“You must be tired,” he added, “and I have no wish to keep you from your slumber.”
“I am.” Her smile was tremulous. “I hope you sleep well.”
He knew he would not.
Roland forced a calm smile to his lips all the same, calling upon all the sangfroid he possessed. “And you as well, my dear. Good night.”
He watched her disappear through the door joining their chambers, everything within him yearning to stop her. But he did not. Instead, he waited until the portal clicked closed, and then he left his room to work off his vexation in the form of exercise.
* * *
A fitful nightof precious little sleep passed. For the first time since their arrival in Yorkshire, Roland did not join Pippa for breakfast. Instead, she dined in lonely silence after being told His Grace had eaten much earlier and had already departed for a tour of the estate with his steward. After finishing her breakfast and spending a few hours with Charlotte until it was time for her nap, Pippa decided to wander through the cavernous rooms.
She found herself in the music room, drawn by the need to distract herself as much as the desire to play the piano. She could not shake the sense that she had made a mistake the night before. Not by making love with Roland. Consummating their marriage still felt right. She had no regrets, despite her initial fears she might wake to misgivings.
Pippa sat at the piano bench. How long had it been since she had last played a song, just for the pleasure of hearing it? She could not recall. The last year of her life, following George’s death, had been a whirlwind of grief, mourning, and learning to live again without him. Her progress had been sent to the devil by the discovery he had never been the man she had believed him to be.
That the man she had loved had been a lie.
It had been her reference to her former husband, she had no doubt, which had caused Roland’s abrupt desire for her to leave his chamber. After the intensity of their joining, his dismissal of her had hurt. She could not lie.
He was so difficult to read, to understand. And she was still so afraid to trust.
Her fingers moved hesitantly over the keys, and the strains of a particularly mournful Chopin emerged, breaking the silence. Strange how easily something returned. Her body and mind played with effortless ease. All the time which had passed since she had last sat at a piano faded away.
Much as the intervening years which had come between herself and Roland had seemed to dissipate last night.
Until her misstep, when he had been the one to erect walls instead of her.
He was a careful man, her new husband. His heart was guarded, and for the first time, she realized it was every bit as fortified as hers was, every bit as unwilling to trust. But what had she expected?
She had believed the worst of him five years ago, and she had sent him a letter informing him of her betrothal to George. She had chosen another over him. It was painful to think now of how very wrong she had been. Of how easily she had been led astray. Of all the years which may have been different had she not believed George.
On a sigh, she allowed her fingertips to still on the keys, the music dying.
“Why did you stop?”
With a squeak, she turned to find Roland standing at the threshold, arms crossed over his broad chest, a hip leaning against the doorjamb. As always, he stole her breath. His black hair was brushed off his forehead. His dark gaze melded with hers, bringing with it all the memories of the night before, when they had made love beneath the constellations. His high cheekbones and strong jaw were chiseled angles she could not help but to admire.
But it was his kindness and compassion toward herself and her daughter which drew her to him the most, even more than his dashing looks and undeniable magnetism.
She rose from the bench, feeling uncertain.
“I was enjoying listening to you play,” he added. “I have missed your talent greatly.”
“It is hardly talent,” she said, fingers fidgeting in the silken fall of her skirts, not knowing what to do. “And I had not played in some time. I dare say my ability has grown quite rusty.”
He pushed away from the threshold, nearing her. His long legs, encased in tweed trousers and high leather boots, captured her attention. Everything about him was so virile and masculine. No man had ever made her feel the way he did.
Not even George.
And she was glad for the realization.
George had been her past. Roland was her future. If he would allow himself to be, that was. After the manner in which they had said goodnight last evening, coupled with his absence at breakfast, she could not be sure of his expectations.
“No one has played that piano since Mama,” he said, and the wistfulness she had come to expect whenever he spoke of his mother resurfaced.
Heavens.It seemed that all she did was stumble. Five years’ worth of it.
