Free Lessons From a Scarlet Lady by Emma Wildes Page B

evade the persistent Lord Watts, but Robert had found himself thinking back on it more than once in the past few days. It puzzled him he couldn’t just dismiss it.
    That damned jasmine perfume, he told himself wryly. It evoked fantasies of exotic gardens, soft, smooth skin, and a singular breathless sigh. . . .
    He must truly be jaded to even spare one thought about the completely off-limits Miss Marston. Marriageable , he reminded himself and squelched even the faintest hint of amorous interest. Besides, after that incident, her father, Sir Benedict, had trouble being even marginally polite to Robert when they occasionally came face-to-face.
    “If you want my opinion, drop the whole matter, Colt,” Robert said succinctly, “or you risk making your pretty wife self-conscious. While you are at it, I think I would tell her that as long as she doesn’t overspend, she may handle her pin money as she wishes, and make any other concessions that won’t cause you too much discomfort. Quite obviously she wants to please you. Return the favor.” He nudged his horse with his heel. “Now then, shall we gallop? I’m in the mood to try out Sahir against Thebes. He’s in a fine mettle this morning.”
     
    The music room was quiet, with long ivory velvet draperies drawn across the windows to improve the acoustics and enhance the aura of privacy. A pot of ink and several lined sheets of paper lay on top of the pianoforte, but just a few unsatisfying notes were written on the bars, and the only sound was the occasional creak of the bench as Rebecca shifted position.
    Her muse was elusive this morning, she admitted to herself with a sigh. It had been that way for the past few days. Her new routine was discomforting. She entered the room each morning and began the same set of tasks: readying her pen, arranging the sheets so she could scribble down the notes as they filled her head and flowed to her fingers, settling on the bench with her skirts adjusted demurely, her hands poised over the keyboard.
    But nothing came. None of the usual joy. Instead of devoting herself to her passion for music, she found a different kind of passion now absorbed her thoughts and it was infernally distracting.
    Chin in her palm, one elbow propped, she pensively played F sharp, holding the single note for a moment before lifting her finger. There. At least she could say she’d done something besides sit there and think about the impossible.
    And her dreams were impossible.
    Now she knew what it was like to be close to Robert, to smell the clean, male tang of cologne and fresh linen, to feel the brush of his lips against her skin and the strength of his lean body as he pressed her against him. . . .
    Well, it made things much, much worse, and she’d known all along her hopeless infatuation with a seasoned libertine who regarded casual conquest as the order of the day was ridiculous. Not to mention her father’s disdain for the man.
    A quick knock interrupted her hopeless fantasies of being held in Robert Northfield’s arms. Rebecca prayed it wasn’t the butler or one of the maids come to tell her Lord Watts was calling. “Yes?”
    The door swung open and to her relief Brianna came into view, just enough to poke her head around the edge of the door. “I took a chance, Beck, you would be home. I told Hains not to formally announce me and bother you. If you’re working, I’ll call again later if I’m out and about.”
    While Rebecca’s parents considered composing music too bluestocking a pastime for her to talk about, of course Arabella and Brianna knew about her passion and understood. In fact, they were her best audience when she had a new piece to share, and they always at least loyally claimed to be impressed and entranced, bless them. Rebecca shook her head. “I am trying to work but failing miserably. Maybe a little visit with a dear friend will inspire me. Come in.”
    She should probably take a duchess to the formal drawing room, but this