and swallowed. The tip of his finger followed a line along her hand and dipped between her forefinger and middle finger, teasing them apart. She shifted position and parted her thighs, mirroring the gesture, to ease the ache that pulsed deep within her.
A groan rumbled in his chest and his thigh rubbed against hers. She let out a soft whimper.
“Sweeting…”
His voice was a whisper—so soft, that she almost believed she had imagined it. But it ignited a need within her, and she tipped her head back and closed her eyes. With a low growl, he dipped his finger in between hers and traced a path from the tip of her fingers to the base, where he caressed the juncture in a smooth, slick motion.
“Colonel FitzRoy…” she breathed.
He dipped his head until she could feel his hot breath on her neck.
“Adrian…”
“You said my name.” His words vibrated against her skin, igniting a fire in her blood, and he pressed his lips against her neck.
“Say it again.” He moved his finger back and forth and a surge of moisture pulsed between her thighs.
“I-I can’t…”
“Again,” he commanded, his voice a low growl.
She let out a soft cry. “Adrian!”
“That’s it, Sweet,” he murmured, the promise of pleasure in his voice. His tongue flicked against the skin of her neck.
How was it that he could render her helpless and at his mercy? What might it be like to be claimed by one such as he?
What if he’d been the one to have seduced her, instead of William, all those years ago? Would she have experienced that pinnacle of pleasure that servants gossiped about in corridors, when they thought no one was listening?
Or would he have abandoned her—taken his own pleasure, then left her feeling dirty and discarded, forever to be branded a harlot?
“Mama!” Hurried footsteps approached. She shifted away from Colonel FitzRoy and leaped to her feet.
