Page 23 of A Winter with the Rakish Duke

Chapter 12

Midnight

The door to the pianoforte room stood firm in front of Eloise, tormenting her with the inappropriateness of this meeting. The grandfather by the wall stood quietly, its sound ticking a metronome in her ears and forcing her mind to travel back to the events of this afternoon. It was the kiss…well, almost kiss. Not only had she spent more time than necessary with Simon, but something inside her had pushed her to inch closer and permit their lips to touch.

No, he just tricked me with his words. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

But she couldn’t fool herself for long. She didn’t harbor any feelings for him, hell, she despised him, yet something, somehow, had convinced her it was okay.

A dash of footsteps turning a corner from the end of the corridor revealed the sight of Simon, well-dressed, in his usual raven coat and white shirt, his hair damp and pushed back to reveal the sharpness of his soaked features. They were contorted into smugness—as usual—but the paleness of his face and a hint of redness on the tip of his nose made it look as though he had just arrived from the cold. He appeared quite innocent and gentle for once.

“Ah, there you are.” Breathing heavily and wiping a hand across his face, he swiped open the door to usher her in. “I thought you’d stand there all night.”

“But you just came—” she faltered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and choosing to give him the benefit of the doubt, “never mind.”

As soon as Eloise entered, her arms hugged her freezing body as the chilly wind from the open window fogged over her breath. Simon bolted toward it, closing it with a loud bang, then fed yet another log to the crackling fire, the only light source in the room.

“You…are late,” he quickly said.

Her eyes drifted to the square clock next to the piano. The time had already passed midnight, though barely by much. “It’s only three minutes past midnight, hardly qualifies as being late.”

“Yes, but,” Simon took a seat at the stool in front of the piano, sipping the last contents of his glass, the scent of it reaching her nostrils—scotch, “if I am to teach you how to play the piano, it’ll take a few hours. Unless…you don’t mind spending all night with me. I certainly don’t.”

Eloise groaned, refusing to pay the slightest bit of attention to his unnecessarily vulgar implications. She seated herself with a lack of excitement, the hard stool soring her legs. “I’d rather not, let’s just begin.”

“Wait first.”

“What now?” she whined.

“First—a pre-lesson.”

“A pre-lesson? Fine, what is it?”

She wouldn’t be lying if she admitted that her heart had picked its beat. Her hand touched her popping collarbone, trying to ease some of the tension, the nervousness she was feeling—for all she knew, he could be preparing to make yet another improper move like last time…like the kiss. If he tried to kiss her again, she would—

“Stand up,” he interrupted her trail of thought.

“I’m not a canine, Simon.”

“Nice observation,” he added sarcastically, “You are quite adorable when you make such remarks. But trust me, I have a purpose for this. It’s part of our lesson, and it’ll help you. You do want to learn how to play, right?”

“Naturally.” Jolting from her seat, she waited by the piano, tapping her feet with impatient energy. The sooner she did this, the sooner they would be done. “Now what? Am I to sing?”

“Close. You are to dance.”

Her shoulders tightened at his request. He was asking her to dance…by herself? Usually, if she could at least be confident about one quality of hers, it would be her dancing, but now it was different. After the last time she’d danced—with James—she wasn’t so sure of her abilities anymore. She found herself feeling self-conscious—if she messed up, the façade of a dynamic and strong woman she had built in front of him would crumble, and he would know what she was.

“You’re asking me to dance alone? Are—why are you asking me that?” she fell back a little into the cover of darkness, “I don’t think this is a good idea, we could get caught, and people might think I’m a…well, you know.”

“You can always lock the door first,” Simon reassured. But it only made her feel miles worse. “I’m not trying to mess with you, so please, don’t be nervous. For once, I’ll be serious. Listen—” His fingers caressed the pianoforte keys, and it felt as if the instrument responded to his demands, starting with a soft, high note. She recognized the piece from the very first notes. It was a Beethoven Symphony, one of her favorite pieces, one that she had heard a handful of times, though admittedly, never as serene. “How do you feel when you listen to this?”

She hummed, eyes shut. “…Peaceful.” Her muscles loosened, the stiff feeling from before eased as her nerves soothed. And all she did was concentrate on the music.

“Simply float with the tempo. Don’t do too much; keep your eyes closed and focus.”

She didn’t let herself move too much; the harmony would hardly permit her to do so. Her movements were short, loose, and unbothered, following only the slow beat and nothing else. But just as it began picking up its pace, it came to an abrupt stop, and steps replaced the melody instead; steps that moved closer to herself, steps that were undoubtedly Simon’s.

“What are you—”

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