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* * *
I’ve not heard her play this piece before, and as ever, my girl… my wife, is lost in the music, delivering a stellar performance. Our guests are transfixed, as they should be. But what I love about her relationship with her music is that she’s submerged in it. It totally absorbs her—no, it possesses her—so much so that I’m sure we’ve all disappeared, and it’s just her and the piano and this delightful piece.
She comes to the final trilling note, and it hangs in the air, holding us all rapt before she lifts her fingers off the keys.
Our guests burst into applause and stand.
“Alessia, that was amazing.”
“My goodness!”
“Brava! Brava!”
Alessia smiles shyly at them as I approach her and place my hands on her shoulders. Her hand clasps mine. “Ladies and gentlemen, my wife.” I lean down and kiss her quickly. “And on that note! It’s time for you to go home. We’re both weary from our travels.”
“Yes. We’ll be on our way,” Tom says.
“Thanks again,” Joe adds as he makes his way out of the drawing room.
Mrs. Blake is clearing the kitchen, and I thank her before Alessia and I accompany our guests to the front door. It’s then that I notice, much to my delight, that my photographic landscapes are reframed and back on the walls.
Caro hugs me goodbye. “Take Alessia shopping for some clothes, for heaven’s sake,” she hisses in my ear. “Or let me!”
I release her. “Okay. If you think I should.”
“Yes. She’s a countess, for God’s sake. Not a student. Take her to Harvey Nicks.”
Alessia frowns. “What is it?” she asks.
“Let him take you shopping, darling.” She hugs Alessia, smiles sweetly, and exits with the rest of my family and friends while Alessia turns to me. But before she can say anything, I’m saved by Mrs. Blake, who comes to the door.
“All the washing is done. The kitchen is clean and stocked with the groceries you requested. The dishwasher will need emptying.” She gives Alessia a sly glance. “I know—I mean… I hope that shouldn’t be a problem for you… my lady.” Mrs. Blake purses her lips in what I assume is supposed to be a smile but is more of a sneer.
“That’s enough, Mrs. Blake,” I state in a brusque, rebuking tone, holding the door open for her. “It’s time for you to leave.”
Alessia places her hand on my arm, to stop me from saying more… I don’t know. She draws herself upright and lifts her chin.
“Yes. Of course. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Blake.”
“My lord. My lady.” She nods, her look uncertain because she’s been called out, and she leaves.
Too bloody right.
* * *
Maxim’s face is carved in stone as he bids the housekeeper good day, but Alessia is delighted that he noticed Mrs. Blake’s condescending tone. He turns to face her. “I think Mrs. Blake might need a talking to.”
Alessia wraps her arms around Maxim and hugs him.
He noticed and acted.
But Alessia would like to fight her own battles in future. She’s sure there will be more. After all, Alessia was his cleaner, and she understands Mrs. Blake’s resentment.
She smiles at him. “She is Caroline’s servant.”
“We would say staff. Servant seems a little… feudal.”
“I was your servant,” she whispers.
Maxim leans down and runs his nose against hers. “And now I’m yours.” His lips are on hers, and he presses her against the wall, kissing her until she wants to curl her toes. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs in a dark tone that speaks directly to her most intimate places.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Maxim dozes beside Alessia. His lips gently parted, his eyelashes feathered above his cheeks, his face tanned and relaxed in sleep—he really is beautiful. Alessia watches him, marveling at how young he looks. She resists touching him and turns to survey the room. She has no idea what time it is, though it’s still light outside. When she was last in this room, they’d made love, and then she left the apartment, and Anatoli was waiting for her.
Don’t think about him!
She distracts herself by studying the room in a new light as Maxim’s wife. It’s a masculine space: clean lines, minimal furniture in muted silvers and grays. The only ornate piece of furniture is the substantial gilt mirror on the wall behind and above the bed’s headboard. And on the wall opposite are the two photographs of naked women, their backs turned to the camera, so they’re not too explicit. But still, they’re erotic and sensual. And he said that all the photography in the apartment was his; he must have taken these pictures.
Darling, he’s slept with most of London.
Alessia sighs. This she knows—she saw the evidence every week in his wastebasket. And there was that young woman in the pub in Cornwall. Alessia cannot remember her name.
But how many women in this bed?
