My Naughty Minette (Properly Spanked Book 3) Page 15

August turned at the servant’s voice, thinking, what now? But it was only a caller, the esteemed Duke of Arlington looking dapper in a deep plum coat and black breeches. Going to the theater? The opera? To visit some lady of the night? Arlington greeted him with a rakish smile. “How goes it, Augustine?”

  August raised a brow. “Where are you off to?”

  “Nowhere yet. I’m just back from the club. Warren and Townsend were there, and asked after you.”

  “How are they?”

  “How are you?” Arlington rejoined firmly. “There is talk that you never leave the house, that you are put upon by your bride, or suffering a terrible illness, or escaped on a trip abroad, or a dozen other hypotheses you really ought to put to rest.”

  “It’s nearly the holidays. I’ve been busy.”

  Arlington seated himself on a divan and stretched out his tall frame. “I thought you’d say something like that. Anyway, the fellows say hello, and wonder where you are, and Warren said for me to come here and tell you he hopes his sister is well. I imagine he wanted to visit himself but didn’t wish to encounter you. When will the two of you settle your differences?”

  August watched Minette reach to smooth a wrinkle in his father’s blanket. “I don’t know,” he said absently. He really didn’t know. Things hadn’t been the same between them since that morning at Townsend’s, and perhaps would never be the same again.

  Arlington let out a long, slow sigh. “Are you all right?” When August didn’t answer, his friend came to stand by him at the window. The duke noticed Minette sitting primly with her book, reading to his dying father. “The dear lady. How sweet she is.”

  “He can’t hear her. He responds to nothing at all. I don’t know why she bothers.”

  “She bothers because she’s got a kind heart.” Arlington caught August’s gaze. “I’m afraid you’re having a hard go of things, and reluctant to ask for help. Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can assure Warren that Minette is fine. She is mostly fine.” He looked back out the window, at his wife’s curls peeking out of her bonnet. Now and again she tilted her head as if emphasizing some passage in the book. “She says my father must be in the sun. That he would not want to spend his final days in a dim sick room. She’s reading him poetry, to soothe his soul.”

  “She’s being very much like Minette, isn’t she?”

  “My God. Arlington.” The words burst out, embarrassingly desperate. “What am I to do with the girl?”

  “First of all, you’ve got to stop this nonsense about her being a girl. She’s not a girl. She’s a woman, and you’ve married her.”

  “She’s like a sister to m—”

  “She’s not your sister,” Arlington interrupted. “You’ve suffered enough guilt and self-denial, don’t you think? And now you’re making her suffer too.” His friend leaned on the sill, as dangerously insightful as ever. “Your father will die soon, and his dark cloud of a legacy will be gone. Don’t brew more storms in its place.”

  August pursed his lips. To liken his childhood to a “dark cloud” was rather inadequate to describing life as Barrymore’s only son. His father had been angry. Stern. Violent. “I can’t wait for him to die,” he said.

  “I know. And when he is gone, you shall be Barrymore in his place, with a kind and loving wife, and all your children, whom you will never browbeat or abuse.”

  August stalked away from the window. Arlington was too direct sometimes, because he’d been a toplofty, wealthy duke for more than half of his thirty-odd years.

  “I’m afraid I’m just like my father,” he said when he was safely across the room. “I’m afraid of hurting her.”

  “In what way?” Arlington asked. “In what way could you ever hurt Minette, whom you love so dearly?”

  “I could easily hurt her. I have, and I could again. You saw the blood the first night I had her.”

  “Virgins bleed, August.”

  “She’s so fragile. You don’t understand. You’ve never held her.”

  “I have. I’ve hugged her and swung her around and rollicked with her the way all of us did before she was grown. She was strong as ever then, and I don’t doubt she’s stronger now. You’re making excuses.” August opened his mouth to speak, but Arlington held up a hand to silence him. “No. I don’t want to hear any more about sex and Minette.”

  “You see? It’s not only me.”

  “It is only you, because she’s your wife, and you need to figure things out.” He turned back to gaze out the window. “Look at her. She’s a remarkable woman and she’s all yours. Me, I’ve got to marry some Welsh stranger I’ve never even seen.”

  “What’s this?” said August. “You’re to be married?”

  “A request from the king, but more like an order. Some favored border baron’s got to be rewarded with a high-placed duke for a son-in-law.”

  “What a disaster,” August said. “I’m sorry. When is this happening?”

  “When the crown orders it to happen, I suppose.” Nothing betrayed the duke’s feelings on the matter, except perhaps the steady tapping of a finger upon the sill. “It’s just as well. The rest of you have married. It’s bloody boring to gad about all by myself. The women in Wales are pretty, aren’t they?”

  August hadn’t any idea what women in Wales looked like. He imagined they looked rather similar to English ladies, at least he hoped so, for Arlington’s sake.

  “So you see,” said his friend. “At least you’ve got a known quantity, a willing and eager minx who adores you beyond measure, whom you’ve known more than half of your life.”

  August wished he could explain what it was like, to lie beside Minette night after night, and want her and ache for her, and feel too conflicted to have her. It was a special sort of torture, one he had probably earned.

  *** *** ***

  Minette made her way toward her husband’s study after dinner, with ropes of ribbon and garland on her arms. The servants had decorated some of Barrymore House’s rooms, but Lord August’s study was not among them. When she asked why, they told her it was not normally decorated for Christmas.

  Minette didn’t care. She wished to brighten his quiet, private space. August spent a great deal of time at work in there, and she wanted it to look cheerful for the holidays. If she couldn’t embroider a passable handkerchief, at least she could give him this.

  She grinned at a footman as he bowed and opened the door, and then shut it behind her. Her husband sat at his desk, just where she expected to find him, but he wasn’t working. Why, he wasn’t even awake. His head was cradled on his pinstriped evening coat; the flickering candles reflected off his ebony hair.

  She dropped her armful of greenery onto a chair and rubbed herself where the needles had abraded one wrist. She regarded August, feeling the usual fond fluttering in her heart. Or her stomach. Or somewhere down there. Even asleep, sprawled gracelessly upon his writing desk, the man was handsome as sin. She tiptoed closer, being careful not to wake him. She had long ago memorized every feature, every eyelash, every wave of hair upon his head, but that didn’t stop her from staring at him daily, hoping to notice more.

  How long and curved his lashes were, and my, how tired he looked. Perhaps it was only the shadow of candlelight that wrought dark circles beneath his eyes. His elegant hand still held a quill. It had nearly slipped from his fingers. She worried that his correspondence would be ruined if ink dripped upon it. She thought to slide the quill from his hand, but then became distracted looking at the page. Why, it was not correspondence. It was music, pages of it spread across the desk, each measure filled with notes penned by his own hand.

  Her husband was a composer.

  A cabinet door stood open beyond his shoulder. Drawn by curiosity, she skirted the desk and peeked inside, and found more pages of music, both loose and bound into volumes. This was not a recent lark, to jot down some song. Good gracious, there was so much!

  Beneath the cabinet, a drawer was partly ajar. It was ful
l of music too, in the same bold, heavy hand. Some of the bound pages had titles and dates. Concertos One and Two, 1788. Sonata et Fugue, 1785. Etude in Red, 1777. Why, he would have been only thirteen or fourteen then.

  She stared at the complex arrangements of notes, wondering if her brother and his friends knew of this talent. If so, they’d never discussed it in her hearing. She tried to read one of the sheets as he’d taught her, analyzing it for tempo and tone. She wished to go play some of the music, even though most of it appeared too intricate for her modest talents. What a lovely motivation to get better. Someday she would play all of it, every single note. She opened the cabinet above to leaf through more of the handwritten music. If she could find some piece he’d written at eight years of age or so, perhaps she could perform that.

  She took out a folio of work and the lined papers slipped from within, scattering over the floor. “Bother,” she whispered. She didn’t want him to wake, especially now, when she was snooping through his cabinets. She knelt to collect the scattered pages, but they were all out of order. She started to stand but—ow!—she knocked her head into the open cabinet door above her, sending it with a bang against the shelf. She clutched at the volumes of music to retain her balance and ended up knocking them over in a cascade of noisy thumps.

  August startled awake and turned to her in alarm. “Minette. What are you doing?”

  She might pretend to be sleepwalking. It would explain the mess she’d made of his music and exonerate her from blame, but she was too disarrayed to lie. She rubbed the back of her head. “I’m sorry I woke you. I was poking about where I should not be. I suppose I deserve this bump on my head.”

  He stood and smoothed the back of her hair, and inspected her scalp for injury. His light, seeking caress raised goose bumps on her arms and neck.

  “I came to decorate your study for Christmas,” she said. “I found you asleep over your music and I saw the open cabinet, and then I—”

  “Then you started sorting through all my private papers and ended up flinging half of it on the floor,” he finished in exasperation.

  “Not half of it. And I intend to pick up what I’ve dropped and put it back in order for you.”

  She whacked her head on the cabinet again as she bent to retrieve the music. August muttered an oath and lifted her bodily away from the mess. “Go sit over there.” He pointed to a chair on the other side of the desk.

  “But I would rather help.”

  “I don’t want you to help. I want you to obey me before you crack your head open.”

  He didn’t sound in a pleasant mood at all. Well, she had woken him from a sound sleep and made a mess of his music, so she supposed she wouldn’t feel pleasant either if she was in his position.

  He shuffled the music heedlessly together, jamming it back into various folios. She wanted to tell him to take care, but was wary of irritating him further. The WAR paddle was in the desk’s bottom drawer.

  “I never realized you wrote music,” she said instead. “And so much of it. What a fascinating hobby.”

  He made a grunt of a sound, shoving some folios back into the cabinet.

  “I didn’t mean to pry and disorganize everything, I only couldn’t believe there were drawers full of it. If you like, I’ll stay up and organize it for you, perhaps by date?”

  “No,” he said, and this time it was more like a growl.

  “What sort of music were you writing tonight?” she asked, wishing to mollify him. “And how do you write it in here with no instrument? Why don’t you write in the ballroom, at the pianoforte?”

  He rubbed his forehead, rearranging a pair of pages. “I hear it in my head by this point. I know all the notes and how they sound in various combinations.”

  This was a brilliant talent, surely. How had she never known about his gift for composition when she had uncovered everything else about him, down to the name and direction of his favored courtesan? “I can barely believe how skilled you are, to play and write, and know all the notes in your head like some kind of musical savant. Why, you ought to be part of a show, a revue where people request a song and you instantly and perfectly play it, only by ear. I saw something like that once, I don’t remember when, but Warren took me and everyone was so impressed and clapped for the gentleman, although he wasn’t much to look at, or even a titled person—”

  “I don’t want to be part of any shows. I’m not some dancing bear.”

  The heat in his voice silenced her. She had truly angered him with her meddling. “I’m sorry. I never said you were a dancing bear. You look nothing at all like a bear, of course, and you certainly don’t play like one. If it annoys you, I won’t peek into your music cabinets again.”

  “I’d prefer that you didn’t.”

  “But...” She was really pushing it now. She could see it in his taut expression. “Aren’t you proud that you write music? Wouldn’t you like to share it with someone? Perhaps you can play some of your compositions at our next dinner party.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” His voice softened at her crestfallen expression. “I suppose it’s difficult for you to understand, but my music is a very personal and private thing, hence my decision to write it in here, privately, and not share it with the rest of the world.”

  “I only wonder if I might hear something you’ve written. I admire you so. I imagine it’s wonderful music, but it’s too far above my abilities to play it. Will you play some of it for me? Perhaps the one you like the best, your most favorite composition.”

  “I’d rather not. It’s late.”

  It hurt her terribly that he wouldn’t play his music for her. Did he dislike her so much? “Well, of course you needn’t play for me if you don’t want to,” she said glumly. “I’ll just put up a few decorations—”

  “I don’t want you to clutter my study. We don’t decorate in here.”

  “Ever?”

  His eyes fell on the pile of holiday trimmings on the chair near the door. “I’m sorry. The servants ought to have told you.”

  She didn’t want to admit that they had, and that she’d disregarded their instructions. He was already irritated enough. “Perhaps just a bit of holly over the fireplace.”

  He thought a moment. “All right. If you want.”

  She went to fetch the prettiest, glossiest holly bough of the bunch. August sat and looked at the music he’d fallen asleep on, then shuffled it into a pile and turned it over. “Are you having trouble?” she asked as she returned.

  He blinked at her. “Trouble?”

  “With the music?” She smiled, hoping to fortify him. “It’s so difficult to do anything at the holidays, with the calls and invitations, and gifts to purchase, and friends to have over for dinner.” She arranged the holly carefully over the hearth. Joy and peace, she thought. Bring them to him. “Will we go to any entertainments this season?” she asked, turning back to him. “Perhaps it’s insensitive to ask, with your father so ill. I ought to just leave you alone.”

  “Do you want to go to entertainments?”

  He looked so tired sitting there at his desk. “No,” she said quickly. “We don’t have to. We shouldn’t, I suppose.”

  “It’s not your fault my father’s ailing. You should go to some balls or dinners with Warren and Josephine. I’m sure they’d be delighted to take you, especially now that Aurelia and Townsend have left town for their country estate.”

  “You won’t come too?”

  “I might. It depends on the day.”

  Minette bit her lip. Warren and August were still not at ease with each other, so no, he probably wouldn’t come.

  Her husband stared down at the pile of pages before him. “Things will get better, Minette. Next year, next Christmas we’ll have a great dinner and a ball. Would you like that? We’ll have a house party in the country and invite all our friends, and have decorations and dancing, and a yule log in every room.”

  “That sounds very warm and wonderful.”

  He s
miled, and a little of the tension inside her uncurled. He wasn’t angry about the music anymore, only anxious and busy and terribly sad about his father. “Next Christmas will be better,” she agreed. “Yes.”

  “Will you come and give me a kiss before you go?”

  “You ought to come to bed too. You look tired.”

  “I’ll come up soon.”

  Minette crossed to him. A hug, a kiss. She got them more now, but they were always the same—rigidly restrained and lacking in passionate desire. His arms came around her, embracing her as a brother might embrace a sister. Near the end, he brushed a hand through her hair.

  “Is your head all right?”

  “My head?” she asked.

  “From the bump. Are you perfectly all right?”

  No. I think I need a real kiss to heal me. But since that awful night when she’d had tried to pleasure him like a wanton, he’d kept her at arms’ length, so much that she feared to be bold again.

  “I’m perfectly all right,” she said in a perfectly cheerful voice. “Everything is perfectly well.”

  “I’m glad. And thank you,” he said, hugging her tighter. “For reading to my father and decorating my study, and for making me smile when I don’t feel like smiling.”

  Minette smiled back at him, because she knew it was what she ought to do.

  Chapter Thirteen: A Complex Melody

  Minette put her fork down and looked around the table at her brother and his wife, and the Duke of Arlington.

  “And then Lady Barrymore told me, in her ghastly warbling voice, ‘I wish for you to bear many heirs, Wilhelmina. Many fine boys, and girls too, if you must have them.’”

  Josephine and her brother burst into laughter as Minette related choice snippets of the conversation she’d had with her mother-in-law the night before. “What did you reply?” asked Josie, who sat beside her.

  Minette waved a hand. “Oh, something polite and boring about not having a choice in the matter. One can never think of the proper cutting response until the opportunity has passed.”

  Arlington chuckled from his place across the table, poured himself more wine, and lifted a glass. “To Minette, for being polite and boring in the face of tiresome old ladies.”