Chapter 2: Chamber Music
The summons came just after noon.
A footman—young, red-haired, eyes carefully avoiding hers—knocked at her door and delivered the message in a clipped, nervous voice. *His lordship requests your presence in the music room at once.*
Esme’s stomach twisted. Three days had passed since the study. Three days of silence, of trays delivered to her room, of the other maids whispering behind their hands when they thought she couldn’t hear. Three nights of lying awake, replaying the weight of his hands, the roughness of his breath in her ear.
She smoothed her skirts—one of her better ones, pressed and clean—and followed the footman down the winding staircases, past the portraits of long-dead Harringtons who seemed to watch her with knowing, judgmental eyes.
The music room was all golden light and high ceilings, the afternoon sun catching dust motes in lazy spirals. A grand piano dominated the space, its polished surface gleaming like still water. And there, at the harpsichord, sat Isolde.
Esme had seen her before—everyone had—but never this close. The girl was a vision of softness, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders like honey, her fingers dancing over the keys with effortless grace. She played something delicate, melancholic, the notes rising and falling like sighs.
Lord Harrington stood beside her, one hand resting on the instrument’s frame, his expression unreadable. When Esme entered, his gaze snapped to her, heavy and intent.
“Ah,” he said, voice warm. “Esme.”
Isolde’s fingers faltered for just a second before resuming their rhythm. She didn’t look up.
Esme dipped into a curtsy. “My lord.”
“Come here.”
It wasn’t a request.
She approached, aware of the way Isolde’s music slowed, the notes stretching like held breath. Lord Harrington reached out, his fingers brushing her waist before settling there, possessive.
“You’ve met Isolde, I assume?”
She had not.
Esme shook her head, and Isolde finally glanced up. Her eyes were the color of a summer sky, wide and impossibly clear. There was no malice in them, only quiet curiosity—and something else. A flicker of recognition.
“Isolde plays for me most afternoons,” Lord Harrington said, his thumb tracing slow circles on Esme’s hip. “But today, I thought she might play for *us*.”
Isolde’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.
The music shifted, the melody deepening, richer now, as if the harpsichord itself was responding to the tension in the room. Lord Harrington’s grip tightened, pulling Esme closer until her back was pressed against his chest.
“Do you like it?” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.
Esme swallowed. The music *was* beautiful. Haunting. But the way he held her—the way his fingers tightened on her waist—made it hard to focus.
“Yes, my lord,” she managed.
He chuckled, low and knowing, and turned his attention to Isolde. “Play the *Nocturne*.”
Isolde hesitated only a moment before obeying. The new piece was slower, heavier, each note a deliberate caress. Lord Harrington’s hands moved, sliding up Esme’s sides, his touch burning through the fabric of her dress.
“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” he mused, his voice a rough whisper against Esme’s neck. “Such delicate hands. Such *talent*.”
Esme’s breath hitched as his fingers found the laces at the front of her bodice, loosening them with practiced ease.
Isolde’s playing never wavered, but her cheeks flushed pink.
“I wonder,” Lord Harrington continued, his lips grazing Esme’s ear, “if she’s ever watched.”
Esme’s pulse spiked. “My lord—”
“Hush.” He nipped at her earlobe, sending a jolt down her spine. “Turn around.”
She did, her back now to the harpsichord, facing him. His eyes were dark, hungry.
“Bend over.”
The command was soft, almost gentle.
Her stomach clenched. She could hear Isolde’s breath hitch, the music stuttering for just a second before steadying again.
Lord Harrington didn’t wait. He guided her down, her palms flattening against the polished wood of the harpsichord. The cool surface bit into her skin as he pushed her skirts up, his hands rough and impatient.
Isolde played on, her fingers moving faster now, the music swelling, rising like a wave.
Esme squeezed her eyes shut as Lord Harrington’s fingers found her, teasing, testing. She was already wet—God help her, she was—and he groaned low in his throat at the discovery.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with approval.
Then he was inside her, filling her in one deep thrust. Esme gasped, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth wood.
The harpsichord vibrated beneath her, the music a living thing, matching the rhythm he set. Isolde’s eyes were wide, her lips parted, her fingers never stopping even as she watched.
Lord Harrington’s grip on Esme’s hips was iron. “Look at her,” he ordered, his voice rough.
Esme opened her eyes.
Isolde was staring—not at her face, but lower, at where they were joined. Her breath came fast, her fingers stumbling slightly before finding their rhythm again.
“She likes watching,” Lord Harrington growled, snapping his hips forward. “Don’t you, Isolde?”
Isolde didn’t answer, but her cheeks darkened further.
The music grew wilder, untamed, notes clashing and soaring as Esme’s moans tangled with them. Lord Harrington’s pace was relentless, each thrust driving her harder against the instrument, the wood creaking beneath them.
Isolde’s fingers slipped, hitting a discordant note. She bit her lip, her gaze flicking up to meet Esme’s for just a second—long enough for Esme to see the heat there, the want.
Then Lord Harrington’s hand was in Esme’s hair, pulling her head back as he buried himself deep. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice raw.
She did, her body arching, the pleasure crashing over her like a wave, dragging her under. The harpsichord sang beneath her, Isolde’s playing frantic now, the music spiraling out of control as Lord Harrington followed her with a rough groan.
For a moment, the only sounds were their breathing and the last, trembling notes of the *Nocturne*.
Then Lord Harrington straightened, pulling Esme up with him. He pressed a kiss to her temple, almost tender, before turning to Isolde.
“You may go.”
Isolde stood without a word, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight. She hesitated for just a second, her eyes darting to Esme’s flushed face, before slipping silently from the room.
Lord Harrington tucked a loose strand of Esme’s hair behind her ear. “You see?” he murmured, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “We make beautiful music together.”
Esme shivered, her body still humming from his touch.
He smiled, slow and satisfied. “Rest now. I’ll send for you again soon.”
Then he was gone, leaving her standing there, the ghost of his hands still on her skin, the scent of jasmine and sweat thick in the air.
The door clicked shut behind Lord Harrington, but the air still hummed with the remnants of what had just happened. Esme exhaled sharply, her fingers trembling as she straightened her skirts. The harpsichord’s polished surface bore faint smudges where her palms had pressed. She wiped them away with her sleeve, as if that could erase anything.
A soft sound made her turn.
Isolde stood in the doorway, her golden hair catching the light like a halo, though her expression was anything but angelic. She chewed her lower lip, shifting her weight between slippered feet.
“You didn’t leave,” Esme said.
“No.”
Silence settled between them, thick and uncertain. The scent of jasmine from the open window mixed with something muskier, something darker.
Isolde’s gaze flicked to the harpsichord, then back to Esme. “Did he—?”
“Yes.”
A strange expression crossed Isolde’s face. Not quite envy. Not quite curiosity. Something hungrier.
Esme crossed her arms. “You stayed to watch.”
Isolde flushed. “I’ve never seen—”
“What? A lord taking his pleasure with a maid?” Esme’s laugh was brittle. “Surely you’ve heard the whispers.”
“Not like that.” Isolde stepped closer, her voice dropping. “Not when it was *you*.”
Esme stilled. The way Isolde said it—like it mattered. Like *she* mattered.
Isolde reached out, her fingers brushing Esme’s wrist, feather-light. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
But Isolde didn’t pull away. She traced the delicate bones of Esme’s hand, her touch hesitant. “You liked it.”
Esme’s breath caught. That was the worst part, wasn’t it? That her body had betrayed her, that pleasure had coiled tight in her belly despite everything.
“You did too,” she countered, watching Isolde’s lashes flutter. “Watching.”
Isolde’s thumb circled the pulse point at Esme’s wrist. “I didn’t just watch.”
The confession hung between them, electric.
Esme should’ve pulled away. Should’ve walked out. But the heat in Isolde’s eyes was too familiar, too much like the fire that burned in her own veins.
“Show me,” Esme whispered.
Isolde’s breath hitched. Then, with a boldness that belied her delicate frame, she pressed Esme back against the harpsichord.
The keys chimed under their weight, discordant and sweet.
Isolde’s mouth found Esme’s, soft at first, then desperate. She tasted of honey and secrets, her hands sliding up Esme’s ribs, relearning the curves Lord Harrington had claimed.
“Tell me to stop,” Isolde breathed against her lips.
Esme tangled her fingers in Isolde’s golden hair and pulled her closer.
The music room door swung open.
Lord Harrington stood there, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “I wondered how long it would take.”
Neither woman moved.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Finish what you started.”
And he closed the door behind him.
Isolde exhaled sharply, her forehead resting against Esme’s. “He knew.”
“He always does.”
Isolde’s fingers tightened on Esme’s waist. “Do you want this?”
Esme didn’t answer with words. She kissed her again, deeper this time, pouring every frustrated, tangled feeling into it.
The harpsichord sang beneath them, a chorus of broken notes and breathless moans, as Isolde’s hands learned the rhythm of her body.
And somewhere beyond the door, Lord Harrington listened, smiling.