of his chest and thighs. He had offered his heart in that lopsided grin, looking as tempting and delectable as a present waiting to be unwrapped. Emily had felt like a dowdy wren in Doreen's borrowed dress and bonnet. Only her humiliated pride had given her the strength to spurn him.
It had been so easy to condemn him, but having him look at her as if he despised her, knowing he loathed what she had done, made her feel truly ashamed for the first time in her life.
The music played on, dancing over her nerves like silken fingers. She threw back the comforter and climbed down from the bed. A pair of velvet slippers warmed on the rug in front of the hearth. She shoved her feet into them, unable to resist a wiggle of her toes in their plush contours.
As she slipped out of her room, the music grew louder, a dark and fantastical lullaby in the sleeping hush of the house.
She crept down the long, curving staircase, realizing halfway down that the drawing room lay directly across the checkered tile of the foyer. Moonlight spilled through the wall of windows, varnishing the
grand piano to an ebony gloss.
Justin's hair flew as he pounded the keys. He had abandoned his waistcoat, and his white shirt was half unbuttoned. The muscles in his shoulders rippled beneath the rich linen. Sweat glistened on the column
of his throat.
Emily sank to a sitting position on the stairs, clasping the wooden balusters in her trembling hands. The melody poured over her in jarring shocks of recognition. It was the symphony he had written for her on the island. Hearing it rendered in these magnificent tones made her realize what pathetic justice her own reedy voice had done it.
Justin played the piano like a master. His hands flew over the keys, making her purr and thunder beneath his skillful touch.
Emily's eyes fluttered shut. Her mouth felt dry, her breathing unsteady. It was as if Justin were ravishing not the piano, but her, taking her against her will with each crash of the chords. As the music climbed to
a crescendo, a broken gasp escaped her. Her eyes flew open.
Justin looked up, and his gaze met hers across the gleaming expanse of tile. His eyes were dark and dangerous. His fingers never missed a stroke.
I've spent the last few nights pouring all of my passions into my music when all I really wanted to do
was pour them into you.
Without warning his words came back to her, rough with promise.
Tearing her gaze away from his, she rose and flew back up the stairs. She slammed her door and locked it, her heart beating frantic wings in her throat. She jumped into the bed, slippers and all, and pulled the comforter over her head. But no matter how hard she pressed her hands to her ears, she still could not stop the music.
Chapter 20
Yet when we said good-bye, the shadow
of the woman you will become was in your eyes.
"There's one, sir," Penfeld said, jabbing his finger at the newspaper spread on the dining room table. " 'Personal maid,' " he read over Justin's shoulder, " 'Companion. Expert dresser of hair. Fluent in
French and Italian.' "
Something slammed into the ceiling above them. Tiny specks of plaster floated down to dust Justin's
tea. A muffled oath that was neither French nor Italian burned their ears.
"Do you think we can find a maid fluent in bear wrestling?" Justin muttered.
"You might try the circus," Penfeld suggested.
Justin held the paper in front of his face, trying to ignore the alarmed cries, thumps, and howls coming from the second floor. He winced at the tinkling sound of glass shattering.
Penfeld lifted the teapot to pour him a fresh cup of tea.
"One. Two," Justin counted under his breath.
A door slammed. The valet gazed upward, pouring a stream of amber over the ivory tablecloth.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs accompanied by hysterical sobbing. Click, click, click went the
shoes across the marble tiles of the foyer, then the front door slammed with a bang that echoed like a gunshot through the waiting house.
"Three," Justin dourly pronounced, massaging his aching brow with the palm of his hand.
Warm tea trickled into his lap.
"Oh dear, sir. I'm frightfully sorry." Penfeld snatched up a napkin and mopped his trousers.
The duchess entered the room at full sail, the flounces of her skirt following a good foot behind her.
"That was the third maid in as many days. The girl can't sulk in her bedroom forever. If she refuses
to be dressed, I insist you see to her."
Justin laid down the paper, biting back a groan. Dressing Emily was the last thing his frazzled nerves needed.
His mother droned on. "Your sisters and I have been planning an intimate gathering to introduce your young ward to society, followed by a splendid ball to launch her into the company of the more eligible young men." She sighed happily. "It will be such a joy having a young girl in the house again, won't it, dear?"
"A pure delight," Justin replied grimly.
He rose and slipped from the room before his mother could begin discussing the flower arrangements
for Emily's wedding or sewing the christening gown for her first child.
He smoothed his waistcoat as he climbed the stairs, steeling himself behind his only shield-a cool paternal demeanor. His sharp knock received no answer. He opened the door to find his entire view captured by the charming sight of Emily's ruffled drawers upended in the window.
She was leaning halfway over the sill, shaking her fist. "Don't come back either! It'll take a lot more
than a puny creature like you to shove me into one of those bloody contraptions."
She leaned out farther as a bonneted figure scampered out of earshot. Her pantaloons hugged the sleek curves of her thighs. Justin wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before striding across the room and catching her by the waistband. He could just see her tumbling out the window in her white drawers and lacy camisole.
She wiggled in his grasp. "I won't wear it. I won't. You can't make me. And if you try, I'll . . ." She jabbed the air with a sinister-looking hat pin before realizing who had caught her.
He stepped back, dodging her easily. "You'll what? Deflate me?"
She straightened, muttering something about "hot air." A flush dusted her cheekbones. She crossed her arms over her breasts, then folded her hands casually at the juncture of her thighs, finally giving up all attempts at modesty by resting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, already knowing there was. Five feet three inches of problem, exuding
a rumpled femininity that would have given a eunuch pause.
She stabbed an accusing finger at the chair. "That is the problem."
Justin picked up the object she indicated and ran his hands over the rigid whalebone. "What is it? A hat
of some sort?"