The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

The Piano Tutor Anthea Lawson

“My Lady.” The butler tapped at Diana Waverly’s half-open door. “The piano tutor is here.” He hesitated, a furrow marring his usually placid brow.

“Well, it is Wednesday.” Diana laid her last black dress in the trunk she had been filling, then carefully closed the lid. “Tell Samantha it’s time for her lesson. I’ll be down directly.”

The butler remained in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Forgive me, My Lady, but it … er, it is not the customary piano tutor. It is an altogether different gentleman.”

She blinked. “But Mr Bent is Samantha’s tutor. We have no other.”

“I tried to tell him as much, but the gentleman insists.”

Diana stood, frowning. “I’ll see to him.” They had few callers — the inevitable result of turning down a season’s worth of invitations — and never unannounced visitors.

Tucking up a stray auburn curl, she started down the hallway towards the wide second-floor landing. Mr Bent had said nothing of this. He was quite reliable — if a bit dour to be tutoring a girl still recovering from the loss of her father.

At the top of the stairs she halted, pulled from her thoughts by the sound of music pouring from the parlour below. Someone very skilled was playing the piano.

She rested her hand on the mahogany banister and listened. Note after note tumbled through the entryway, reverberating between the high ceiling and marble floors. Sunlight streamed through the landing windows, making the dust motes swirl and glitter like gilded dancers.

Her stepdaughter Samantha joined her, her wiry twelve-year old body leaning over the railing. “I didn’t know Mr Bent could actually play the piano.”

“It’s not Mr Bent.” That much was clear, though who it might be and why he was in her parlour was a mystery Diana could not fathom.

She descended the stairs, the music growing fuller and more present with every step. She paused a moment at the parlour door, then — with a fortifying breath — went in. The instant she crossed the threshold, the music ceased. The magic that had been spilling into the house folded in upon itself and disappeared.

But its source remained — a broad-shouldered man with brown hair and intelligent grey eyes. He stood when he saw her and bowed with an easy grace. “My Lady.”

She studied the stranger. Handsome, undeniably, with those compelling eyes and a smile that seemed genuine. He looked nothing like the stoop-shouldered and outmoded Mr Bent. For one thing, he was a good deal younger — he looked to be no more than a handful of years older than herself.

“Sir?” She hardly knew what to say. “Please explain yourself.”

“Viscountess Merrowstone.” The stranger’s voice was rich and complex, the syllables of her title unexpectedly smooth to her ears. “Mr Nicholas Jameson, at your service. I’ve come to substitute for Mr Bent, who has been called away unexpectedly.”

“This is most irregular. I was not informed there was to be a replacement.” She faced him squarely, ready to send him on his way. That was what she intended to do, but the words came out all wrong. “You play quite well.”

He tipped his head, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “That would be a requirement, wouldn’t it?”

“One would assume so.” Though his bearing made her think he would be more suited to leaping a stallion over hedgerows than giving piano lessons to a twelve-year old. “You’re quite certain you’re a piano tutor?”

“Let me assure you of my qualifications.” He extended an envelope. “I’ve a letter of recommendation from Lady Pembroke. You’re acquainted, I believe?”

Diana nodded. Indeed, Lucy was a good friend, possessed of a generous spirit — though she was more than a little scandalous. Henry had not approved of their friendship. Diana’s gaze slipped past Mr Jameson to the portrait of her late husband, Lord Henry Waverly, Viscount Merrowstone. His stern, formal features watched impassively, a cultivated remoteness in his expression. Solid and predictable in the portrait, just as in life. Lucy had annoyed him to no end.

Swallowing a sigh, Diana turned her attention to her friend’s curling script.

Diana felt her cheeks burn as she glanced up at the gentleman in question. No doubt it had amused Lucy to have Mr Jameson deliver such an outrageous “reference” in person.

“I see that she recommends you highly, sir,” Diana said, biting her lip to avoid an embarrassed giggle. “I suppose we might consider having you.” Oh dear, that hadn’t sounded quite proper. She cleared her throat. “I mean hiring you. It wouldn’t do to neglect Samantha’s lessons while Mr Bent is away.”

“Oh, please hire him,” Samantha said, peeking out from behind the doorway. She came in and stood on tiptoe to whisper in Diana’s ear. “He seems ever so much nicer than Mr Bent.”

It was quite outside the regular course of things, yet there was no mistaking the eager note in Samantha’s voice. No mistaking that Mr Jameson was, as Lucy had mentioned, a very handsome man.

Her stepdaughter turned to him. “I heard you playing. It was marvellous! How do you do the part with your left hand? Could you show me?”

“Of course.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “It’s simple once you get the trick of it. Have you played any Mozart?”

“Oh yes!”

“Then you’ll be able to master it easily. That is …” He raised a questioning brow at Diana.

“Oh very well,” she said. “It appears you will be our replacement tutor until Mr Bent returns.” She ignored Samantha’s muffled squeal. “Can you begin today?”

A spark leaped into his eyes. “Immediately.”

Looking at him made heat creep into her cheeks. Despite herself, Lucy’s advice rang in her head. As if she would consider something so scandalous as commencing an affair with the piano tutor. Really, her friend had no sense of propriety.

Samantha hurried to seat herself at the piano bench. “I’m ready!”

Diana was not sure whether she herself was ready, but events seemed to be carrying her along. She settled into the nearby wing-back and straightened the rich indigo skirts of her new dress. It was odd to wear colours again. She had grown so accustomed to the solid black of mourning that she felt vulnerable without it. A part of her wanted to retreat back into its safety — but that was not fair to Samantha. Diana could not deny the hopeful light in the girl’s eyes, the flash of her rare grin as she attempted to mimic Mr Jameson’s command of the keyboard.

As was customary during Samantha’s lessons, Diana picked up her newest copy of the Ladies’ Monthly, but the fashion plates held no interest for her. Her eyes kept wandering from the illustrations to steal quick glances at the new tutor — his long-fingered hands as he played a run of notes, the way his brown hair tumbled over his collar. More than once he seemed to sense her attention and she had to quickly drop her gaze back to the unseen pages.

The sound of his voice was so different from Mr Bent’s dry tones, and his praise and encouragement drew another flashing smile from Samantha. Something inside Diana uncoiled a notch, a deep tension she had not realized she had been carrying.

The shape of his muscular shoulders was barely concealed by the cut of his coat as he leaned forwards to demonstrate some point. He radiated confidence and mastery. She imagined that everything he did would benefit from that focused energy.

From this angle he was in profile. His jaw was firm, his nose straight, his mouth strong, yet sensitive. She traced her own lips with a fingertip, then caught herself and hurriedly dropped her hand before he could notice.

Mr Jameson turned to face her. “Will you?” he asked.

Diana’s breath faltered as their gazes held a heartbeat too long. Clearly she had missed an important turn in the lesson while daydreaming.

“Sing for us,” Samantha said, a touch of impatience in her voice. “Mr Jameson has been showing me a marvellous pattern for accompanying songs, but I don’t think I can sing and play at the same time.”

Diana set aside her magazine. “Oh, I really couldn’t. It’s been so long.” There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room for her to breathe, let alone sing.

“Of course you can.” Mr Jameson’s tone was assured. “Miss Samantha says you have a lovely singing voice.” There was a challenge in his expression, as if he were curious to see what she would do.

“Please, Mama. Let’s do ‘The Meeting of the Waters’.”

“Very well. If it’s part of the lesson.” She stood and took her place beside the piano, oddly reluctant to disappoint Mr Jameson. Still, it had been a very long while. What if she had lost the knack altogether? “Samantha, you and Mr Jameson must help by singing with me.”

The piano tutor counted the tempo then signalled Samantha to begin. Diana took a deep breath and sang the first words. Mr Jameson’s rich baritone joined her, while her stepdaughter concentrated on the keyboard.

At first her alto sounded husky to her ears, the notes unsure. Soon enough, though, her body took over and she remembered how to breathe, how to put herself into the song and carry each tone to fullness. Mr Jameson was solid beside her, his singing voice even fuller than she had imagined. When her pitch wavered, he was there, and soon their voices began to blend in a most pleasing manner. Unbidden, her eyes met his, and the appreciation there nearly made her lose the words. She forced her concentration back to the final phrases of the song.

Samantha was giggling as she played a last flourish on the piano.

“Splendid!” Mr Jameson said. “Miss Waverly, you have a deft touch on the keyboard. And Viscountess — your voice is lovely.”

Diana smiled back at him. The parlour had not rung with such happy sounds for too long. It seemed that Mr Jameson would be a splendid substitute.

The clock on the mantel struck the hour, and Samantha let out a protest. “So soon? But we’ve just begun!”

Indeed, the time had sped.

“Thank you, Mr Jameson. Shall we expect you next week?”

“I would be delighted.” He took Diana’s hand and, bowing, lifted it to his lips.

The warm press of his mouth on her skin sent a shock of sensation through her. It was very forward, yet she could not bring herself to reprove him, not with the heat of his kiss disordering her senses.

Still clasping her hand, he looked into her eyes — a look full of promise that made her heart race. “Until next Wednesday.”

The tea shop on Bond Street was filled with the cheerful babble of conversation. Diana had requested a table in the nook — the safest place for a chat with Lucy, whose voice had a tendency to carry.

“Tell me, darling—” Lucy arched an elegant eyebrow “—is Mr Jameson proving to be … satisfactory? I’d like to know if my recommendation was well advised.”

Mr Jameson. Diana let out a slow breath.

She could not stop thinking of him — his grey eyes and handsome features, the confidence that accompanied his every movement. The past three Wednesdays had found her with a giddy lightness of spirit. She was attuned to each nuance of his expression, addicted to the desire that his slow smiles sent through her. At the conclusion of every session, he had kissed her hand. Last Wednesday, his lips had seemed to linger, the heat of his breath playing against her skin for a long moment. The memory of it sent a fluttery breathlessness winging through her even now.

“He …” Diana ran her fingertip back and forth across the rim of her cup. “He seems an excellent teacher — very patient with Samantha, and kind. She is enjoying music lessons far more than she ever has before. It’s a pity he’s only a temporary tutor. There’s a certain quality about him …”

She took a hasty swallow of tea. Goodness, she shouldn’t be prattling on. Whatever secret thoughts she had of the new piano tutor should stay exactly that — secret. Although, of anyone, Lucy would understand.

Her friend tilted her head, a speculative light in her eyes. “Why, Diana. Are you developing an interest in Mr Jameson? How marvellous. As I told you, I think he would prove an excellent diversion. You should commence an affair immediately.”

Diana set her cup down so quickly that some tea sloshed over the edge. “Lucy, you are shocking.”

Even worse than Lucy’s suggestion were the images that flooded Diana’s mind. Fire bloomed in her cheeks. What if Mr Jameson did not stop when he kissed her hand? What if he continued, his warm lips laying kisses up her arm, along her neck? What if he reached her mouth and covered it with his own?

Her friend gave her a shrewd look. “High time you began thinking of yourself. You’re out of formal mourning now. And you’ve admitted that your marriage to Lord Waverly was never one of deep passion.”

“A marriage does not need passion if it has respect and …” She searched for the proper word. “Goodwill.”

Lucy waved her hand. “Goodwill is all very well, in its place. But now you have an opportunity, you should seize it! If you are careful and discreet, no one will suspect. You are free to follow your heart, or your whims — or both.”

Lucy made it sound so simple.

“I must admit—” her chest tightened, excitement firing through her blood as she spoke aloud the words she had been holding inside for weeks “—I find Mr Jameson quite attractive. And his manner very pleasing.”

Lucy nodded approval. “Indeed.”

“What does it mean,” Diana continued, “when a man’s presence makes one feel so very awake? I can scarcely sleep for thoughts of him, and when I do, my dreams are …” She lowered her voice. “Oh, my dreams are most wicked.”

“That is excellent news.” Lucy’s eyes were bright. “Perhaps you should make them come true.”

Diana dropped her gaze to the tablecloth. “I doubt I’m ready to embark on such a course.” It was one thing to indulge in such imaginations, quite another to act upon them. She had never considered herself bold of spirit.

“Well.” Lucy dabbed her lips with her napkin. “It is your choice — but regardless, it’s high time you began going out in society again. Gracious, Diana, people will scarcely remember you if you keep yourself locked away.”

“In due time, Lucy.” Her friend was a master at manoeuvring people when she thought she knew what was best for them. Which was most of the time. “There’s Samantha to think of, and — well, I’m comfortable as I am.” Though she was markedly less content since a certain piano tutor had come into her well-ordered life.

“Comfortable?” Lucy lifted her nose in disdain. “That’s almost as bad as ‘goodwill’. You need more interesting words to fill your life. Passion, for one. And delight. And best of all—” her eyes sparked with mischief “—best of all, ravishment.”

“Lucy!” Diana clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. “You’re outrageous!”

Her friend joined her laughter, oblivious to the disapproving looks of the nearby patrons. When their mirth finally subsided, Lucy assumed the commanding tones of Lady Pembroke.

“Call me what you please,” she said. “I only speak the truth. Regardless of your obvious fascination with the new piano tutor, you will come to the musicale I’m hosting on Tuesday. It will be a small gathering, nothing too overwhelming. I’ll expect you promptly at eight.”

“I—”

“Pray, do not disappoint me. If you don’t arrive promptly, I’ll dispatch my burliest footmen to fetch you.”

“Oh very well,” Diana said. There was no arguing with Lucy. “As long as there is no more talk of affairs and …” She could not even say the word “ravishment” aloud, though it echoed through her thoughts. “I’ll come to your musicale.” She made no promises, however, as to how late she would stay.

Her friend gave a nod of satisfaction, then consulted her dainty silver pocket watch, as if recalling something urgent. “Goodness, the time has flown! I’m nearly late for the modiste. Delightful to see you, Diana. Till Tuesday.” She brushed a kiss across Diana’s cheek, then hurried off, leaving Diana alone with her unsettled thoughts.

Their chat had left an edgy restlessness humming through her. Her carriage awaited outside, the driver ready to take her wherever she pleased. If only she knew where that might be.

Diana gathered her reticule and pelisse and left the shop. The air outside was pleasantly warm, and she turned her face up to the pale May sun. It was too lovely a day to waste in simply going back to Waverly House and going over menus with the cook.

She lingered, looking in the shop windows. A glorious fan painted with swans — she could nearly imagine herself with it at some ball, laughing and dancing. Or that bracelet set with sapphires, clasped about her wrist. It was frivolous, the gems sparkling beautifully in their settings. Still, she turned away from the window. No purchase could soothe her restiveness.

She had just resolved to return home when she caught sight of a certain broad-shouldered, brown-haired gentleman striding towards her. Sparks raced through her entire body. Mr Jameson! The loveliness of the day exploded into fiery brilliance.

He met her eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he made his way to her side. “Viscountess.” He doffed his top hat. “It’s a fine day. Would you care to join me for a stroll in St James’ Park?”

“That would be—” ill-advised, besotted as she had become with him “—delightful.”

He offered his arm and she tucked her hand through with no hesitation. She was keenly aware of the places their bodies touched, and it was difficult to resist the urge to lean too close.

They walked side by side down Bond Street to the park. The feel of his firmly muscled forearm was not disguised even through the layers of his coat and her glove, and she found it deliciously distracting. The rest of him seemed as toned and muscular as his arm. Diana shot him a sideways glance. His well-fitted breeches showed his thighs flexing taut with every step, and his stomach seemed perfectly flat beneath the blue silk of his waistcoat. Lucy’s words echoed through her. Passion. Delight.

The green trees of St James’ closed over them as they entered the long promenade. A lazy pond curved to one side, insects buzzing beside the water. The day was fine, the scene peaceful, but Diana felt unbalanced and strangely giddy.

There were so many questions she dare not ask. They scalded her tongue. She wanted to know everything about him, yet was afraid the answers would spoil the perfection of the day. Where are you from? Have you a wife? A mistress? She swallowed them unspoken.

“Do you enjoy teaching the piano?” she finally asked.

He nodded, his twilight eyes regarding her. “I’m finding a great deal of satisfaction in it. Miss Samantha is a quick study, and a fine musician. As are you, My Lady. Have you ever considered taking lessons on the piano?”

“Taking lessons myself?” She blinked up at him. “I have always simply sung, Mr Jameson. That is enough for me.”

“How do you know?” His hand covered hers. “You should try something new. You might find that you like it very well.” His smile held more than a little wickedness. Goodness! Was he suggesting …

Diana dropped her gaze, hoping her blush was hidden by the fashionable plumes in her bonnet. It seemed to be an afternoon for improper conversations.

With a sudden daring, she asked, “If I were to become your pupil, when might these tutorials occur? Before or after Samantha’s lessons?”

“Not on Wednesday.” His voice was warm honey, drizzling over her senses. “My instruction would require sufficient uninterrupted time. Perhaps Thursdays.”

“Surely your other pupils would object to the change of schedule.”

The pressure of his hand over hers increased. “It’s all a matter of priority.”

They were passing a weeping willow, the leaves tender and newly green, swaying lightly in the breeze. Diana took a deep breath of the soft air to steady herself.

“I would be your priority on Thursdays?”

He stopped and gave her an intent look. “You would be my priority every day.”

Oh, it was the purest flirtation, she knew it, but still her heartbeat stumbled in giddy joy. “Really, Mr Jameson—”

“Call me Nicholas.” He drew her off the pathway, beneath the sheltering canopy of the willow tree.

“Nicholas.” She half-whispered it, a bold exhilaration tingling through her. “Then you must call me Diana.”

Suddenly they were not tutor and lady any longer, but only man and woman. The air between them was alive with possibility, the spaces where bodies were, and were not. And could be.

Had she taken complete leave of her senses? She did not care. In one twist of an afternoon a gate had opened that she had thought closed for ever. A pathway back to herself. Not the young widow. Not the capable stepmother, but her, Diana, who had once been full of passionate dreams.

Her senses were sharpened by an almost unbearable anticipation. Everything was magnified — the light breeze, the scent of his bergamot cologne, the sound of water quietly lapping the shore. There was something excruciatingly wonderful about knowing she was about to be kissed. He leaned forwards, a smile dancing in his eyes, and she tilted her face up to him.

His mouth brushed hers, their lips meeting, parting, meeting again — like a musician sounding a note over and over, until it was perfect. She slid her hands up to his shoulders, learning the shape of his mouth against hers.

He increased the pressure of his lips. The smooth slide of his tongue against her lower lip made sparks scatter through her, and she willingly opened her mouth to him. Nicholas dipped his tongue inside. He tasted of tea and desire, and something inside her gave way, melting like late frost before the sun.

This was no debutante’s kiss. It carried the full knowledge of how a man and a woman fitted together. The plunge of his tongue into her mouth, her yielding softness — all this was part of the dance, a promise of deeper intimacies. She pressed herself closer to him, yearning spiralling out from her centre.

Nicholas Jameson was a wonderful kisser.

It was more than the way he fitted his lips so perfectly over hers, or the velvety warmth of his tongue. More than the feel of his hand curving around her shoulder, the brush of his thumb over her bare collarbone. His kiss flared through her entire body. She was aware of her toes, warm and content in her buttoned boots. Her legs, cased in silk stockings with ribbon garters above her knees. The soft cotton of her chemise where it lay against her skin. The fine silk of her drawers, heated at the juncture of her legs.

And she was aware of him. Wonderfully aware of the slight roughness of his jaw as he kissed her, the warm maleness of him as they leaned into one another, the smell of spring willows and fine wool, and arousal. His. Hers.

They kissed and kissed, and then it was over. Diana opened her eyes and smiled up at him, as though she had just woken from a perfect dream.

Diana set a smile across her face and nodded at the conversation flowing past. Oh, she should never have agreed to come to Lucy’s musicale. She had no heart for it. It had been too long — she did not know any of the current on dits and was relegated to standing awkwardly at the edges of the company.

Besides, how could she possibly be a witty conversationalist when all she could think of was Nicholas’ hands at her waist, drawing her into that intoxicating kiss?

With his talk of “piano lessons”, had he truly been suggesting that they become lovers? Her pulse sped at the thought. Her sleep had been restless, her skin too sensitive ever since that kiss. Even now the slide of her petticoats against her legs sent a shiver through her. What if Nicholas touched her there — and everywhere? How would it feel to embrace without the constraints of coat and skirts, to lie together skin to skin? Her throat went dry with longing at the thought.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Lucy stood at the front of the room and clapped her hands together. “Please take your seats so the musicale may commence.”

Diana sidled to the end of the back row. Perhaps, once they put out the lights, she could make her escape. She did not think she could bear more awkward conversation during the intermission.

The featured performer of the evening was introduced — a young harpist who was the newest musical sensation. The room darkened, and Diana let out a breath of relief. Now she could lose herself in thoughts of Nicholas. She closed her eyes as the harpist plucked the first chord.

Someone took the seat next to her, startling her from her reverie. Cloth rustled, and then the familiar scent of bergamot cologne tickled her nose. Her eyes flew open and she turned, surprise jolting through her as she glimpsed the white gleam of Nicholas’ grin. It was as if her thoughts had summoned him.

He leaned close. “Good evening, Diana.” His breath was warm against her cheek.

“Nicholas — whatever are you doing here?”

His hand found hers in the dark, his clasp sure as he twined his naked fingers through her gloved ones. The intimacy of it made her gasp. Surely her heart was beating so loudly that everyone could hear.

“Come,” he said.

A glissando of harp notes shivered through her. What were his plans for her? What if he had no plans?

She would never know unless she went with him into the wicked shadows. For a moment fear held her in her seat. She could not, she could not … Then he tugged gently at her hand and desire rose up in a wave and lifted her to her feet.

Nicholas drew her out of the darkened drawing room. The lamps in the hallway shed a beckoning light, their flames echoing the excitement flickering through her. No one was there to mark their illicit departure. He led her down the hall and up a short flight of stairs, the music growing fainter behind them. Without pause, he opened a door and ushered her through.

They were in the library. Lamplight glinted on gold-lettered spines and she breathed in the scent of books and leather. And Nicholas. He closed the door, shutting out the last lilting notes. When he turned back to her his expression was intent, his grey eyes lit with desire. For her.

Diana caught her breath, heat blossoming inside her.

Without a word, he strode forwards and took her in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his silver-embroidered waistcoat — softness against hardness, woman against man. Her breath swept between her lips, flavoured with passion. When he bent his head, she eagerly opened her mouth.

It was as delicious as she had remembered. His tongue played against hers, sweet and hot, and she felt her fears dissolve into acceptance. A low, insistent pulse began within her, as if she were an instrument responding to his touch.

She slid her hands to his shoulders, then dropped them in frustration to tug urgently at the fingertips of her gloves. She needed to feel his bare skin beneath her palms, the planes of his cheek and jaw, the softness of his dark hair tangled between her fingers.

He helped her strip the gloves off, as hungry as she. For a moment he held them dangling in his hand and gave her a penetrating look.

She stepped forwards and kissed him. By heaven, she had made her choice, and she was going to embrace it with all the long-banked fire in her soul. She tasted his laughter, and then his arms came around her and the kiss deepened.

So sweet and fierce. Embers flickered to flame, scorched to need. His palms smoothed the emerald satin of her gown and she leaned into his touch. There was no doubt he found her desirable — his body proved it, the hardness of him pressing against her centre. He bunched her skirts in his hands, drew them up, cool air caressing her legs.

Wordlessly, she stepped back and let him pull her gown off. Her chemise tangled in her arms and then it, too, was gone. She stood before him, naked but for her undergarments. It was outrageous, and wonderful.

“So beautiful,” he said, his eyes alight with hunger.

He stroked his hands up her sides, then covered her breasts. She sucked in a sharp breath. Little fires quivered beneath his palms, and she could feel her nipples tauten under his touch. She arched into his hands, threw her head back, and sighed. What a picture she must make, wearing only her stockings and drawers, wanton and sensual under the hands of this darkly handsome gentleman.

But he was wearing too much clothing. Her hands went to his cravat, making quick work of the elegant knot. Next, the buttons of his waistcoat, his fine linen shirt. She tugged the fabric free of his breeches and, hands trembling, pushed his shirt open. His chest was firmly muscled; a light dusting of hair tickled her fingertips as she stroked his skin.

He made a sound of longing, then pulled her to him, his chest hot and hard against hers. It was as delicious as she had imagined. Another blazing kiss, and then he stepped back. She helped him pull off his coat and shirt, then he pushed his boots off and removed his breeches.

Diana peeked between her lashes, curious and eager, then caught her breath at the sight of him. He was erect and strong, and she felt suddenly powerful, to bring him to such a rampant state.

Henry had always insisted on taking his husbandly prerogatives with the lights off, the two of them securely between the sheets. He had never made her feel like this, had never openly admired her, or told her she was beautiful. It had been pleasant enough, their marital relations, but nothing like the fire that now seared through her.

And that fire was nothing compared to the sensation that engulfed her when Nicholas took her in his arms and dipped his hand between her legs. This tempest of want scorching her to her soul — this was new. This was passion.

“Ah!” she cried as his fingers stroked and played beneath her drawers. She gripped the strong sinews of his arms — she was going to fly to bits if she did not hold tightly to him.

Nicholas withdrew his hand and she moaned in protest. With a devilish smile, he stripped off her drawers, then manoeuvred her backwards until her legs bumped the settee. They tumbled down together on to the gold velvet cushions and he braced himself over her, setting his member where his fingers had been. Slowly, inexorably, he pressed forwards, opening her. Their gazes locked as their bodies fitted together, imperfectly at first. Then easier as he slid back, and forwards again.

“Yes,” she breathed.

It was lovely and heated and, oh, she couldn’t bear how deliberately Nicholas moved in her. She caught at his shoulders and tilted her hips up, urging him to stroke deeper, faster. His breath hitched as he quickened his pace, the pulse at the side of his neck beating urgently.

More. Yes, and more, until the pressure she felt coiling inside her finally released, exploded like an errant firework to spangle her senses with light and colour.

He let out a muffled shout and pulled free, spilling himself on the fine linen of his shirt. Sweat gleamed on his arms, his chest.

She let out a sigh of pleasure, her body sated, her whole being utterly, perfectly content. She brushed her fingers through his silky hair. Nicholas Jameson — masterful and tender, patient and passionate. The door to her heart swung open.

A smile illuminated his face and he brought one hand up to cup her cheek. “Now that, my Diana, was splendid indeed.”

It was Wednesday.

Diana sat in the music room, waiting for the sound of the knocker to reverberate through the entry. Nicholas would be here at any moment. Anticipation fluttered all the way down to her toes.

Samantha played another run of notes, then glanced at the clock. “Perhaps Mr Jameson has forgotten,” she said. “He has not developed the habit of coming to Waverly House.”

“Nonsense. He’s been our piano tutor for weeks now.” Diana infused her voice with certainty. “He has only been delayed twenty minutes. There could be any number of reasons for it.”

“Perhaps he has been crushed by a carriage, or—”

“Samantha, enough! I’m certain Mr Jameson will be here momentarily.”

After the lesson, she would ask him to stay for tea. She would ask him everything, and have no fear of the answers.

He had brought music and light into Waverly House. He had coaxed her from behind her comfortable boundaries and shown her what true passion was. Every day from now on would be richer because of it. She would be richer. The memory of his touches, his words, flared through her. She had never felt so beautiful.

“It’s half past the hour.” Samantha sounded glum. “He’s not coming.”

Diana bit her lip. Where was he? Anticipation curdled into apprehension. “Practise a bit more, dear. I’ll go check with the butler.” Though of course he would have shown Mr Jameson straight in.

The heels of her boots clicked across the marble floor of the entryway. When she pulled the heavy front door open, the butler raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

The street outside was quiet. No handsome grey-eyed man striding up to her door, no cabs to be seen the entire length of the block. She stood on the threshold for several minutes, the distant clamour of London washing past her, but the street remained empty.

The butler cleared his throat, and she slowly shut the door. Head high, she re-entered the parlour.

Samantha’s expression lit. “Is he …?”

“No. Not yet.” She couldn’t help but glance at the clock. The entire hour had run. Did she mean nothing to him? An ugly sob rose in her throat.

“Mama?” Samantha sent her a concerned glance.

Diana swallowed. “I suppose something important has detained him. You may go.” She blinked rapidly against the sting of tears.

Samantha gave her a hug, then slipped out of the room. Diana bowed her head. Had she been such a fool to listen to Lucy? It had not felt that way at the time. But it seemed she had made a dreadful mistake.

She had practically seduced him. The piano tutor. He must be too embarrassed to face her, here with her stepdaughter, after what had been between them. He must despise her, think her a woman of exceedingly loose morals, to take such base liberties with her employee.

Yet he was far more to her than that. Her heart ached with lost possibilities.

They had, neither of them, promised more than a single hour of unbridled desire. Their banter about tutoring had hardly been talk of courtship, of love. If her actions had been spurred by deeper feelings, as she must now admit, what had she been to him? Only a willing female — one whom he evidently had no more use for.

She knew nothing about him. Nothing except that he made her feel more alive, more daring than anyone she had ever met. And now it was ended.

She could not bear the thought.

The servants at Lucy’s mansion knew Diana well enough to admit her without hesitation.

“Is Lady Pembroke in?” she asked.

“She is, madam,” Lucy’s butler said. “She is taking the air in the garden. Shall I escort you?”

“That won’t be necessary.” If, as she feared, she was going to burst into tears the moment she saw her friend, she would prefer to do so unobserved.

“As you wish.” The butler bowed her towards the French doors overlooking Lucy’s grounds.

Diana stepped out and took a deep breath of the late-spring air. Lucy would know what to do. A woman of her experience surely knew all about broken hearts.

Rounding the yew hedge, Diana heard voices. Lucy’s. And a man’s, painfully familiar. Sudden fear knifing through her, she crept forwards.

“Damn it, Lucy, I have to tell her.” Nicholas’ voice was strained. “It’s gone too far. She deserves to know the truth.”

“She’s not ready.” Lucy sounded resolute. “Think up some excuse — tell her you were unavoidably detained. But don’t tell her what you and I have been up to.”

Ice swept over Diana, comprehension settling cold and dreadful against her bones. Lucy’s talk of handsome piano tutors. Nicholas, here in her garden, using Lucy’s given name so intimately. His presence at the musicale last night, his familiarity with Lucy’s house …

Anger flared through her. The scoundrel! To use her so, when all along he had been Lucy’s lover. What a contemptible rake, to seduce her — here of all places.

She swept out from behind the hedge. “Unavoidably detained?” She raked her gaze over Nicholas. His eyes widened and he took a step towards her.

Lucy grabbed at his arm. “Diana. We were just speaking of you—”

“Yes,” she said. The word was coated in frost. “And what exactly were the two of you doing while my employee was supposed to be giving a piano lesson?”

Nicholas shook himself free of Lucy’s grasp. “Let me explain—”

“You should have explained before the musicale.” Her voice caught, snagged on memory. “But it seemed you had other priorities. Perhaps you had forgotten you had a music lesson to teach while you were ‘unavoidably detained’. You’ve behaved most unprofessionally, sir.” She fought to speak against the tightness in her throat. Nicholas reached for her and she pulled away. “I no longer need your services, Mr Jameson. You are fired.”

Hot tears blurring her vision, she turned and ran. Dimly she heard Nicholas calling after her, Lucy remonstrating, but she did not pause. She rushed back to her carriage and flung herself inside, slamming the door before the footman could even approach.

It was far worse than she had suspected. And still a part of her had wanted to stay, to listen to his pleas. She was so unbearably weak. As the wheels rattled over the cobblestones, she dropped her head into her hands and abandoned herself to grief.

“Mama?” Samantha pushed open the parlour door. “Are you ill? I had cook make you some chocolate.”

She entered the room, carefully balancing a tray holding the silver chocolate pot and two cups. Diana mustered a smile for her stepdaughter and hoped her eyes were not too red from weeping.

“Thank you, dear. I am not unwell, just a bit tired.” Did heartsickness count as an illness? She did not think so. “Come, sit by me.” She patted the settee.

Samantha set the tray down and curled up close. Diana put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze — the re assurance as much for herself as for her stepdaughter.

“I have some unhappy news for you.” She heaved a breath. “Mr Jameson will not be returning as your piano tutor.”

“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped. “That is too bad. He was ever so charming, and smelled much better than Mr Bent.”

Diana smiled — it was the only way to keep the tears from welling up again. “That he did.” She leaned over and rested her head against Samantha’s. All brightness was not gone from her life, no matter how dreary the day might feel.

“My Lady.” The butler bowed at the parlour door. “Forgive me for interrupting. You have a caller. Are you at home?”

She straightened. Nicholas wouldn’t dare — not if he had a shred of sense. It had to be Lucy. One way or another, she would have to face her friend.

“Yes, I am receiving.”

“Very good.” He extended the silver salver, a vellum card centred on it. “Shall I show him in?”

“Him?” Her lips pressed tightly together, she took the card. If it was Mr Jameson … “The Marquess of Somerton?” She stared at the unfamiliar name. “I don’t believe I know any such person. Please tell the gentleman I am not taking visitors today.” Particularly uninvited ones. She could not face another stranger in her house.

“Very good.” The butler departed.

“Thank you for the chocolate, Samantha.” Diana gave her stepdaughter another quick embrace. Really, she ought to bestir herself. There was no use sitting in the parlour when it held such memories of Nicholas.

“I’m glad it helped. Chocolate often does.” The girl jumped up and gathered the cups and tray, then paused and kissed Diana’s cheek before bustling out the door.

Voices filtered from the hallway, and then the butler was back.

“I am sorry, My Lady, but the Marquess insists he will see you. He vowed to toss me into the street if I stood in his way.”

Diana rose, then nearly folded back down on the settee when she saw who had followed the butler in.

Nicholas. The breath squeezed from her lungs while a wild, giddy clamour started up in her blood.

“Please go,” she breathed. No matter how much she wanted to remain unmoved, the expression in his familiar grey eyes nearly undid her.

He was carrying an exuberant bouquet of roses, which he handed to the butler. “See to these.”

Clever man — if he had given her the flowers, she would have flung them back in his face. As soon as the butler departed, she turned on Nicholas. Piano tutor, marquess, whoever he claimed to be today. “How dare you?” Her ribs felt as though a band of silk were wrapped around them, pulled too tight. “To think, what we did under Lucy’s very roof! And then you come here, bullying my servants, and—”

“Diana.” He closed the distance between them and took her by the shoulders. Fool that she was, she could not move away from his touch. “I don’t think my cousin begrudges the use of her library. She has done far worse in my best carriage, with never a word of apology.”

“Your … your cousin?” She blinked up at him, her heart catching with a wild, irrational hope. “Lady Pembroke is your cousin?”

“Yes.” A mischievous light sparked in his eyes. “Lucy. My meddling plague of a cousin. The one who bribed Mr Bent to take an extended holiday, then suggested I pose as a piano tutor and tempt you out of hiding.” He shook his head. “But it didn’t work.”

“No?” She had been tempted, all too easily. Even now she felt breathless.

He smiled at her, rueful and amused all at once. “My plan was to slowly draw you out. To, as Lucy put it, ‘help ease you from your widowhood’. But falling in love with you made things bloody awkward.”

Falling in love? Happy tears tingled at the back of her eyes. The Marquess of Somerton? “But … you make an excellent piano tutor.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders and he drew her forwards. “I assure you, I make a far better suitor.”

She went willingly, lifting her face to his kiss. A kiss that swirled her senses, even as it anchored her fully to herself. A kiss full of passion. Delight. Life.