Autumn's Wild Heart (Seasons #4) - Laura Landon Page 0,16

doorway.

James watched his wife display a gift he’d not expected. Her head dipped and swayed. Her eyes remained closed, her hands lifting gracefully to linger a moment before they plunged back to the keyboard.

She was remarkable. She played with such passion that her entire body moved with each note.

James wasn’t sure what she was playing. It was something he’d heard before. Something written by a composer of note, but he couldn’t say who.

The piece ended, or perhaps it was only one movement of the piece, because after a suspended moment she continued with a different part. And the next part of the song was much faster and seemed incredibly difficult to play. Her fingers danced over the keys, hitting them with practiced ability, and striking them with precision and strength.

The ending of the piece raced on, accelerating faster and faster. Then, with a crashing final chord, she swept it to a powerful conclusion.

As her final notes rang in the room, James felt his heart tumble, then begin to slow. She’d drawn him so thoroughly into her music that his heart had seemed to take on a new rhythm of its own. She had done that with nothing but her lovely hands that expressed her incalculable gift. Her ability was beyond anything he knew to compare it.

She sat in stillness for several moments before she finally opened her eyes and gently ran her fingertips over the ivory keys.

“You have a gift,” he said when she turned her head and saw him standing in the doorway. Her surprise caused him to smile.

She rose from the piano bench and stood to face him. “Thank you,” she answered, “but I’m afraid I have just enough talent to realize how lacking I truly am.”

“I don’t find you lacking at all.”

Her cheeks darkened as if she wasn’t used to receiving compliments.

He walked toward her. “Did Mrs. Pendleton give you a tour of the house, my lady?”

“She did. And it’s beautiful.”

“It will suit?” he asked.

“Very much, my lord,” she answered. “I could not ask for anything more perfect.”

James held out his hand and escorted her to the drawing room next door. “Would you care for a glass of sherry? Or perhaps wine?”

“Wine if you please, my lord.”

“I fear we are reverting in our attempt to use our first names. My lord and my lady are terribly formal.”

She smiled and took the wine he held out to her. “Thank you…James.”

James sat in the cushioned wing chair facing hers and took a sip of his brandy. He stretched his muscular legs out in front of him and turned his glass in his fingers. “What was the name of the piece you played?”

“Ah. That was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I only played the second and third movements, although the first movement is the most well-known. Were you familiar with it?”

“Yes. I’ve heard it before, but wasn’t so familiar with it that I could tell you its title.”

He gave a sheepish grin and was taken off guard by his wife’s answering smile. A euphoria that had most likely risen while she played still seemed to linger in her sapphire gaze.

It was both reassuring and unsettling. Reassuring, because her ability to lose herself in music showed her growing comfort with his home. Unsettling, because of the way it stirred him.

His pleasure in the moment lasted through dinner and then a drink in the library. James was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable he was becoming in her presence.

“I believe I’d like to go for a walk in the garden before bed,” she said as she rose to her feet. “That is, before retiring.”

He noted her furious blush at the mention of ‘bed’ and smiled.

“We shall go to our bed a thousand times in the years ahead, wife. I trust the mere mention of it won’t bring you to a blush every time.” He paused and pondered what he’d just said. “Then again, I might wish for it.”

Now it was her turn to pause. She slowly turned and looked at him from beneath her hooded eyelids. “If a mere blush brings…energetic thoughts to mind, then perhaps I shall make a habit of it.”

Her hand flew to her mouth as if she wished to recall the words. She turned toward the terrace door and fled, leaving James to find himself wondering if he should reprimand her speech or dissolve in laughter.

In the end he did neither and merely followed her into the garden where they strolled to a stone bench.

“I want to thank you, James,” she