Guilty Series (27 page)
Authors: Laura Lee Guhrke
He took a step toward her. “Love the duke. Love him with all the passion she hides within her, love him each and every day of her life.”
Daphne nodded with no change in her expression. “I already do that. What else?”
“She would need to rid herself of any fashionable notion of ever sleeping in her own rooms, unless of course he takes to snoring.”
Daphne tilted her head to one side, her heart pounding so hard she believed she could hear it echo off the dome overhead. “I believe I could manage that, even the snoring, for if one can sleep through a sandstorm, one can sleep through anything. What else?”
“She must run his household, at whichever estate they are in residence. She must be discreet, for the duke is a private man, and she would need to always behave with restraint no matter what her inner feelings, for she will be constantly observed by others and gossiped about.”
Daphne tapped her fingertip to her lip several times, then nodded. “I believe I am rather good at that part.”
“However, she must learn not to conceal her true
feelings from the duke himself, who only wants to make her happy. She must give many fêtes and country house parties, run a vast number of charities, be able to entertain dignitariesâkings and suchâand try to look down her nose at everyone else and convince them she is far better than they are. She might have difficulty with that part.”
“I can learn.”
“She would need to treat servants with all her diplomatic kindness, smoothing over any feathers ruffled by the duke, who is known to be an impatient man, difficult to satisfy, and not always thoughtful of the feelings of those who work for him. Pleases and thank yous and things such as that are difficult for dukes to manage, you know.”
He smiled, and her heart began to soar. He took another step toward her. “She has to learn how to spend the duke's money with absurd extravagance, especially on follies for herself, such as beautiful clothes, jewels, and presents for her friends. She must never, ever, allow herself to run out of gardenia-scented soap, for dukes are known to be quite partial to gardenias. And should she and the duke have children, she has to love them. She has to lavish upon those children all the attention and care that the duke and duchess's own sets of parents were never able to lavish on them.”
“I could do that,” she whispered.
He took another step, and halted a foot in front of her. He reached out and wiped her tear away with the tip of his finger. Only then did she realize she was crying. “She has to stop being afraid of get
ting hurt, for the duke will surely hurt her again on many occasions during their long marriage, but he will never do so with deliberate intent, for he loves her more than anything on earth.”
She caught back a sob and started to speak, but he gestured to the flower in her hand, stopping her. “I sent you this because it is the truest expression of my feelings that I am able to give you.” He took a deep breath. “I fell in love with you that day in my gardens, when I saw you standing in the rain. I have loved you since first sight, Daphne, for that moment when I saw you standing in the rain was the first time I ever truly saw you.”
“Oh, Anthony!” She threw her arms around his neck. “I
was
afraid,” she cried, her voice muffled by his shirtfront. “I could not believe that you were sincere. I kept telling myself I did not love you anymore, but I knew I was deceiving myself and had been for such a long time. I love you. I do not know when I fell in love with youâthe real emotion, I mean, and so much stronger and deeper than what I felt beforeâbut I did fall in love with you.”
She sniffed and took his offered handkerchief. “Now, what were those twenty questions you wanted to ask me?”
“Only one.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands, loving her face and all the subtle nuances of feeling conveyed in her expression. “How much time do I get in exchange for that rose?”
“For the rose, a short engagement. For the speech, you get a lifetime.”
“I can live with that,” he said, and kissed her.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
GUILTY PLEASURES
. Copyright © 2004 by Laura Lee Guhrke. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition February 2008 ISBN 9780061734526
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For my father, William Guhrke,
for being the only person in our family
with musical talent, and for
giving me my appreciation
of classical music.
I love you, Dad,
but since I can't
carry a tune in a bucket,
why couldn't you have passed
your singing voice on to me?
London
1827
H
e was going mad. Damn that noise, that agonizing noise. It was a high-pitched whine that seared his brain like fire, an incessant, unwavering sound that was slowly driving him insane. If only he could make it stop. But it never stopped.
Dylan Moore flung back the sheet with a curse and got out of bed. Naked, he crossed the bedchamber and pushed aside the heavy brocaded draperies to look out. The sky was pitch black, making the hour sometime between midnight and dawn, and only the lamp at the corner illuminated the empty street below. Except in his own mind, everything was silent. He stared out the window, hating every human being in London who could enjoy the silence, who could sleep when he could not.
His movements awakened Phelps, and the valet entered from the dressing room, a lit candle in his hand. “Unable to sleep again tonight, sir?”
“Yes.” Dylan exhaled a sharp sigh. Three months now. How many more nights could this go on, this sleeping for only minutes at a time? His head was throbbing in painful protest at the never-ending noise and the lack of sleep, and he leaned his forehead against the window, fighting the impulse to smash his head through the glass and end this torture.
“The laudanum that Doctor Forbes prescribed⦔ The valet hesitated at the fierce scowl his master turned on him, but concern impelled him to persevere. “Perhaps I should prepare another dose?”
“No.” Lying in bed waiting for the opiate to take effect was an intolerable idea. Dylan turned away from the window and strode past his valet toward the dressing room. “I'm going out.”
“I will awaken Roberts and have him bring your carriage around front for you.”
“I don't want my carriage. I am going for a walk.”
“Alone, sir?”
“Alone.”
Phelps could not have thought that walking around London alone in the middle of the night was a good idea, but his expression conveyed no opinion of the matter. Dylan was a man who did what he pleased, and it was not his valet's place to question the wisdom of such a course. “Yes, sir,” Phelps said and began helping him dress.
Ten minutes later, Phelps returned to bed at his orders, and Dylan went downstairs, the lit candle in his hand illuminating his way through the darkened house. He entered his study, walked to his desk, and opened the drawer. He stared at the pistol for a moment, then picked it up. A man dressed in expensive clothing roaming the city alone at night was asking for trouble, and it was wise to take precautions. He loaded the weapon, then slipped it into the pocket of his long black cloak and left the study. He passed the music room on his way to the front door, and something made him pause. Perhaps a walk was not the distraction he really needed. He hesitated, then turned and entered the music room.
Until the accident, he had spent many of his waking hours here. A moment of carelessness, a fall from his horse, the slamming of his head against a rock, and everything had changed. It had taken two days for his left ear to stop bleeding and a fortnight to recover from the concussion. During that time, he had hoped the ringing in his ears would go away, but it had only seemed to worsen. During the month following his recovery, he had entered this room every morning as if to work. He had sat down at the grand piano pretending that nothing was wrong, telling himself over and over that his affliction was temporary, that he had not lost his gift, that if only he tried, he would be able to write music again. Finally, he had given up in despair, and he had not entered this room since then.
He walked slowly to the immense Broadwood Grand piano, staring at the glow of his candle reflecting off the polished walnut top. Perhaps in the past three months, some magical transformation had taken place, and when he put his hands on the keys, the music would come again. He could at least try. After placing the candle in the carved walnut holder meant for that purpose, he propped up the lid of the piano and sat down on the bench.
Dylan stared down at the keys for a long moment, then ran his fingers over them in the notes of a minuet, the first piece of music he had ever written. Not bad for a seven-year-old boy, he conceded. But in the intervening twenty years, he had composed nineteen symphonies, ten operas, and so many concertos, waltzes, and sonatas that he couldn't possibly count them all. He had been born into wealth, and from his music he had achieved not only more money but fame and critical success as well. Yet he knew it all counted for nothing. It was the music that mattered. It was the music that he loved.
He glanced at the scribbled sheet music before him, staring at his own writing as if it were that of a stranger. It was from
Valmont,
his latest composition, the opera he had written based on the scandalous novel
Les Liaisons Dangéreuses.
He had finished the work the day before that shattering autumn ride through Hyde Park.
He had written the opera in less than a week. Music had always come so easily to him. He had always been able to hear melodies in his mind; they had poured from his consciousness onto pages with ease, a gift he had always taken for granted. With brutal clarity, he suddenly acknowledged the truth.
Valmont
was the last thing he had written, the last thing he would ever write. Why not admit it? He couldn't hear the music anymore. The whine in his head drowned it out.
Four different physicians had told him the damage was permanent, that he was fortunate to still be able to hear, that he would get used to the noise. His fingers crashed down on the keys, and he rose to his feet. Creating music was the passion of his life, the purpose of his existence. Now the gift was gone. He would never get used to it.
