Free His Spanish Bride by Teresa Grant Page A

to leave unvarnished honesty. “I didn’t mean it as a platitude. I meant it as the truth.”
    When he looked at her like that, she could almost believe she was the girl in her masquerade. And the girl in her masquerade could almost believe this marriage had a chance of being something real. Wariness shot through her, as though she had walked into an ambush. She looked round seeking escape. That is, distraction. “I didn’t realize you played the pianoforte.”
    “We haven’t exactly had a lot of leisure for music in our acquaintance.” His voice was easy, but his fingers tightened against the chair arms. Somehow she had stepped onto personal territory.
    “Do—”
    The door opened on her words to admit Addison with a blue and white porcelain tray holding a silver coffee service. The pungent smell of fresh, hot coffee filled the tense air. Addison set the tray on the table between them with a quiet click. “Will there be anything else?”
    His words were addressed to her, not to Malcolm. She realized as the lady of the house it was up to her to pour. Thank God for Raoul’s training in the intricacies of aristocratic life. She thanked Addison, filled two cups with a reasonably steady hand, and passed one to Malcolm. She already knew he took his coffee black. Her first wifely duty, successfully accomplished. She added milk (warmed, how lovely) to her own cup and took a grateful sip. Blessedly strong. Though brandy would have been preferable.
    “You must play frequently to have a piano in your lodgings.”
    Malcolm blew on the steam from his own cup. “Other than books, my favorite form of solace.”
    “Would you play something?”
    The words came out without thinking. Only from his slight hesitation did she see the pitfalls. Music was unfettered emotion. And emotion was something they were both trying to hold at bay.
    “Of course,” he said. “Anything in particular?”
    She shook her head. He moved to the piano and hesitated for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keys. Then he touched the keys and let loose a torrent of sound.
    Beethoven. The piano sonata number 2 in A major. The music washed over her. For a moment the world fell away and this room and her mission with it. And yet while it transported, that sound also took her straight through to Malcolm’s soul. Like the look in his eyes when he spoke his vows, it carried an upwelling of raw emotion. For the music itself, she told herself, not for her. Yet the torrent rippling beneath the stroke of the keys revealed how much he was capable of feeling. And a man who could feel so deeply could be just as deeply hurt.
    Her fingers curled round the chair arms, her nails scraping the wood. Her breath tangled in her throat. The last note seemed to hang in the air long after the actual sound died away. The silence that followed music was so rich. So different from the awkward silence of earlier. “Thank you.” Her voice sounded thin and dry to her own ears, parched for something she could not name. “I’ve always loved Beethoven.”
    “I thought you might.” He turned on the piano bench to smile at her, one of those smiles that seemed to slip from behind his guard. “I’m more of a Mozartian myself. A bit safer perhaps.”
    “Or the emotion’s simply more under the surface. ‘Dove Sono’ always makes me cry.” She swallowed, wondering how the aria would sound now that she was married herself.
    “Marriage is perhaps more safely begun without illusions.”
    “Then we’re off to an excellent start.” No romantic illusions between them. Merely lies.
    “Honesty is worth a great deal.” He leaned his arms on the piano. His hair fell over his forehead. For a moment the hardened man she’d met was replaced by the schoolboy he must have been not so very many years ago. Idealistic and full of hope.
    She set down her cup, harder than she intended, jostling coffee into the saucer. “Blanca should have my things unpacked by now. It’s been a long day. I