“I love you, my muse.”
London, February 1855
It was Brilliance’sfavorite time of day, which was an inaccurate notion because the sun had long since set. She lay in bed with her new husband, entwined in one another’s arms. Lovemaking usually happened as soon as they shed their clothing. Tonight had been no different.
Would it always be so ardent?Her gown, petticoat, shift, and corset had gone flying hither and yon, while his coat, shirt, and trousers went in all directions. Under a minute, almostdesperately, they were pressed together, still standing, kissing frantically with hands roaming each other’s bare skin.
Sometimes, by mutual agreement, they would fall back onto the mattress, their mouths still fused. That night, Vincent had swept her up against him with his arm under her knees and carried her to the turned-down bed, laying her upon the downy white sheets of softest cotton.
As their passion increased, they had feasted on one another. And then, with his most capable fingers, he had made her sing his name, and quite loudly, too.
“You are my favorite and finest instrument,” he murmured one evening as he played her body so perfectly she was light-headed when she climaxed — astringendo,he called the fast tightening of all her muscles.
That night, when she came back into herself after a heart-pounding crescendo, Brilliance was still breathing hard as he doused the lamp, plunging them into darkness.
This was their time for chatting if one or the other didn’t fall asleep too quickly.
“It will be spring soon,” Brilliance said, “and I plan to make our garden a showcase.”
“Do you?” Vincent asked his lovely bride of five weeks. “Why?”
Her eyes were already adjusting to the moonlight coming in through the window beside the bed. “Because it has been neglected.”
“It’s still winter. How can you tell?”
“Mr. Chambers told me so. Apart from Cook’s small herb garden, he said the rest is in a sorry state.”
Vincent chuckled. “He is usually correct. I haven’t done anything to it since I moved in. There is a single mature apple tree, which blossoms early, but there are no showy flowers thatI can recall seeing around the perimeter. Just a few weedy perennials. Why, I haven’t even furnished the terrace.”
“We’ll have a swing for two,” she suggested. “And some rocking chairs. What more could we need?”
He chuckled. “Those will keep us and everyone who visits slightly off-kilter, my love. We ought to have a table and comfortable chairs in case we entertain.”
“And I’ll plant roses and lilies and forget-me-nots. Maybe a small herb garden for Cook.”
“Is that really what you want to discuss tonight? Or are you working your way around to bringing up the Casterns?”
She punched him softly in the shoulder, and he captured her hand, holding it against his chest.
“How did you know?” Brilliance asked.
“I saw the newspaper open in the drawing room.”
“What do you think of Mr. Castern’s decision to go to Denmark?”
She felt Vincent shrug. “Financially, it was probably for the best. I didn’t realize attendance would go down at his private concerts once he disclosed he was playing someone else’s music.”
“The listeners want to hear and see the composer,” she said, freeing her hand to brush her palm over the sprinkling of hair upon his chest.
He tucked his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles, relaxing in a quintessentially manly way that she loved.
“I predict Ambrose will gain new fame as the premiere soloist for the Royal Danish Orchestra,” Vincent said. “And Lydia will be introduced to a new legion of concert goers. Unfortunately for that fame-hungry harpy, it is unlikely Ambrose will be allowed to introduce her at the beginning of each concert.”
After a pause, he added, “And it serves her right.”
Brilliance could not sustain any anger toward Mrs. Castern, but then it wasn’t her music stolen, nor her heart broken.
“In truth, I cannot hold a grudge against her,” Brilliance said, letting her fingers trace circles across her husband’s bare stomach. “Mrs. Castern must love Mr. Castern very much. After all, she gave up the title of viscountess, which she could have had with you. Many women would consider that the grandest prize of all.”
