Yes, she’d lied about who she was. But she’d done so for reasons he could understand. Well, not entirely—he’d never been in her situation. He’d never needed to work to survive, never been a vulnerable young woman who’d had to protect herself against the predators of the world. The thought of what she might have gone through seized his gut, and he wanted to tear every bastard who’d mistreated her limb from limb.
How could he hold her deception against her? She’d worked hard to improve his manor and the quality of his life. Her presence had upended his existence but in a good way. She made him look beyond his misery and self-pity. Hell, because of her, he was even thinking about trying his hand at composing. A long time ago, before his injury, he’d given writing music a go; he’d started a sonata but gave up on it…had forgotten about it, in truth, until Xenia had played it on the Bösendorfer. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about the piece and had even made another copy, with what he thought were improvements.
Xenia reminded him that life was worth living. And despite her ruses, she hadn’t lied about her feelings for him. She took responsibility for what she’d done. Of her own volition, she had told him the truthbeforethey’d started their affair—unlike Constance, who’d betrayed him with his friend and jilted him right before the wedding.
Xenia had to have known the risk she was taking, yet she’d done it anyway. Her behavior was nothing if not consistent. She was impulsive, troublesome, and brave. She called into question her own morality, yet she clearly had her own sense of honor. From the start, he’d been intrigued by her contradictions…her resilience and vulnerability. He couldn’t deny his desire to defend her, his housekeeper who thought far too little of herself.
Then and there, he decided to discover Xenia’s secrets. She might tease him for being rational, but as an artist, he’d learned to trust his instincts. He knew that she wasn’t capable of malice. Mischief, yes, but her heart was too tender for any true wrongdoing. Whatever she was running from—for clearly, shewasrunning—he would help her with it. He would keep her safe.
Once he made the decision, everything else became clear. He’d experienced this before when learning to play a new and complex piece. As daunting as the score might be, once he’d decided to tackle it, he would. No matter how much patience and effort was required. The same held true where Xenia was concerned. He was going to discover the intricacies of who she was, including her past, and he was going to protect her.
Ergo, it made perfect sense to kiss her as if she belonged to him.
She melted against his chest, soft and eager. That was another thing about her: when it came to passion, she was charmingly candid. Her mouth parted hungrily beneath his own, and she clutched the lapels of his smoking jacket with such exuberance that he would have to think of an excuse to tell Valentine in the morning. He loved her enthusiasm, her taste, the soft sounds she made while he licked inside her.
Despite her delightful alacrity, her confession had triggered a question he needed answered. Reluctantly, he broke from her sweetness.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Again? Haven’t we talked enough? Can’t we move on to other things?”
At her dismay, he had to stifle a smile. He enjoyed her artlessness. Despite Xenia’s disguises, she was far more honest than most ladies of his acquaintance.
“This is important,” he said. “I need an honest answer from you.”
“All right,” she said warily.
“Are you a virgin?”
Her cheeks turned pink. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“If we are speaking in technicalities, then…yes.”
Her reply gave him a jolt of primal satisfaction. It was stupid, he knew, because her innocence was going to make things more complicated. If she’d been a widow, he could give full rein to his desires, knowing that they were on equal footing in terms of experience. With a virgin…well, he’d never been with a virgin before, but his honor told him the rules were different.
“But I am not without experience,” she said hastily. “I’ve had a follower and, um, done some things. Just notthething. I know what goes on between a man and woman…Iamthree and twenty, after all, and practically on the shelf. You needn’t be concerned on my behalf. I know what we’re about to do, and Iwantto do it with you.”
As usual, she had a unique way of tying him up in knots. Her lack of the usual female modesty about sexual matters amused and beguiled him. At the same time, he tensed at her blasé reference to her “follower.”
Who was this bloody cove with whom she’d done “some things”?
The bite of possessiveness stunned him. Constance had complained that he hadn’t seemed to care when men flirted with her—that he was more likely to get jealous if someone touched his piano. She hadn’t been wrong.
But with Xenia, things were different.
“Unless you don’t want to have an affair with me because I lack experience?” As was her wont, Xenia struck upon a notion that was both fanciful and ridiculous. “Rest assured that I have not led a sheltered existence. I consider myself a woman of the world. Moreover, I have an active imagination. While I have not engaged in relations per se, I havethoughtabout it. Excessively. I am a quick study and?—”
“You needn’t list your qualifications for an affair,” he said wryly. “You are not interviewing for a position, you know.”
“Aren’t I?” Her eyes sparkled, and she raised her brows. “Perhaps even forseveralpositions?”
It took him a moment to realize that she had made a warm jest. Bemused, he had to acknowledge she wasn’t maidenly in the least. His tension eased. She was a rare jewel: a woman whose body was untouched but whose mind was delightfully wanton. Wicked yet sweet, she was the lover he’d been searching for all along…and she wanted him back.
By Jove, when did he get to be such a lucky bastard?
“Getting rather ahead of yourself, aren’t you, minx?” he murmured. “Talking about variations when you haven’t done it the usual way.”
