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“That won’t matter,” Sylvia quickly put in. “Georgiana is being modest. Remember how well she played in Scotland?” This comment was addressed to Rafe.
He gave her an indulgent smile and reached for her hand. “How could I forget?”
Henry shifted his gaze away just as Rafe brought Sylvia’s hand to his lips.
The man seemed physically incapable of going more than a few minutes without touching his wife. It was becoming quite tiresome.
Jealous.
Henry bristled at the ridiculous thought. If he ever found himself in love, he would have the good sense to keep it private. As he reached for his wineglass again, he noticed Georgiana watching him, her lush mouth curved upward in the slightest smile. Henry returned it, certain she knew exactly what he had been thinking of. The restaurant’s low light illuminated the delicate curves of her face while casting others in shadow, an alluring mix that drew his eye like a moth to a flame. The chatter around them faded into a dull buzz. It was far past time for him to turn away, and yet he couldn’t find the will. Her breathing visibly quickened under his inspection, and his cock thickened. It wasn’t until everyone else at the table began to rise that his attention was torn away, back to the moment. He reached for his cane and stood as well, but their mutual delay had not gone unnoticed, and he pointedly ignored the interested looks both Sylvia and Rafe were casting down the table.
As their companions paired off, Henry belatedly realized that he would have to escort Georgiana upstairs. He offered her his free arm, which she took without looking at him. Whatever had passed between them moments ago was not to be repeated, then. It was just as well, he reasoned, even as his growing erection began to press against the fabric of his trousers. Even as the very feel of her presence at his side was achingly familiar. Her warmth, her scent, her inviting softness. The featherlight brush of her lusciously curved hip against his own. His fingers itched to touch her again, to revel in the sensation of her moving beneath him.
And yet, he did not speak. Did not turn his head one fraction of an inch toward her. And she did the same. Together they politely ignored each other as they moved across the lobby, into the private lift, and down the hall to the countess’s apartments, the silence growing tighter and tighter with every step, until they had reached the front door and he stopped to let her pass the threshold. Then and only then did they both turn to each other. The heated look in her eyes shot straight through him.
Henry opened his mouth, entirely unsure of what he could possibly say that wasn’t the height of impropriety. But before he could make an utter fool of himself, Sylvia saved him.
“Come here, Georgiana! We’ve found some music for you to play.”
Lady Arlington turned to her friend, then glanced back at Henry. He gave her a subtle nod. He had to get out of here. The protection officers were stationed below at the entrance to the private lift. There was no reason for him to stay any longer.
But just as he prepared to say his goodbyes, Rafe came forward. “I’m afraid you can’t escape that easily, Captain.”
Henry longed to tell him to go to hell, but that would only lead to more questions he didn’t want to answer. “Very well,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Come in, then,” Rafe said with a broad smile. He was enjoying this, the bastard.
Henry shuffled inside and followed him to the large parlor. Georgiana was already seated at the impressive black lacquered piano while Sylvia fussed with some sheet music. The countess’s butler was pouring glasses of port, while a maid wheeled in a cart bearing desserts and a steaming pot of tea.
“Would you care for port or mint tea, Captain?” the countess asked as she moved toward the cart.
“Tea, please.” Given the state of his nerves, it seemed the far safer choice.
“It’s a Moroccan custom Mahmood introduced me to,” she explained while pouring him a cup of the fragrant brew into an elegantly decorated glass cup. “Mint tea after a meal. I find it most calming.”
Henry took a sip. “Very refreshing.”
Georgiana began tapping out the first few chords with obvious skill. Even Henry, who had dutifully taken lessons for a time as a boy to please his mother but otherwise had no real ear for music, thought it sounded dreadfully complicated. “Could someone turn for me?” she said distractedly as her eyes scanned the page.
The tea must have had absolutely no effect on his nerves because Henry was already moving toward her. Already offering his help. “I can do it.”
Her gaze shot to his with undisguised surprise. “Oh. Thank you,” she murmured and moved aside on the bench. As Henry sat down, her skirts practically embraced his legs. They were wonderfully, terribly close.
He glanced at the sheet music. “Chopin?”
“Mr. Previn’s favorite composer,” she explained, her gaze still on the notes. “But rather advanced for a beginner. No wonder the countess gave up.”
A sympathetic smile touched her lips, and she looked up at him. Her cheeks were appealingly flushed. It must be from the wine, Henry reasoned. It couldn’t possibly be anything else. Like, say, him. But just as Henry leaned a little toward her, she abruptly turned back to the music. His mind screamed to pull back, to feign illness, anything to hasten his withdrawal, but the warnings were effectively silenced as soon as she pressed her fingers to the keys.
She was even better than he had remembered. Better than he could have ever imagined. But it wasn’t simply the music pouring forth from her nimble fingers dancing over the keys. It was the way she seemed wholly possessed by her performance. She was a woman who usually moved with a delicate grace that appeared effortless. Who kept her feelings tucked away behind a gilded mask. But here all her pretenses fell away. A charged tension seemed to run through her body, while her normally smooth brow furrowed in intense concentration as her arms flexed and stretched, hammering at the notes. Here she was powerful. Full of life. Of heat. Of passion.
Henry was so distracted he missed his cue. It wasn’t until she gave him a sharp glance that he remembered what he was here for.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he turned the page, and the music continued.
He made sure to keep his gaze fixed firmly on the page this time. It was the safer choice anyway. If he watched her any longer, he would be unable to hide the effect she was having on him. It had been so much easier for him to labor under the illusion that he disliked her when she was busy playing the viscountess. But in these moments, when the mask was abandoned, he found it nearly impossible. Because he had fallen in love with that girl once, and would do so again quite easily.
As if you haven’t already.
