Page 36 of Healing the Duke's Desires
Emily wrestled with her conflicting emotions, torn between the desire to dismiss the Duchess of Montpelier’s words as idle gossip and the gnawing fear that they might hold a kernel of truth. For she believed there was no smoke without fire. She longed to reach out to Alexander, to seek clarification and to dispel the growing shadows of uncertainty that had cast a pall over her thoughts.
The thought of confronting him, however, was a daunting prospect. The mere idea of discussing her concerns with Alexander filled her with apprehension. What if the doubts that had been sown were confirmed? What if the connection she had felt was nothing more than a fleeting illusion? What if he was truly all those things that the duchess claimed him to be, and that kiss meant nothing to him?
That specter of doubt haunted her more with each passing moment, growing larger and larger, taking up more and more space inside her mind.
“I don’t know,” Sarah continued, her words like a small ray of light in a dark tunnel. Emily decided to go toward it. “You seem distant, as if there is something bothering you.”
Yes, there was so much bothering her, but she had to keep it hidden from the rest of the world. No one would understand her. She knew that. Even now, in light of everything she’d found out, she knew she had to keep that kiss a secret. Revealing it at the wrong time could prove to be disastrous for them both.
Emily decided to use the musicale as her reasoning, but again, she hated lying to her sister. On this occasion as well, keeping her doubts and suspicions to herself felt like the most reasonable thing to do.
Sarah would not be able to help her even if she did know what the Duchess of Montpelier had shared. Knowing Sarah, she would be a bit frightened, and she would demand an explanation from Alexander immediately. As for Emily, she wasn’t sure she was able to face him. Not yet, at least. She needed to muster the courage for that. She needed to be certain of her own emotions before she did anything she might regret.
Emily leaned to her sister, resting her head on her shoulder. “Honestly, I don’t feel like playing in a room filled with people. I like playing the pianoforte for you and Mother and Father, not in front of a hundred strangers, subject to their judgmental stares.” This much was fortunately true. It was not a complete lie.
“Oh,” Sarah exclaimed, seeming relieved. “So, that’s all it is?”
Emily pulled away, shrugging, hoping this was enough to convince her sister that there was truly nothing the matter but this performance. “What else would it be?”
For a moment, Sarah did not seem convinced. Emily feared this would be the opening to a deep, painful conversation that might not end well. But a moment later, Sarah smiled.
Emily was certain this was due to her own enamored state, and as such, she wanted to believe that everything was right with the world. Emily could not fault her for that. She wanted her sister to be joyful and to have everything she ever dreamed of by Henry’s side. As for her own happiness, that would be a game of fate.
“But that is easy.” Sarah smiled, taking Emily’s hand into her own. “You play so beautifully. Just close your eyes and imagine you are here, at home, seated at your own instrument, and that there is just me there, listening to you. No one else. Let your heart guide your fingers and you won’t make a mistake.”
Emily couldn’t help but smile at those words. How easy this advice sounded, to merely follow one’s heart and one could not make a mistake.
“You have always been my pillar of support, dear Sarah,” Emily gushed, feeling more fortunate than ever to have such a wonderful sister she could always rely on no matter what. At the same time, this made her guilty conscience even more prominent, because she was not sharing one of the most important thoughts of her life with her sister.
“I need to be here to remind you of the incredible talent you have,” Sarah said cheerfully. “Your music is a gift that deserves to be shared. I have no doubt that you will be absolutely wonderful, and everyone will be captivated by your performance. The doubts you have exist only in your own mind, no one else’s.”
Emily’s heart softened as she absorbed Sarah’s words. There was a genuine warmth in her sister’s eyes, a sincerity that reached beyond mere reassurance. Sarah’s belief in her abilities was like a comforting embrace, a lifeline amidst the sea of doubts that threatened to pull her under.
Perhaps tonight would be a good distraction from all the turmoil she had been suffering at the words of the Duchess of Montpelier. Emily hoped that would be the case. Playing music was who she was deep down, a passion that always found a way to shine through no matter what obstacles she faced.
That was actually the problem she always had, believing in herself, forcing herself to go beyond those doubts and play music from her very soul. So, she was grateful to have her sister by her side, to bolster her spirits whenever Emily needed it.
Just as Emily was about to thank her once again, the door burst open and their mother lingered in the doorway, refusing to come in, the urgency evident in her very eyes.
“The carriage is ready, girls,” she informed them. “I hope you are, too.”
Emily inhaled deeply, exchanged a meaningful glance with her sister, and nodded. She was ready. At least, she was as ready as she would ever be, and somehow, that was enough.
Chapter 21
Alexander had completely lost track of time. In the dimly lit studio, the air was heavy with an electric tension, the only sound the rapid strokes of a paintbrush against canvas. Alexander stood before the easel, his movements frantic and fervent as he worked with an urgency that seemed to consume him entirely. His brow furrowed in concentration, his eyes fixed upon the evolving masterpiece before him.
Splashes of color danced across the canvas in a chaotic ballet, a symphony of hues that seemed to mirror the whirlwind of emotions within him. His hand moved with an almost desperate intensity, each stroke imbued with a raw energy that defied restraint. The room was awash with the scent of paint and the muted glow of flickering candlelight, lending an air of both chaos and enchantment to the scene.
With each layer of paint applied, the scene took shape—an abstract representation of his state of mind. Bold strokes of red and black collided with swaths of vivid blue and gold, a visual symphony that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of its own. It was a portrayal of passion, of longing, and of a desperate need to capture something intangible yet achingly real.
He had been painting all night long and all day. He had no idea what time it was. In fact, he could barely tell what day it was. Otherwise, he would have known that he risked being late to a very important event.
A gentle knock on the door did not have enough strength to pull him out of his mad reverie. In fact, he barely even heard it. He was still breathing heavily, his hands and shirt smeared with paint, which, in the dimming light of the setting sun that dripped through the windows, looked as crimson as blood. The lines between his unconscious and conscious mind blurred, his movements now a dance of catharsis out of which he could not find a way out.
A knock sounded again, but with the same result. He hardly even registered it.
“Alexander?”
