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“Sophia…”
She stiffened.
What was she doing? Succumbing to temptation that would lead to ruination? But she was already a ruined woman. And in the eyes of society, a widow earning an independent income had nothing to fear—and little to lose.
Or did she? What if her pupils knew of the wicked thoughts that swirled in her head, or the fire burning between her thighs, which pulsed to the rhythm of his voice? Would they call her harlot, a name the debutantes had taunted her with long ago, when she had been a different woman?
She snatched her hand away, and the ghost of a frown marred his expression, then he gave a smile of resignation and crossed the floor to the piano.
“Shall we?” He picked up a sheet of music and handed it to her.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She studied the music. There were three rows of notes—one for each hand at the pianoforte, and a third for the voice.
“It’s a song,” she said, “an Italian song.”
“You speak Italian?”
She shook her head. “Sadly not. If Adelia were here she’d be able to translate it for me. I recognize some of the words, such as amore, and caro, but I was always a poor scholar of modern languages.”
“Adelia?” He narrowed his eyes. “Why do I recognize that name?”
“Perhaps you heard me mention it—or Lysetta might have mentioned her,” Sophia said. “She resides at Summerton Hall, though you’re unlikely to have met her, for she keeps herself to herself.”
“And is she an Italian scholar?”
“She’s fluent in the language,” Sophia said, “but she rarely refers to it. It’s something of a mystery to us. She is also a talented artist, and has given Henry lessons in drawing. But she’s always refused my requests to teach him Italian.”
“Have you asked her why?”
“No,” she said. “One thing Mrs. Huntington insists upon at Summerton Hall, is that none of us pry into each other’s pasts. Some secrets are best left buried.”
“And, do you have a secret?”
He fixed his gaze on her, and she blinked and looked away.
Curse her wayward tongue! Why did she have to rattle on so? It would only arouse suspicion.
At length he smiled. “No matter,” he said. “We none of us wish to reveal everything about ourselves.” He nodded toward the sheet of music. “Would you be able to play the accompaniment?”
“And you’ll sing for me?”
He smiled. “If you would permit me this indulgence—yes. I have been practicing, but I’ve struggled to master the accompaniment. Anyone who is able to apply themselves to more than one task at the same time, such as singing and playing, deserves great praise, for I have been unable to master it.” He nodded toward the music. “What do you think?”
She studied the notes. “It seems a simple enough air,” she said, “but the vocal range is extraordinary.”
“It is a little taxing,” he replied. “Were my brother here, he would master the song at the first attempt, for he has an excellent command of the Italian language, and the voice of an angel.”
“But he is not here,” she said, “and we must therefore satisfy ourselves with you.”
“Then I shall endeavor to earn your satisfaction.” His mouth curled into an impish smile. “Perhaps, if I strive very hard, I might be able to earn your pleasure.”
His tongue slithered over the final word, as if it were caressing her body, and she drew in a sharp breath at the sensation on her skin, as if he were running a feather along her spine. Her breasts felt heavy and her nipples hardened. Her cheeks flaming, she glanced down to see two little points, poking at the material of her gown.
A low growl rumbled in Adrian’s throat and he covered her hand with his, caressing her skin with his thumb. She let out a whimper and looked up to see him gazing at her neckline, hunger and desire glowing in his eyes.
“Come, Sophia,” he whispered. “Let the pleasure begin.”
