Miss Elliot nodded. “I wonder, also, if I might trouble you for some tea? I enjoy a cup in the evening. It is a habit I acquired in India.”
“Of course,” Lysander said, and dispatched the order.
Soon after, he stood beside the pianoforte, ready to turn the music for Miss Elliot. Though not normally an evening habit for him, he also accepted a cup of the tea that had been ordered. Anjali, serving as the ever-present chaperone, took a seat by the door.
Truth be told, Lysander found himself relaxing, even enjoying himself. Miss Elliot had naturally taken some of his mother’s music, so the pieces she played aroused many fond memories of his childhood.
“You really have a gift, Miss Elliot,” he said. “Listening to you play is extremely pleasurable.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She took a sip of her tea and signaled for Anjali to bring her some more. “I wish we could dispense with the formality, however. I’d much prefer it if you called me Helena.”
A small voice in Lysander’s head told him to refuse, albeit politely. Instead, he surprised himself by agreeing. “If that is what you prefer, Helena,” he replied. “But in that case, I must reciprocate. Please call me Lysander.”
“Thank you.” She briefly touched his hand with hers. “That’s much less stuffy, don’t you think?”
Lysander nodded and looked down at his hand, questioning what he’d just felt. Had she actually touched him?
“Which is your favorite?” Helena asked. “Choose it, and I will play it for you.”
“Actually, you played it at Myddleton,” he said. “Chopin.”
“Ah. Well, that happens to be my favorite as well, Lysander. I can play it by heart, so why don’t you sit down and relax?”
“As you wish,” Lysander said, amiably. He felt movement at his side and watched as Anjali filled his teacup and handed it to him. For a moment, she met his gaze and held it, her expression intense. Then she smiled and stepped away.
“I confess, Helena, I wasn’t exactly happy when you arrived at the door,” he said, ignoring an odd little voice in his head that told him something was very wrong. “But now, I’m glad you’re here. This evening has been very enjoyable.”
“And it is not yet over,” Helena replied, her voice sultry. “Sit down, Lysander. Let me serenade you.”
She began to play, the notes rising into the air with exquisite clarity. Lysander closed his eyes, feeling rather like he was floating on air.
His dreams, that night, were unlike any he’d ever had. A sweet entanglement of limbs, the feel of soft, warm flesh in his hands, and the heated scent of arousal. He was erect and eager, desperate to find completion. It all felt so real. So incredible. Unable to stop, he drove himself hard, wondering who had given herself to him, whose cry he heard when he entered her.
And then he saw her face in his dream. She was the one. The one he wanted. The one he loved. As he tumbled into a sparkling pool of ecstasy, he called out her name.
“Catherine.”
Chapter Five
Myddleton House,
Derbyshire
January 20th, 1828
Catherine sat bythe hearth and stared into the flames, her right hand clasping a letter. It was her letter to Lysander; signed, sealed, apparently delivered… and then returned, unopened.
Since he’d left Myddleton on Christmas Eve, she had not heard a word from him. She knew the old duke had passed away. It had been reported in The Times. The weather had prevented them from attending the funeral, but letters and cards of condolence had been sent, none of them returned.
So why this one?
At that moment, the door opened, and her father, Lord Hutton, entered, carrying a copy of The Times.
“I don’t understand, Papa,” Catherine said, regarding the envelope. “Why would it have been returned? Even if he wasn’t home, they’d have kept the letter.” All at once, she sat up straight. “Or maybe he’s on his way back here. That still doesn’t explain why the letter was returned, though.”
Her father cleared his throat and sat across from her. “Catherine, my dear, I have some news.”
The tone of his voice and the look on his face sent a chill of apprehension down Catherine’s spine. “What news? Is it about Lysander.”
