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  When the footmen swung open the coach door, Dare leapt down and took a deep breath of the cool night air.

  “Remove Mr. Becker from the coach and carry him to his room,” he directed. “Clara, you will come with me.”

  He held out his hand and assisted her down, then tucked her arm through his. There would be no escaping.

  “But…” She glanced to the footmen, hefting Nicholas from the vehicle. “I need to—”

  “I’ll send Henri to tend him.”

  Dare burned—with anger, with desire. With the aftermath of the performance he and Clara had, so unexpectedly, so brilliantly wrought.

  It had been a horrible moment, when he announced Nicholas and the man had failed to appear. Dare had kept his bearing confident, but tension spun taut in his gut, the sick fear of failure he hadn’t felt for years. The future had flashed before him—King Ludvig’s disapproval, Dare’s defeat at the upcoming duel, Varga strutting and crowing while Dare was stripped of his dreams. Then what?

  A gaping hole beneath his feet.

  He had nearly plunged into it right there, an abyss of failure, full of misery and the poverty he had spent his life escaping. Then Clara had stepped onstage and given him one look from her luminous eyes, and the world had righted again. The floor was solid, his violin steady in his grasp, the pulse of the music true and sure.

  More than sure. The music had flown then, the way he had always dreamed it could. The magic he had felt waiting in Becker’s compositions had at last fully opened, and he had played straight into its heart. With Clara.

  They reached his suite and he ushered her inside.

  “Monsieur.” Henri greeted him, then turned to Clara. “And mademoiselle. Is everything well?”

  Dare handed his coat to his valet. “It is not. Would you please go tend to Nicholas? He’s in need of assistance.”

  “Of course! He is ill?”

  “He was reckless with a bottle of cognac,” Dare said. “Take him a tincture.”

  “Oh, would you?” Clara’s expression was anxious, her cheeks pale. “I know he’ll feel simply dreadful in the morning.”

  “In many ways, no doubt,” Dare said. The man’s aching head was the least of his concerns. “His remorse had best be enough to keep him from such behavior again. I won’t have it.”

  “Darien,” Clara said, “I promise you—”

  “Don’t make promises on your brother’s behalf.”

  Dare forced his shoulders to relax. It wasn’t her fault Nicholas had shown such bad judgment.

  “Good evening, then,” Henri said. He sent Clara a thoughtful glance, then returned his attention to Dare. “I will stay with Mr. Becker to ensure all is well.”

  Dare did not miss the speculative light in Henri’s eye as he left. Certainly the valet was aware of the impropriety of leaving Clara alone with him. She seemed too distressed to notice, however.

  “Please, forgive Nicholas.” Her silver-blue eyes were stricken. “He is fragile, and I should have known… If you must blame someone, then blame me.”

  “And how is it your fault?” He took her hands. “Did you purchase that bottle for him? Open it and pour it and make him drink to the dregs?”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No, but I ought to have seen how troubled he has become.”

  “You possess a mirror that reveals your brother’s thoughts? A crystal ball that shows his every state of mind? Clara, I cannot blame you. Nicholas is responsible for his own choices.”

  “No.” Her voice was small and miserable. “He wouldn’t have come to the Continent… and Varga’s horrible insults… You don’t know.”

  It was impossible to cling to his anger in the face of such unhappiness. He led her to the settee and sat beside her, keeping a firm grip on her hand.

  “Then tell me,” he said.

  She looked at him and took a deep breath. “Nicholas is more sensitive than you realize. When our mother died, he fell into a terrible melancholy, and I fear it is returning.”

  Genius always had its price. She shivered, and Dare slipped an arm around her shoulders. He would have to take care not to push Nicholas to the breaking point, but it was difficult to excuse his behavior that evening.

  “Your family did mention his troubles,” Dare said. “Is drinking heavily one of the signs?”

  “No.” Her brows drew together. “But that may only be because we could not afford spirits before. I don’t know.”

  “I will try not to be too hard on him, though I must take him to task.”

  Nicholas was the key to victory in the duel. It was yet more proof that a man’s success should rest squarely upon his own shoulders, owing nothing to anyone. And needing nothing in return. That way only led to bitter disappointment, as first his unreliable father and then Francesca had taught him.

  “Thank you,” Clara said. The hope in her eyes stabbed him.

  “You thought I’d dismiss him from the tour? Send you both back home to London, words of shame ringing in your ears? No.”

  At least, not yet. Despite the problems each sibling presented him, the thought of Nicholas and Clara leaving the tour made a strange, discontented hollowness settle behind Dare’s ribs.

  Dare took a breath, and banished it.

  “Two weeks until Milan.” Her voice was subdued, as if she feared it was an endless expanse of time.

  “There can be no more incidents,” he said. “Tonight almost ended in disaster. I’m only glad you had the presence of mind to take the stage with me. You performed remarkably—on a piece I thought would be unfamiliar to you.”

  She set one hand to her throat and did not meet his eyes. “Nicholas likes me to play the compositions for him, so he may sit back and hear how the music is going.”

  “Still, you played superbly.” The echo of the music rang through him, his heart pulsing again at the sheer exhilaration of performing with her. “I’m curious. Tell me how—”

  “Darien.” She lifted her head, something like panic fluttering through her eyes. “I should go. See to Nicholas.”

  “Henri is there. No need to leave.”

  They were sitting very close together, their legs touching, his arm still about her. Heat spread through him as he felt awareness filter through her. Her expression changed, softened. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and his whole body tightened. How quickly comfort transformed to desire.

  “But…” There was no protest in her voice, despite the word.

  “The performance tonight, the way you played.” He searched her face, looking for answers to a question he did not even know how to ask. “I wonder—”

  “Kiss me,” she said, her voice low.

  Before he could think, he was kissing her—kissing her as he had ached to do since their stolen embrace in the wings. His lips were over hers, pressing them apart so he could taste her, his tongue entering the warm, moist hollow of her mouth. She let out a little sigh and slid her hands up his shirt, her fingertips resting on his collarbone. Points of heat tingled through the fine fabric where she touched him.

  More. He needed her closer, her curves against him. The feel of her was intoxicating. Every time he kissed her, his blood burned hotter.

  Riding that wave of fire, he gathered her tightly to him. One hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers unerringly finding her hairpins and pulling them out. At last he would see the soft, pale light of her hair falling free. Mouth still commanding hers, guiding her with his kiss, he laid her back against the settee’s cushions.

  She was pliant and warm, her dress a silvery silk that hushed as he ran a hand over it. His palm cupped one rounded breast, the thumb moving over the material, coaxing, seeking. There, the hardened peak of her nipple. He brought his fingers up and lightly gripped her through the silk.

  “Ah.” She gasped into his mouth and arched up beneath him. The sound sent another jolt of need through him.

  The dress was ridiculously easy to slip off one shoulder. Dare
bared the upper curve of her breast, then the rosy nipple. He plucked her gently, like a harp string, and felt the vibration thrum through her. He dipped his head and drew his tongue over the taut peak, then fastened his lips there, drawing more breathy sighs from her.

  Her leg moved restlessly against him, her silk-clad thigh slipping against his leg, back and forth. The movement was artlessly sensual, pure fire to his blood. His hands roved over her, hungry to touch every curve and hollow, craving more. He wanted her naked underneath him, her pale skin softer than the silvery fabric of her gown, her hair spread out over his pillows.

  Clara Becker in his bed, and the consequences be damned.

  No. He must halt this, while he still could. With a guttural murmur, he leaned back. She opened her eyes, those extraordinary light blue eyes, now bright with passion.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, curving her hands over his shoulders and pulling him toward her.

  No matter what Clara thought she wanted, no matter what her brother had done, he could not ravish her, much as he wanted to. She deserved more consideration than that.

  But he would taste her mouth again. One more kiss, and then he would stop.

  He bent and covered her lips with his, his hand over the softness of her breast. Desire scorched him, eddies of heat hazing his mind.

  Dare straightened, bracing himself above her. She blinked at him, lips moist from their kisses, her glorious hair tumbled down about her bared shoulder and breast.

  “You should return to your rooms,” he said. Even to his own ears, he sounded unconvincing.

  “Not yet.” Her voice was husky and low. “Please.”

  Damnation—she undid him utterly, and seemed oblivious of the fact.

  Clara wound her arms about his neck and pulled him back down, and the fire inside him turned to an inferno. He plundered her mouth, caressed her breasts, then slid his hand down between her legs. The smooth silk of her dress moved back and forth beneath his fingers as he stroked her there. She moaned into his mouth, a sound that made his cock strain even harder at the front of his trousers.

  He would not take her, but he would pleasure her. Indeed, she seemed almost to the sweet, jagged edge already. So beautiful, so responsive. She filled his senses. The scent of lavender water mingled with the musk of arousal, her breaths coming faster as he stroked between her legs.

  He nudged her thighs wider and pressed harder with his fingers through the fabric of her dress. Her head fell back and he laid a line of kisses on her neck, across her cheek. Faster. She moaned again, and he dipped his head, his mouth fastening again over the taut peak of her breast. His fingers moved even more urgently at her center.

  “Ahh,” she gasped, arching up against him.

  Pleasure shuddered through her. He could feel it surge, then slowly ebb. Dare stilled his hand and lifted his head, watching her. Clara’s face was flushed with passion, and he did not know how he had ever thought her plain. She was beautiful.

  She was his.

  The thought came, unbidden, and he was afraid to examine it too closely. He thrust it to the back of his mind, then brushed a kiss over her lips.

  Her eyes slowly opened. For a moment she simply looked at him. Then she smiled, sweet and tentative, and his heart thudded into place, finding a stronger, newer rhythm.

  “That was…” She shook her head.

  He cupped her face with one hand and drew his thumb across her lips.

  “Come,” he said, “I’ll see you back to your rooms.”

  Though desire still pounded through him, Dare helped her sit. He did not glance at the open bedroom door as she drew her dress back over her shoulder and knotted up her glorious hair.

  Together, they slipped through the hall to her rooms. Forcing himself to a proper distance, Dare took her hand and brushed a kiss over it.

  “I’ll go check on Nicholas,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  “Good night.” The word was ripe with gratitude.

  “Indeed,” he murmured. Sleepless night was more likely.

  Before he could behave any more rashly, he turned back down the darkened hallway. It was a long moment before he heard the click of the latch as her door closed.

  Dare rounded the corner, then halted with his back to the wall. He leaned his head against the mahogany paneling, closed his eyes, and drew in a ragged breath. Bloody hell—he had come very close to taking Clara’s virginity. Had he so little control?

  There was something about her he could not resist, something pulled forth by the music. Tonight, onstage with her, he had felt the most intense musical connection of his life. Even in the midst of his passion for Francesca Contini, they had never performed together so perfectly.

  “Darien?”

  He jerked upright and opened his eyes. Clara stood before him, her expression concerned.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  Far from it.

  “Well enough,” he said. “I thought you had retired for the evening.”

  “I left my reticule in your rooms.” Her cheeks flushed.

  “I’ll bring it to you, or have Henri deliver it tomorrow at breakfast.”

  “No. Please, I’ll just fetch it now.”

  The last thing he needed was Clara in his rooms again. He could not keep his gaze from her lips, from the pale skin of her décolletage. Arousal hummed through his body.

  “If you insist.” He turned and led her the few doors down to his rooms.

  When they reached his small parlor, she spun, concern bright in her eyes. “I don’t see it.”

  “Are you carrying diamonds and sapphires about?” he asked, trying to lighten her mood. “I’m sure your reticule is here, unharmed.”

  She didn’t reply, only hastened toward the settee and started lifting the pillows. A lock of her pale hair slipped free from the loose knot on the back of her head, and Dare flexed his fingers, remembering that silken softness. A flash of satin beneath the furniture caught his eye.

  “Here,” he said, scooping up her bag from the floor. It was surprisingly heavy. “You do store jewels in here, don’t you?”

  “It’s just my notebook.” She snatched the reticule from his hands.

  “You keep your secrets close at hand.” He supposed many women kept diaries, but he hadn’t expected Clara to carry hers with her. “Do you write about me, I wonder?”

  He gave her a teasing smile, but the look on her face remained serious.

  “When you touched me tonight...” She stepped up to him and laid one hand on his chest. “Is there an answering pleasure a gentleman might feel?”

  His whole body tightened at the question. If she was trying to distract him, her ploy was working.

  “Yes.” The word came out almost a growl.

  “Teach me.”

  Bloody hell. “No.”

  She set her reticule on the settee, then twined her arms about his neck. Pulling his head down, she kissed him, her mouth sweet and demanding on his. The feel of her soft curves made the banked fires of his desire flare into nearly unbearable brightness. Clara.

  He gathered her tightly against him and kissed her as though he were a drowning man and she was air. The memory of their music crashed over him again, bringing a wave of need so intense he could not withstand the force of it.

  There was only Clara, and a fierce wanting he could not name, wound so tightly about him he was blind. He swept her into his arms and carried her to his bed. It was the work of moments to unpin her loose coiffure.

  With deft fingers she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, while he undid the fastenings of her gown. He looked down at her, her mouth full from his kisses, her moonlit hair spread out across his pillows, and forced himself to speak.

  “Clara,” he said, voice rough with desire. “Either I stop now, or not at all. Do you understand?”

  She stared up at him, her lips softly parted. His groin tightened, but he held himself immobile above her, waiting for her answer.

  “Yes,” she said
, her voice sure and strong. “I want this. I want you, Darien—all of you. Now. Tonight.”

  The words were alcohol to his flame. He all but ripped the rest of her clothing off, and then his own, until they were both naked upon the sheets. The rosy tips of her breasts beckoned his mouth and hands. As he caressed and sucked them, she breathed little sighs, spurring his arousal even higher.

  He slipped his hand down between her legs, this time with no gown in the way, only naked skin to naked skin. His fingers played in her springy curls and she parted her thighs. He pressed deeper, feeling her moisture. Slowly, he slid one finger inside, her hot slickness enclosing him. Then another finger, stroking, teasing. She gasped and arched against him.

  Dare pulled his hand away, and she made a disappointed moan.

  “A moment,” he said, forcing himself to lean away from her.

  It was his habit to keep a packet of French letters on the bedside table. Deftly, he drew one on and fastened the tie at the base of his cock.

  Stop, the voice of responsibility cried.

  But it was far too late. He suspected it had been too late the moment he’d agreed to allow Clara to come on the tour. He had tried to keep his distance, had ridden alone the entire length of England, the coach behind him, but it had not been enough. He’d forced himself to keep his distance, though memories of their kisses had branded his bones.

  Tonight, the dry tinder of his soul had caught fire, and there was no extinguishing that blaze.

  ***

  A wild sonata clamored in Clara’s blood—music so sweet and fierce it consumed all other thoughts. The feel of Darien’s hands on her made wild sensations rush through her. She wanted to press herself against him, feel his body against every inch of hers. She was so unexpectedly wanton. Or perhaps not so unexpected. Hadn’t she spent endless nights replaying their kisses, yearning for his arms around her?

  It had been a wishful dream, yet here she was, naked in his bed.

  A brief whisper of propriety insisted she should leave now. It was not too late. She could rise and pull her gown back on. She could leave and close the door behind her, shutting out the possibility of what might have been.