No matter how many times he told himself that, it didn't matter.
The windows rattled in their casement. Lucien took another drink, then set the bottle on the top of the piano where a sticky ring had formed. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he sighed. A prickling sensation rose along his spine.
That was when he began to realize he was not alone.
"Für Elise. It was beautiful," Ianthe said wistfully, from the doorway. "I didn't know you could play."
Lucien kept his head bowed. He couldn't look at her. Not in this moment. It felt like an intrusion into a private moment he'd been having, and yet he couldn't resent her for it, not when a part of him was also hungry for company.
Lightning lashed through the curtains.
Don't ask her... Don't...
"Join me?" The words sounded rough.
"Is that a question or a demand? It is night, after all, and you still want revenge, after all." The words were both a dark jest, and a challenge.
Lucien slowly turned. Rose silk draped her form, the robe tied just beneath her breasts. Those feet were bare, and somehow the sight was more intimate than anything else between them. This might have been a normal night between husband and wife.
But it wasn't.
"What do you want to do?"
Ianthe looked troubled. She padded across the parquetry floor, her gaze sliding to the storm through the window, then back to him. "That's a dangerous question."
"Is it?"
Their eyes met. He kept waiting for her to say something, some question about what had happened today between them, but her gaze dropped to his hands, and then she reached out and touched him. One languid stroke, her fingertips trailing over his. Wistful, perhaps.
"You have beautiful hands. I see now why you're so skillful in bed. You play the piano with the lightest touch, almost a caress. It's the same way you touch me."
Lucien cleared his throat. "Can't sleep?"
Ianthe shook her head ruefully, her hair bunched into a lazy chignon, as if she'd merely stuffed pins into it any old way. Reaching out, he caught her fingers in his and drew her into his lap. The silk of her rose-colored robe slithered over his trousers, her firm bottom nestling snugly against his cock. He was aware of it. He was always aware of it—that slow burn beneath his skin whenever she was around—but he ignored the ache, rested his chin on her shoulder, and leaned around her to position his hands again.
The first notes rang out. Something lighter of tone: Beethoven's the Waldstein. He managed the first and second movements, but couldn't quite manage the rapid left hand runs of the rondo with Ianthe in his lap. The notes jarred and he fell still, leaning his chin upon her shoulder and drawing in a deep breath.
"I can't sleep either," he admitted, turning his face into the curve of her throat and breathing her in. Faint traces of her perfume lingered, but he could scent the base notes of her skin.
"Did you read Lord Rathbourne's grimoire?" she asked.
"Most of it. It makes little sense. It keeps saying that he's preparing me for the ultimate sacrifice. Then he spends entire passages gloating about revenge and how this will finally earn him back his honor."
"Sacrifice?"
Lucien shrugged. It had made all of the hairs on his arm stand on end, coinciding with what Lady Eberhardt had said, but he refused to dwell on it.
"I don't like that word, Lucien." Ianthe tilted her head toward him, fear painting icy blues across her skin.
His thumb stroked over her silk robe, absorbing the sensations. "Don't you? Why? Concerned for me?"
"Of course I am."
His heart twisted in his chest. "Don't be."
She tried to turn around. "Lucien—"
Hands curling around her waist, he held her in place. The easiest way to hide the fear in his heart was to keep his face turned away. "Perhaps that's why he used me to summon the demon? Maybe I was to be the blood sacrifice to appease it? If so, more fool he. The plan backfired."
