Tom’s gaze searched hers, and she could not shake the feeling he understood, that he could read beneath her words. “Mayhap the time has come for you to play again. Will you? For me?”
Hyacinth hesitated. She had never been a particularly skilled musician before she had allowed the talent to lay dormant. “My ability pales in comparison to yours.”
“I refuse to believe it.” He tugged on her hand. “Come, Hyacinth. Do not make me beg.”
The thought of this gallant, handsome man begging her for anything was difficult to fathom. However, she had to admit it was also intriguing.
“I do think I might like to hear you beg,” she told him as she wondered where this new side of her was emerging from.
Lady Southwick had been proper and subdued. She had lived beneath her husband’s rule, ever fearing his displeasure and anger. But Hyacinth was not the same, weak woman she had once been.
Tom’s fingers tightened on hers and the look he cast in her direction was positively wicked as he led her to the piano bench. “Please?”
Why could she not shake the feeling he was asking her for more than a song at the piano? And from where did the restless urge deep within her—to give him everything he asked for and more—spring?
Maybe Southwick had been right about her all along. Maybe she was a slattern as her mother had been. But what mattered now? Southwick and Mama were both gone. Only Hyacinth and the ghosts of her past remained.
And before her, holding her hand, was the reassuring, delicious male strength of the man who would make love to her tonight.
She ought to be ashamed of herself. But all she felt was the swift rush of power. Of freedom. And desire.
Hyacinth cast a small smile in his direction, wishing for a moment that his looks were not so sinfully handsome. Resisting him was futile. Charm and tenderness mingled with his beauty to render her helpless.
“Very well,” she agreed, “but I shall have to remove my gloves first.”
“Allow me.” Tom tugged at each fingertip without waiting for her response, whisking away first one glove and then the next.
All the while, his eyes remained hot upon her, the scent of a pine forest and clean soap whisking away all her defenses. Never had she imagined the act of removing one’s gloves could be so potently erotic.
Not until this moment.
Not until this man.
He laid her gloves carefully upon a nearby table, breaking the spell, and Hyacinth turned to the piano. She settled herself at the bench, all too aware of his presence at her back. Strange tingles shot up and down her spine as her fingertips hovered over the keys. It had been so long since she had last given herself over to the beauty of music.
Her finger pressed a lone key, sending the note vibrating through the silence.
Just as effortlessly and quickly, she knew what she would play. Her fingers began flying over the keys, and Mozart’s Rondo Alla Turca filled the chamber. Although she was hesitant at first, the memory returned to her with ease. She closed her eyes as the music overtook her.
How had she forgotten how wonderful it felt to play, to feel the weight of the ivory beneath her fingertips?
When she reached the last note, Tom’s applause took her by surprise. She rose from the bench and turned to face him, her cheeks going hot. “You see? I am quite rusty, I fear. I allowed far too much time to lapse since I played last.”
Tom cocked his head, studying her some more. “Why?”
She did not often speak of Southwick. Not even with Lottie. And she hardly wanted to speak about him now. But there was something about Tom that felt so reassuring. So safe. She felt at ease with him in a way she had never felt before with a man.
“My husband,” she said. “He believed music frivolous and sinful. I was not permitted to play during our marriage, and I suppose that I spent so much time without it, I had forgotten how much I loved to play myself. Thank you for reminding me.”
His jaw tightened. “I am sorry you found yourself in such a stifling marriage. You deserved far more.”
It was the first time anyone other than Lottie had spoken of what she deserved. Her family had wanted to hear nothing of the plight