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“You were merely behaving in the manner of every other man of your station.”
“You think so little of my sex?” His voice lowered as he uttered the last word and she shifted her legs at the uncomfortable heat blooming within her body. He leaned closer, and his thigh brushed against hers.
“Colonel FitzRoy,” she whispered, “I beg you…”
He moved away, and for a moment, she felt a sense of loss.
“Forgive me,” he sighed. “I behaved reprehensibly the other day. You had been led to believe that you were to teach a young woman.”
“Consider yourself forgiven.”
“I still want you to teach me, Mrs. Black. Perhaps we might arrange a suitable time?”
“That’s out of the question,” she said, rising from her seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
He caught her hand, and a ripple of need flowed across her skin.
“Where did you learn to play that Bach partita with so much accomplishment?”
She turned to face him. “You know the piece?”
His eyes glowed with interest. “I have a particular fondness for it, but I was never able to master the difficult passages, particularly when the left hand carries the melody.”
“The key to mastering any piece is to practice,” she said.
He nodded. “I cannot agree more. Too often I am subjected to performances where it’s plain that the pianist has not bothered to devote as much time to the left hand as to the right.” He smiled again. “Is it not true, Mrs. Black, that the lazy pianist will assume that a strong performance from the right hand will offset the weaknesses in the left—and they will continue to play in blissful ignorance?”
His smile broadened. Why did he have to be so—charming?
She fought to hide her own smile.
“Ah!” he cried. “Mrs. Black is capable of merriment. May I ask what has amused you so much?”
“You’ve just described most of my pupils, Colonel FitzRoy.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Spoiled debutantes seeking enough accomplishment to secure the notice of prospective husbands in the drawing room, rather than striving for the true perfection to be found in the art of music.”
“Perhaps.”
“And yet, you admit them?” he asked. “Do none of your pupils come to you purely to further the cause of music?”
“I am not Herr Beethoven,” she said. “I don’t have the power of choice when it comes to my pupils.”
“Yet you exercised that power yesterday when you evicted me.”
“Because my reputation was at risk.”
“How come?” he asked.
“How like a man to ask such a question!” she said. “I’m a woman on her own. My pupils, or at least, their mamas, would not appreciate their piano tutor receiving gentlemen unchaperoned.”
“Mama! Mama!”
Henry’s voice cried out and she looked up to see him running toward her, Tilly at his heels.
“Mama, did you see my boat?”
Sophia opened her arms and Henry ran into her embrace. She lifted him up and swung him around and he squealed with laughter, then she released him, her arms aching. At six years, he was almost too big to lift. Most likely he’d grow to be even taller than his father. He already possessed William’s flame-red hair.
