To appreciate it.
To love it.
No other set of eyes had ever been laid upon it.
When her gaze lifted, he saw a new expression within. She’d judged this work worthy. He attempted—and failed—to tamp down the wave of gratification that crested inside him.
“How many other pieces have you composed?”
He didn’t have to think. “Thirty-two.”
Her brow lifted. “Thirty-two?”
“Well, several of those are from childhood, so they might not count as anything anyone would want to hear.”
Her head canted. “I believe they would.”
Oh, how those four words entered his bloodstream and lit him up.
She held out the composition. “Will you play it for me?”
He should sayno.
But he couldn’t resist. It occurred to him he might not be able to resist any request this woman made of him.
He removed the sheets from the book and placed them on the music shelf, though he knew every note by memory. He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.
He depressed piano keys, and the notes began to coalesce into music. He’d composed this piece the summer before he’d started at Cambridge, and all the emotions of that time began to sail through him. Of the particular happiness of youth on the cusp of adulthood. Offresh beginnings. Of anticipation.
The same feelings he experienced tonight with Valentina alone in this room with him.
She moved closer, as he’d known she would when he began playing. He felt her at his back, following the music. Though they’d never discussed it, he understood she felt music in the way he did.
To the very core of her soul.
A note sounded through the air. Not from the piano, but from behind him. From Valentina. One note flowed into another, then another, overlaying the composition with a harmony, using that glorious voice of hers. He wanted to stop playing, so he could listen as she took the composition places he hadn’t dreamed of venturing, but he couldn’t. In this moment in time, her music and his music were one.
Tonight, he was her muse.
Together, they were creating something worthwhile—something special.
When he neared the end of one sheet, she leaned around him to turn the page. Separated by mere inches, he caught her scent.Lemon and roses and night and woman.
Then she flipped to the last page, and he was playing the final notes. The music drifted into the night, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. He shifted around so he straddled the piano bench, facing her. She stared down at him only a few feet away, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with the particular joy of creation.
“Why don’t you play in public?” she asked.
Archie felt his most charming smile—the one reserved for the world outside this room—rear its ugly head. He could hate himself for it. To use artifice with Valentina felt wrong. But she was veering too close to truths that felt safer kept hidden away. He laughed, almost a scoff, dismissive.
Her eyebrows drew together. She wasn’t charmed. “You have a gift.”
“I, Miss Hart,” he said, “have a title.”
She needed to understand that.
“And you think that’s all you should be?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s all the world thinks I am.”
