Page 90 of A Symphony for the Earl

His heart quickened as he opened the adjoining door to the bedroom where a heavy silk dressing gown lay on the bed. He shrugged it on. Tying the cord around his waist, he passed back through the study and stood in the doorway listening. He rubbed his forehead, perplexed—had he imagined the piano because he wanted to believe it was Fiona? Resolutely, he went to the music room.

*

Fiona lay her head on the shelf of the piano to cry as the final notes of the Schubert impromptu lingered in the air. The No. 3 always made her melancholy and lonely and tonight was no exception. She had to stop at several points as her emotions bubbled to the surface.

Sleep had been elusive, broken by grief and the full moon outside her window, spilling across the floor to her bed. The clock indicated one when she gave up, drawn inexorably to the Broadwood.

Her swirling thoughts demanded an outlet and she instinctively reached for the Schubert. With each measure, each poignant note, this is my last day here echoed in her mind. She would never see Richard again. The thought was agonizing, and at the end of the piece she collapsed, the beautiful wood damp with tears.

It was instinct, more than a sound, that made Fiona raise her head. Richard stood in the doorway, dimly illuminated by the single taper she placed on the top of the piano.

His mahogany locks were loose and disordered, and he wore a dark-blue dressing gown, loosely tied. His white shirt gaped to the waist, revealing a sprinkling of dark hair and sculpted muscle. He seemed disoriented and hesitant.

“Fiona.” His voice was thick, almost hoarse.

Below Richard’s creased breeches, his calves and feet were bare. He looked nothing like the polished, elegantly dressed man she knew. Hastily, she wiped at the tears with her sleeve. She was far more clothed than he in a cambric night shift buttoned to her throat and a satin wrapper.

“Fiona…are you crying? Is it—oh Christ, I’ve fucked things so badly.” His voice trailed off uncertainly and he glanced down at his exposed feet. “Good God. I must be mad.”

Richard looked as if he might flee at any moment. And tomorrow she would be gone; she might never see him again. Fiona leaped up, and the piano bench made a grating noise as it slid backward.

“I have to know…was it wrong to send you away? Are you…” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “Did you mean what you said? Fiona, do you love me?”

Chapter Thirty-One

The Resolution Fails Completely

He sounded unsure of the answer. A stifled sob caught in her throat, and she flew to him, throwing herself against his broad chest. “Yes…oh, yes.”

Recoiling from the force of her embrace, he froze for a moment, then held her at arm’s length. “Do you?” he asked in disbelief, his eyes searching hers. “Say it again.”

“I love you with my whole heart.”

With a deep, knotted sigh, he pulled her to him, whispering her name. She had forgotten to pin up her hair, a thing nearly as shocking as his bare feet, and he wound a skein of curls through his hand and brought them to his lips.

“So beautiful,” he murmured hoarsely. “It doesn’t matter if your father wants you back. I’ll be damned if I let you go again.”

His lips were ruthless and demanding at first, then his kisses deepened and lingered as if learning every curve and hollow of her mouth. Their breathing entwined until she could no longer say where his ended and hers began. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing closer.

“Richard…mo chroí…I’ve been so miserable thinking I must leave.”

“When I heard your music, I thought I must be dreaming.” Kissing her fingers, he turned his face into her palm, the unshaven stubble rough against her skin. “What did you call me?’

“Mo chroí…my heart. Cushlamachree…vein of my heart. Acushla…my beloved. Asthore…my treasure. Mo ghrá…my darling—”

With a groan, he caught her mouth in another searing kiss, and his lips trailed fire across her collarbone to the hollow behind her ear. “Mo chroí…Acushla…tell me again that you love me…”

“I love you, Richard Anthony Creighton Merrick, ninth Earl of—”

“Minx,” he growled softly, nuzzling her earlobe. “Are you making light of my title?”

“Did you try to impress my father with all your names?” It was difficult to be coherent with the aching deep between her thighs pulsing so insistently. Unbidden, her eyes dropped to the opening of his shirt. The thin cotton parted to reveal a broad expanse of sculpted muscles, dusted with dark hair that tapered to his navel.

He followed her eyes, his nostrils flaring. “Yes…I want you to touch me—anywhere…everywhere.”

She lifted her hand, trailing her fingertips over the curve of his pectorals, then the shallow between. She traced the light whorls of hair, bypassing his taut nipples.

“Is this how it’s done?”