“Of course.”
“And Spencer…” Blackheart narrowed his eyes. “Best of luck to you in Brighton.”
Peter watched as the three men disappeared down the street, ambling along as though they owned the very pavement itself. Although a few years younger than them, Peter had always been welcomed into their fold, like an honorary member of sorts. He was going to miss that.
“Is your brother in danger?” Miranda asked.
Peter hadn’t even heard her rejoin him. “Something of a tangle, but I’ve no doubt he and Westerley will sort it out.” But Peter didn’t want to spend the afternoon discussing his brother’s affairs. Not when he had less than a day left with this woman.
“Shall we go to the hotel now?” Not because he couldn’t wait to make love to her again. But because he needed to just… hold her.
That sense of loss loomed far weightier than it had before they’d met up with the impertinent Lords. He stared into eyes the color of a forest after the rain. When he was old and gray, apprenticing musicians himself, would he sit in his rocking chair and remember Miranda as the woman who could have been?
“Yes.” She was never coy about what she wanted.
Peter stepped onto the street and hailed a hackney.
It Moves Me
Night had long since fallen, and candles flickered in the room, casting shadows on the half-eaten tray of food as well as the two empty bottles of wine.
This room had become a cocoon of sorts. A dream… a sanctuary where neither of them held back anything of themselves—physically or otherwise.
A stinging plagued Miranda’s heart as she pressed her lips against the smooth skin of Peter’s shoulder, memorizing his taste. A little salty, spicy woods, soap, and something uniquely him. Her gaze settled on the leather case propped in the corner of the room.
“You will play for me now?” She loved being in his arms but they were running out of time, and she desperately wanted him to share this aspect of who he was with her. Perhaps it would help her understand his ultimate passion.
He ran his hand down her bare arm. “I’m not certain the other guests will appreciate music floating up and down the corridor this late.”
“You can play a lullaby.” She sat up, her hands still roaming his chest, but then forced herself to crawl out of the bed.
When they’d entered the room several hours earlier, he’d been ravenous for her. It didn’t make sense. She’d always assumed familiarity would diminish the excitement of making love. And yet, with Peter, the more time they spent together, the more personal details they shared about their lives, both significant and insignificant, their hunger for one another only seemed to grow.
The realization was incredible but also a little terrifying and almost had her contemplating leasing a house in Brighton so that she could be with him. It had her contemplating notions she’d all but given up on.
He did not act like a man who was ready to be rid of her. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Peter climbed out of their bed and lovingly draped a blanket around her shoulders. “Sit here.” He guided her to the only comfortable chair in the room.
As he opened the large leather case to reveal the shining instrument, she was reminded of times in the past when she’d watched him play with other musicians; at Westerly Crossings, the Willoughbys’ mansion, and then at a come-out hosted by the Duke of Blackheart. She might as well have been admiring a handsome prince. Dressed in elegant evening wear, he had seemed so completely removed from her own existence, as though he’d lived in another world, in another time.
Never in a thousand years would she have imagined seeing him like this, naked, his skin shining in the candlelight. And his hair was ruffled, springing from his head in places where she’d run her fingers through the lovely strands, the longer locks draping along his jaw.
Watching him go through the ritual of preparing to play, she smiled and hugged her knees to her chest. She would memorize this moment.
She couldn’t help but notice the tangible excitement that grew in his expression as he plucked at each of the strings and then turned a few nobs. Did his heart race the same as when he moved in and out of her?
When he lowered himself into the same wooden chair where they’d made love the night before, a palpable energy filled the room.
“Do you have any requests?” He tipped his head so a wayward lock of hair moved off his face. Miranda swallowed hard. So beautiful in every way. What could he possibly see in her? And yet the look in his eyes refuted her doubts.
“You choose.”
He blinked, his fingers running along the strings. “I’ve been practicing some incredibly difficult pieces Sir Bickford Crowden sent to me. And they are magnificent, a few of his own compositions.” He drew his bow across the thickest string, filling the room with a slow, rich note. “But as far as I’m concerned, nothing rivals Bach’s ‘First Cello Suite.’ It’s hardly the most difficult piece a cellist can learn, but…” He shook his head.
“What?”
“It moves me.”
