A Royal Wedding. Trish Morey
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left her gasping at its intensity. She took one tentative step closer to the wide French doors leading into the ballroom, and then another, until she could see inside.
She didn’t need light to know it was him. Even through the night-filled room, even across the yawning space between them, there was no mistaking the dark shadow at the piano, no mistaking it was pain he was feeling as he poured himself into the piece. She felt it too—felt that pain, felt that loss and his constant struggle.
And she fought with herself as she felt her own heart go out to this man. He had clearly lost so much.
He could be cruel, she reminded herself, remembering the dress and the cold way he’d told her it was his fiancée’s. He was autocratic. Imperious. Cold.
He’d wanted her gone and then he’d frozen her out when she’d told him she would be.
And that was after he’d practically forced himself upon her.
Except that he hadn’t …
He’d kissed her and she’d responded in the only way she’d been able—by responding in kind, by kissing him back. Because, so help her, she’d wanted him then and it hadn’t even occurred to her to stop him. And she wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for that paper. She would have opened her legs and welcomed him.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, aching in that hollow space between her thighs. How could she judge him?
The notes rang out, fighting the storm raging outside for supremacy, frenetic as the passion burst into a climax of such frenzied intensity that tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. A flash of lightning lit the room and displayed him in all his tragic beauty, his pain and torment clear in every stark feature and the scarred plane of his cheek.
The room went dark as the music crashed so suddenly down to earth that she held her breath and nearly turned and ran lest he discover her there, watching him.
Except that before her feet would move the notes resumed, almost from nowhere, soft and melodic. She recognised the earlier tune, only sweeter this time, and more poignant if that were possible. The notes tumbled like a stream, light and magical and so evocative that tears spilled down her cheeks.
She watched him as much as the storm-ridden night allowed as he coaxed honeyed sweetness from the instrument so that it almost bent to his will, compliant as a new lover willing to please—until he changed direction and willed it to insanity once again, urging it higher and wilder until the notes meshed one final time with the storm outside, only to collapse and shudder to a dramatic conclusion.
She heard the piano lid bang closed. She heard breathing, loud and close, and froze, panicked, only to realise it was her own ragged breaths she was hearing. She cursed herself for the time she had lost in making her escape.
She’d wheeled around, trying to make sense of the dark shadows before her, when light flooded the room—a chandelier of one thousand tiny globes above turning night to day.
‘Was there something you wanted, Dr Hunter?’
Adrenaline flushed through her veins. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest as she surveyed the stairs. Escape was right there, brilliantly and starkly illuminated, and yet her feet remained frozen to the floor. She dragged in air and pulled her robe tighter around her before she was game to turn around, trembling with panic and guilt at being caught out, knowing he would not welcome her intrusion.
‘I heard music, Count Volta. I was curious.’
He was standing near the doorway, wearing the same suit he’d worn at their disastrous dinner, as formal and regal as ever, though his eyes seemed darker and even more tortured if that were possible. ‘I hope I did not disturb your sleep.’
No more than usual. ‘No. Really, I was …’ She swiped at a wayward tear on her cheek. ‘I was just getting up for a glass of—’ His dark eyes narrowed and she forgot what she had been going to say as he came closer, his eyes missing nothing as he took in the robe and the tightly cinched belt.
‘But you have been crying.’
‘The music,’ she said. ‘It was so beautiful. I’m sorry. I’ll …’
But he was already wiping away the moisture with the pad of his thumb—so tenderly, so at odds with the dark, tortured eyes that raked her face, that more tears squeezed free. There was a tightness to his features. His face was set almost like a mask. It was a tightness that spoke of anger and resentment and some barely controlled agony.
A tightness that frightened her and yet excited her on some primeval level, just as his touch set her skin alight. ‘It is late,’ he said tightly, his fingers resting lightly on her cheek. ‘You should be in bed if you are leaving tomorrow.’
‘I’ll go now,’ she whispered, wondering if he might stop her. Half wanting him to.
‘I’ll see you to your room.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She had to get away. She couldn’t stand the tension of having him walk alongside her, wondering all the way, back to her room. She couldn’t stand the disappointment if he merely left her at the door and walked away. ‘I know the way.’
She turned back, her feet programmed now to flee, only for the storm to unleash one more act of savagery. The boom crashed overhead and reverberated through the floor and walls. For a split second the room was still lit with the light from the chandelier, only to plunge the next instant into blackness so thick it was like a wall.
Panicked, she plunged into it, only to trip against the first step—would have fallen if he hadn’t been there first to gather her into his arms.
Air was knocked from her lungs, and when she breathed again the air came full of the heady scent of him. His arms were like iron bars around her, powerful and strong, as slowly he righted her until her feet touched the ground. Her knees buckled and his arms tightened, pulling her against the hard wall of his chest.
She heard his ragged breathing, she could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest, and she didn’t need light to tell her he was looking at her. She knew by the intoxicating fan of his breath against her face and by the sheer intensity of his stillness. She knew by the sudden fullness of her breasts and the aching tightness of her nipples.
‘You are leaving tomorrow,’ he said, sounding almost as if he was reminding himself, trying to convince himself.
‘Yes.’ Her word was no more than a whispered breath, and she sensed rather than saw the shake of his head.
‘You should not have come downstairs.’ His voice was choked and thick, and a shudder rippled deep and evocative through her. ‘You should not have come.’
His words were warm and rich and scented with the unmistakable essence of him and she drank him in, tasting him. ‘I had no choice,’ she admitted, her lips hungry and searching the darkness. ‘You gave me no choice.’
He made a sound, strangled and thick, as her drew her closer, her head cradled in his hands. ‘I am giving you a choice now. Tell me, before I give way to the monster inside me and decide for you, what do you want?’
Her heart lurched. Her senses lurched. His hands were hot on her face and in her hair as he waited for her answer. Her skin was alive with the touch of him, her body alight with need, and right now there was only one answer. Lust, she told herself, feeling herself falling further from reality and the safe world she had always known, the safe person she had always been. But she was leaving in the morning. Was one stolen night too much to ask?
And she put her hands over his, lacing their fingers together. ‘I want you.’
Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. And the room was suddenly so bright she was surprised she couldn’t see her need splashed right across the ceiling.
But she could see him. Saw the flames flare in his eyes as his mouth crashed down on hers. And she knew she was lost. His kiss was wrenching at her very soul just like the music had done, reaching inside