Chapter 1: Pianoforte Perfidy
The air in the music room was always still, thick with the ghost of melodies and the faint, expensive scent of bergamot from the polished mahogany. Anthony stood by the window, the weight of his own words—the proposal, the perfectly logical, duty-bound proposal—still hanging in the silence behind him. He heard the swish of skirts, sharp and angry, before he saw her.
He turned. Kate was already across the room, a storm in silk.
“You coward.”
Her voice was a venomous whisper, but it cracked through the quiet like a whip. She didn’t stop until she was right before him, her chest heaving, her eyes dark with a fury that burned brighter than any candle in the gilded sconces.
“Is that all you have to say?” His own voice came out low, taut. The dutiful viscount was gone, stripped away by those two words. What remained was something raw, and much more dangerous.
“It is what you are,” she shot back, her gaze not wavering. “Offering your name, your title, your empty, correct life to my sister while you look at me like…” She trailed off, a flush creeping up her neck.
“Like what, Kate?” He took a step closer. The space between them evaporated. He could smell the floral heat of her skin, see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. “Tell me how I look at you.”
She didn’t answer with words. Her hand came up, fast, but he was faster. He caught her wrist mid-air, her fingers curled into a fist. The contact sent a jolt through him, straight to his gut. She tried to pull back, but he held firm, his thumb pressing into the frantic beat under her delicate skin.
“You want to hit me,” he observed, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. “Do it.”
“I despise you.”
“I know.”
He saw the conflict tear through her—the loyalty to Edwina warring with the pure, undiluted want that flared in her eyes whenever they were alone like this. He used it. He pulled her, not towards him, but sideways, behind the broad, silent bulk of the grand piano. It was a island of shadow, cut off from the rest of the room by its own sheer size and a heavy velvet curtain that pooled on the floor.
Back here, the world narrowed to the two of them, to the scent of her, to the charged darkness. He backed her against the cool, smooth wood of the piano’s side.
“This is what you wanted,” he hissed, his face inches from hers. “A good match for your sister. Security. A future. I am giving you exactly what you asked for.”
“Stop using my own words against me.”
“Why? They’re the only thing keeping me from doing this.” His free hand came up and cupped her cheek, then slid back, tangling in the intricate knot of her hair. He pulled, just enough to tilt her head back. A gasp escaped her, but her eyes stayed open, locked on his.
“Keeping you from what?”
He answered by crushing his mouth to hers.
It wasn’t a kiss of tenderness; it was a claim. A release. She fought it for a second, a stiff resistance in her shoulders, before a broken sound vibrated from her throat into his. Then her hands were on him, not pushing away, but clutching the lapels of his coat, dragging him closer. Her lips parted and she kissed him back with a fury that mirrored his own, all teeth and desperate heat.
Logic dissolved. Duty vaporized. There was only this—the taste of her, the desperate slide of her tongue against his, the feel of her body arching into the hard line of his. He walked her backward until the edge of the piano lid dug into the small of her back. He broke the kiss, both of them breathing in ragged, shattered gusts.
“Anthony—” His name was a plea and a protest.
He didn’t let her finish. His hands went to her skirts, gathering the layers of fine muslin and silk in frantic fists. She didn’t stop him. Her head fell back against the polished wood with a soft thud, her eyes closed, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. He pushed the fabric up, his fingers finding the warm skin of her thigh, higher, and the barrier of her drawers. A single, rough tear of linen, and he was touching her. She was hot, slick, ready. She bit down on her own lip to stifle a cry.
He fumbled with the fall of his trousers, his own hands clumsy with urgency. He hooked one of her legs over his hip, the silk of her stocking rasping against his wool-clad thigh. He leaned into her, his forehead against her shoulder, breathing her in.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice ragged.
Her eyes opened, dark pools of defiance and surrender. He drove into her in one deep, punishing stroke.
The piano let out a deep, discordant hum as her body was pressed against it, the strings inside vibrating with the impact. She gasped, her nails digging into the shoulders of his coat, her head tipping back. He didn’t give her time to adjust. He set a relentless, frantic rhythm, each thrust a punishment for his own recklessness, each one met with the tight, hot clutch of her body. It was chaos. It was perfection. It was the only truth he knew.
Her breath came in sharp, hot pants against his ear. She matched his pace, her hips lifting to meet his, a silent, fervent cooperation. The world shrank to the slap of skin, the creak of wood, the muffled sounds they couldn’t completely contain. He was lost, drowning in the feel of her, in the rightness of it, in the sheer wrongness of it. This wasn’t for making an heir. This was something else, something darker and more possessive. A primal marking. Mine, the thought roared through him, even as he knew she never could be.
He felt her begin to tighten around him, her breaths turning into choked little whimpers. He sealed his mouth over hers again, swallowing her sounds, drinking her in. She was unraveling, and he was falling with her.
“Anthony! Kate?”
The voice was high, sweet, and utterly out of place. It came from the other side of the curtain, perhaps just feet away in the main part of the music room. Edwina.
Anthony froze, buried deep inside Kate. Every muscle in his body locked. Kate’s eyes flew open, wide with terror. Her climax, which had been teetering on the edge, was arrested by the ice-cold splash of reality. She went rigid beneath him.
“Are you in here? I thought I heard something,” Edwina called again, her footsteps soft on the carpet.
Kate’s hand flew to her own mouth, pressing hard. Her other hand gripped his shoulder with desperate strength. He could feel her heart hammering against his own chest. He held himself perfectly still, not daring to withdraw, not daring to move a muscle. The urge to spill into her, to finish what they had started, was a physical agony, a throbbing pulse that demanded release.
He watched Kate’s face, a mask of panic and unfulfilled need. He saw the decision flash in her eyes a second before she did it. She turned her head, pressed her open mouth against the fine wool of his coat where it covered his shoulder, and bit down. Hard.
The pain was sharp, shocking, anchoring. It shattered his precarious control.
With a brutal, final thrust, he came, a silent, shuddering release that emptied him into her. He squeezed his eyes shut against the wave of pleasure, of guilt, of utter devastation. He felt Kate’s body convulse around him in a second, silent climax, triggered by his own, her teeth still locked in his shoulder until the very last tremor subsided.
Silence. Then Edwina’s faint sigh. “I suppose they’ve gone elsewhere.”
They listened, motionless, as her footsteps receded and the door to the hall clicked softly shut.
The aftermath was a cold, hollow ache. Anthony slowly loosened his hold, slipping from her body. He adjusted his clothing with mechanical hands. Kate slid from the edge of the piano, her skirts tumbling down to hide the evidence of their transgression. She wouldn’t look at him. She leaned against the instrument, her back to him, her shoulders rising and falling with unsteady breaths.
He reached for her, his hand hovering near her arm. “Kate—”
“Don’t.” The word was flat, drained.
“This changes nothing,” he said, the words tasting like ash. “I will marry Edwina.”
She finally turned. There were no tears. Just a profound, weary resignation. “I know. And I will let you.” She smoothed her skirts, her movements stiff. “It is what I wanted. What I asked for.”
“Then why?” The question burst from him, helpless. “Why this?”
For a long moment, she studied him, as if seeing the man—the viscount, the lover, the betrayer—for the first time. A sad, knowing smile touched her lips, and it wounded him more than any outburst.
“Because you are a duty,” she said softly. “And she is your heart. And I…” She looked toward the curtain, toward where her sister’s voice had been. “I could never be your wife, Anthony. I could never marry you.”
She walked away then, slipping out from behind the piano and leaving him alone in the shadows with the ghost of their crime and the lingering, discordant hum of the strings.