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“Can I not be the only chaperone here? Her damned aunt is making my life a living hell, and yet, you seem to find fun in torturing me.”
He laughed again. “Perhaps you would like me to take her off your hands? I hate seeing you suffer.”
“We both know that is a lie. Your cynical mind will earn something in return for taking her off my hands,” she stated and tapped her cane on his leg.
“Of course. What I am about to say will have a good effect on both of us, Grandmother. I want her out of this discussion as much as you do. I can barely stand her meddling.”
The Dowager shook her reticule. “I guess that this is for her.”
Theodore returned her gesture with a slight smile, making sure that his silence meant consent. “All you have to do is instruct the maids to pour a tiny bit in her lemonade, and she will be out of it for hours.”
They agreed on the plan, and his grandmother pulled the bell for the housekeeper. Theodore returned to his seat, hoping to return to talk with Helen, but he was at a loss for words, his heart racing. Though he kept a mask of calm on his face, all he could feel was turbulence raging through him.
“So, how is the weather today, Your Grace?” Helen asked, breaking the awkward silence between them.
“Your Grace?” he asked, surprised, but she pointed to her aunt by the window.
The older woman was sitting on the sofa by the window, listening in on what they had to say.
He cleared his throat, taking on a serious tone. “It is rather sunny, Lady Helen. But I hope some lemonade will help with the heat.”
“Helen,” Aunt Gertrude said so suddenly that Helen almost jumped. “You can show His Grace your skills at the pianoforte.”
She blushed, knowing that her skills were nowhere near a professional’s. Helen hoped that Theodore might tell her not to bother, but instead, he was smiling profusely — urging her to go on.
“We don’t want to keep the Duke waiting,” Aunt Gertrude added quickly, coming to nudge Helen.
“Of course,” Theodore replied, a slight glint in his voice. “You don’t want to keep me waiting.”
Helen wondered why Theodore’s gaze numbed her mind completely. She tried to bring up words of refusal, but her experienced tongue evaporated. Instead, she could only seethe inwardly and do nothing but pick up on the offer of embarrassing herself. Also, the Dowager was watching her too. Refusal would mean that she might risk offending Theodore's grandmother.
He continued to watch her contemplate a decision, his gaze skimming over the sun-burnished skin of her shoulders. If Helen’s aunt were not present, Theodore knew that he would have traced his fingers all over that supple skin, drawing himself into the farthest depth of his desires. He felt a peculiar tingling suffuse his groin, passion heightening by the second.
“Pray tell, are you not even going to stand?” Aunt Gertrude roughly nudged Helen.
She raised a laconic brow, mustering her defenses. “Fine, if only Her Grace would allow me to play ever so sorrowfully on her pianoforte.”
“Anything for the next potential duchess,” Dowager Duchess Cordelia replied after being compelled by Theodore’s hard gaze.
Helen sat behind the pianoforte and hauled in an exasperated breath. She felt her nerves flicker restlessly, chills running down her spine. The only person she ever played for was her father, and Helen was not sure whether his praises were real or out of pity for her feelings.
She trailed her fingers over the white keys and polished dark wood, fear engulfing her from the inside. Helen’s eyes met Theodore’s expectant gaze and clasped hands, and she relaxed a little. She set her mind on him, erasing every other person from the room.
And she pressed the first key.
The sound was high and delicate, the beginning of a soulful tune that tore through Theodore’s heart. Her fingers moved softly, caressing the keys of the piano as she played. It was beautiful, spreading through his entire being and bringing joy to his heart. He saw her incline her head, body sawing gently to the tunes she produced, and the first sound left her throat.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, suddenly breathless.
Her song reminded him of his sister, Isadora, and for the first time in cold years, warm tears stung his eyes. Theodore tried to hold it in, to fight against the power of her music. It was alluring, pulling him into the depths of her emotion. Like a siren pulling a sailor to his watery death, except for this time, it was pleasure.
Helen stopped, playing one last note before ending the music. Her eyes were still closed, and she feared the silence that ensued afterward. When she heard nothing, she opened her eyes to a teary Dowager and her sleeping aunt. Even Theodore looked like he was battling something.
“Am I really that bad to make you cry, Your Grace?” she asked softly, pulling back from the piano.
“You were beautiful, my dear Helen,” the Dowager returned, wiping the tears off her face with a linen cloth. “So beautiful that my heart could not hold it anymore.”
“Perfect,” was all Theodore could force from his throat.
