“Does an artist truly ever own one’s work?”
“Lord Archer?—”
“Not just a pretty face, are you?”
“I’ve been told I have a pretty voice, too,” she said. It was always best to give as one got with this man.
“That you do.”
She was so close she could smell his scent of cloves, spice, and man. So close she could reach out and touch him. One act involuntary, the other…requiring agency. “Play me the rest of it,” she demanded.
He blew a frustrated raspberry. “There is norest of it.”
Ah.
“You’re stuck.”
“You needn’t sound so pleased,” he said, pettish.
A laugh escaped her. “It’s simply a relief to know you’re not perfect, Lord Archer.”
His head cocked, and he regarded her with a quizzical expression. “Perfect? Me?” A dry, humorless laugh sounded through his nose. “You clearly have me mistaken for someone else.”
This sudden turn of conversation struck Valentina sideways.
To all outward appearances, the man before her epitomized the world’s opinion on male perfection. Wealth, title, dashing good looks, charming smile, confidence in everything he did.
But looking into his eyes now, it occurred to her that he might not see himself in that light at all. Before her was none of that blithe, devil-may-care confidence—a façade he presented to the world, she was beginning to understand.
Instead, she saw those depths she’d noted yesterday.
She saw an artist tortured by his work.
She saw a Lord Archer who not only intrigued her, but pulled at her.
Shockingly, this Lord Archer was someone she wanted to know better.
For she suspected she hadn’t known him at all untilthis very moment.
Archie wasn’t certain what irritated him more.
That Miss Hart had invaded his private sanctuary, uninvited—after all, every member of the household from sister to scullery maid knew to stay away when he sat at the piano.
Or that she’d invaded his private sanctuary looking like original sin itself—sable hair sleep-tousled and tumbling to her waist in soft waves; night-rail cinched but not so tightly that a hint of voluptuous cleavage wasn’t offered; her lips, ruby-red and lush and practically begging for a kiss…
That last bit had nothing to do with sleep, but more to do with the original sin part.
The woman was a temptation.
And she seemed to have no idea.
“Will you play the piece from the beginning?” she asked.
“You don’t have to ask.”
“Pardon?”
“To be polite.”
