The Duke's Indiscretion (17 page)

For a moment she looked startled. Then, much to his surprise, she smiled wickedly and leaned toward him just as Lottie would do.

“Because I knew you wanted me, Colin,” she answered seductively, a palm to his chest. “I didn't
have
to sell it.”

Colin's pulse began to race from her transformation into the seductive woman he thought he was getting when he married her. But he could no longer match her humor. He couldn't tell if she teased him or actually admitted she'd explicitly used him with her sexual charms, but the admission left him cold nonetheless.

“So you instead sold yourself to me,” he said quietly. “I'm not sure if I should feel flattered or insulted.”

She noticed the change in his demeanor, the rawness laced through his words, and it suddenly dawned on her that she'd offended him. Gradually, her grin faded, her eyes widened, and she withdrew her hand as she took a step back. “I didn't mean—”

“Yes, you did,” he interjected in a whisper. “But at least you're being honest.”

She licked her lips and shook her head once or twice, her cheeks pinkened with embarrassment. Purposely expressionless, Colin took the cue, reached behind him, and opened the door.

“Your fame awaits you, Lottie.”

That seemed to render her speechless. Seconds later, without another word, she brushed past him, and left the dressing room.

C
harlotte had never had to act so well in her life. She was furious, really furious with him—and confused and uncomfortable and angry with herself for experiencing such unrefined feelings and then expressing them aloud. But she couldn't, in any way, let him know what a mess he'd made of her emotions, which was turning out to be the most difficult thing she'd ever done.

The first hour at rehearsal had gone rather well considering the events that took place earlier in her dressing room. Nobody at the theater seemed suspicious to her, or treated her differently than they did every other day. Most were actors by profession, of course, but at least one person had to know she'd found her dressing room vandalized and hadn't said a word about it to anyone.

But after she and Porano sang their first duet, and the cast took a five-minute break, she decided to look for Colin. She felt rather subdued about how he'd re
acted to their last verbal exchange, and she wanted to apologize, although truthfully, she
had
been honest. But the moment she found him, behind the stage in a darkened corner, practically head to head in quiet conversation with Sadie, making amends vanished from her mind.

Unsettled, and taken aback by their closeness, she'd watched them quietly from the shadows a good distance away, which made it impossible to hear their conversation. But as the minutes progressed, she found herself growing more and more annoyed, even concerned, because she didn't know if she could trust him to stay silent about the Handel piece. Then she heard him laugh softly at something her friend had said, Sadie smiling and touching his arm in response, and in a matter of seconds she became completely incensed, concluding that she just couldn't trust him, period. Colin Ramsey, always the charmer.

Initially, she decided to ignore them, forget the entire incident, and return to the stage to begin the second hour of rehearsal, knowing Sadie would have to be available as well and their little rendezvous would end of necessity. But as the day wore on, her imagination took over, her anger grew, and by the time they left for the day, she could hardly speak to her husband civilly. During the coach ride home, which again seemed overly long and miserably hot, she feigned exhaustion so she wouldn't have to converse with him, and for the most part he managed to leave her alone with her thoughts. That only seemed to make matters worse for her, she decided, because it gave her time to ponder the entire episode.

It wasn't as if he'd done anything
wrong
, exactly;
flirting seemed a natural thing for many people and he and Sadie
were
both discreet and decently clothed. But by the time they reached home, she'd become infuriated again, of course by the entire incident, but even more in herself because she couldn't, in any way, say anything to him about it without sounding like a shrew. Especially after suggesting he take a mistress just that morning.

So now, as they entered the townhouse, she wanted nothing more than to take a bath, eat supper in her room, and go to bed. He, however, would hear nothing of that, as he'd waited all day to see the treasure.

“It's in your study,” she said curtly at his demand, walking in front of him down the hall, carrying the day's music she'd brought home inside the linen bag in her hand.

“In the pianoforte, I assume?” he replied.

“How clever you are, your grace,” she said, trying not to make her words sound too sarcastic.

“I am,” he agreed, “and I would have looked there first if I'd come home earlier.” He paused, then leaned over to whisper in her ear, “After I went through your stocking drawer.”

She couldn't decide whether to slap him or laugh at such an outrageous comment. Instead, with a quick, stern glance over her shoulder, she ignored it altogether.

Without another word, he followed her into the study, then closed the door behind them and waited for her to move first to the pianoforte.

She took her time intentionally, forcing him to wait to view the masterwork. He seemed patient enough,
however, and when she plopped her music bag in one of the wing leather chairs in front of his desk and turned to face him, his look of amusement made her nerves catch fire. The cad.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Of course not,” she answered at once. “I'm starved, and was thinking of eating first.”

His brows rose and he mouthed, “Absolutely not.”

Chin high and a smirk on her lips, she walked to her old and cherished instrument and inhaled a full breath. Then with skillful hands, she lifted the top just enough to see a few dusty strings in the darkness, and reached inside.

Her fingers touched it at once, exactly where she'd hidden it the day she moved into the townhouse.

Very carefully, she grasped one corner of the protective envelope, gently lifted it, then pulled it out slowly before she lowered the top of the pianoforte once more.

“Wouldn't it affect your playing in there?” he asked, moving toward her.

She held the envelope flat in one palm and turned to hand her husband the prize. “No, I had it laying on its side in the crack, not on the strings.” She shrugged minutely. “And really, what better place to keep it where nobody would think to look?”

“Where else, indeed,” he remarked, gazing at it for several seconds, his expression growing serious, thoughtful. Then, cautiously, he reached for it.

“As you can see, it's quite well protected,” she said, following him as he carried it toward his desk. “I've
kept it bound in paper inside the envelope. There was no other way I knew to care for it, though I've tried my best to keep it away from the elements and with other music.”

“Until the mishaps began, I assume,” he replied, pulling his rocker out with one hand and sitting.

She followed suit as she returned to the wing chair opposite him, dropped her music bag to the floor, and lowered her body into it.

She watched him, rather impressed by his meticulous examination, noting his furrowed brows, the intensity in his gaze as he turned the envelope over slowly in his hands.

“Should I lock the door?” she asked after a moment, glancing over her shoulder.

“It's not necessary,” he answered a bit absentmindedly.

That made her nervous. “But what about the servants? They might interrupt, and if they knew—”

“I don't have problems like that with my staff, Charlotte,” he said with a fast look into her eyes before turning his attention back to the envelope.

The more she learned of her new husband and his personality, the more he confused her. She found him charming and jovial, as everyone did apparently, but also carefree with his servants and his time, worried about nothing when he held something absolutely priceless in his hands that he had
yet
to open because he studied it with an intensity she'd never seen in him before. Except, perhaps, when he looked at her in that…corset costume.

She fidgeted. “I assure you, sir, the envelope is not
worth anything. It's been opened before.”

He smiled a little. “I look at everything.”

She decided not to argue.

“How was rehearsal?” he asked seconds later.

Bewildered by his mundane attitude when he'd been so desperate to see the incredible treasure all day, she had no idea how to answer. If he didn't open it soon, she would claw at the paper herself.

“Hmm?” he said, giving her another quick glance when she didn't respond. “Rehearsal?”

“Rehearsal was…fine,” she replied, fighting to keep her exasperation intact. Then, “Shall I order
tea
, your grace? What is taking you so
long
?”

“Are you that anxious to leave my company, Charlotte?”

She smoothed her skirts for something to do. “That's not the point. You know I'm anxious to hide the music again.”

He actually chuckled, then sat up a little and placed the tip of his thumb under the flap. “I'm taking my time so I don't damage anything. The older the work, the more easily it can crumble from any movement at all. Even,” he added, “tucked inside a very ordinary, inexpensive envelope.”

She wanted to question his knowledge, but decided against it since he was very likely correct and she really didn't feel like arguing—or listening to an amateur lecture her on the delicate aging of musical scores.

Finally, with the envelope flap raised, he pushed the corners open just slightly and peered inside.

“I suppose you saw me talking with Sadie today,”
he stated quite casually.

Shocked, her mouth dropped open a little as she felt her face grow hot. “I—I don't think so, your grace. I was quite busy today.”

He didn't even look at her. “I thought you did,” he said, reaching inside the envelope at last.

She swallowed hard and ignored the comment, and the quick beating of her heart.

With one finger and thumb, he gingerly started withdrawing the treasure from the envelope, moving slower than molasses in winter, she mused.

As it was wrapped in newspaper, it took him a minute or more to pull it out completely and lay it on his desktop. With that, he tossed the envelope on the floor beside him. To her surprise, instead of spreading the paper to reveal the work, he pushed his rocker back a foot or two and opened one of the drawers on his left, hunting for something she couldn't see.

She tried peering over the desk to no avail. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the right tools,” he replied, distracted.

That puzzled her. “Tools? What tools?”

“You'll see. I'm being careful, Charlotte,” he intimated, his voice reassuring.

She could hardly argue the attempt, she supposed, and so she just continued to watch him, waiting, her concern growing that with each passing minute someone would enter and see what a treasure they possessed. Such a notion was probably ridiculous, however, since, to the untrained eye, it would appear as if they were simply looking at a newspaper or music. Still, it made her nervous when her future lay so open and exposed.

He sat up again, and in his hands he held a rather large magnifying glass and a pair of what appeared to be oddly shaped tweezers, like something a surgeon might use, which he then placed on the desktop beside the newspaper.

Charlotte sat forward once more, her bottom now perched on the edge of her chair, her intrigue growing with a renewed excitement. Although she didn't view it often, she never got tired of looking at the priceless music signed by a genius. Truly a wonder.

“Aren't you a bit interested to know what Sadie and I discussed?” he asked casually.

First she didn't understand him. Then meaning dawned and her stomach coiled into knots. He had to have seen her watching them at the theater, or knew she was there, else why would he keep trying to aggravate her with talk of Sadie? At a time like this? What flustered her the most was his apparent notion that she might be jealous and that he had the skill to bring it to the surface. He obviously had little faith in her ability to act.

She sighed loudly. “I'm far more interested in knowing why you would have such tools in your desk drawer.”

“We all have our little secrets, don't we?” he acknowledged with a quick glance into her eyes.

She ignored that.

He returned to his work, his expression tight now with concentration as he lifted the tweezers and began using them to very gently pull the newspaper back inch by inch, corner by corner, until the musical piece underneath began to appear.

Charlotte leaned over the desk, giddy again at the
sight of it. “Isn't it magnificent?”

He didn't reply. The score, in reality an unfinished but nearly complete violin sonata in A minor, included several pages, yellowed with age. With grave concentration, Colin lifted his magnifying glass with his free hand and began closely scanning the border, then the handwriting, followed by each note, bar, and measure on the first page, then the next, until he reached the last, lifting each page at the corner with his tweezers. He then turned the entire work over and examined the paper on the back, its edges and creases. Finally, he returned to the signature, his eyes, through the glass, nearly touching the composition as he traced each curve from first letter to last.

Charlotte watched him in utter fascination. As long as she'd known him, she'd never seen him so centered on anything, moving so slowly and with such concentration. Frankly, she had no idea what to think of her charming, lazy nobleman of a husband who suddenly seemed more like a…what? An authenticator? Could one do that as a hobby?

She waited until he placed the magnifier and tweezers down to the side of the music and sat back before she dared speak. But the look on his face told her everything.

“You think it's real, don't you?” she whispered excitedly.

“I think it's a masterpiece, yes,” he returned softly, smiling. “The age of the paper is correct—it's at least one hundred years old. The ink has sufficiently faded, bled into the paper, and looks to be the right age as well. But I'll need to check Handel's signature
to know conclusively.”

“Conclusively?” she repeated, eyes wide. “You sound like a professional.”

“I am a professional,” he replied with a trace of arrogance.

“A professional at…what, exactly?”

“Have you played the music?” he asked, as if that had suddenly occurred to him.

She laughed, eyes sparkling. “Of course I've played it. Carefully.”

He nodded, amused. “Did it
sound
like Handel's work? You're the music professional.”

Just hearing him use that term to describe her filled her with an odd sense of calm coupled with pure satisfaction. She could hardly keep from beaming. “I believe so. It's not very long, but it's very much like his other works for the violin.”

He leaned back in his rocker and folded his hands over his stomach, gazing at her speculatively.