When a Duke Says I Do by Jane Goodger Read Free Book Online

piano that had not been there earlier that day. Music, soft and vibrant enough to fill the large room, hit him like a cool breeze after a sweltering day.
    “Chopin,” he whispered almost reverently, and had the sudden and rather embarrassing urge to weep. He’d played this piece, Chopin’s Nocturne No. 9, in his teenage years, long after he’d joined Monsieur, making music when he could not speak. Oftentimes, he and Monsieur would work in a house where the residents were not at home. Monsieur would let him seek out a piano, for most great homes had one, and he would lose himself in the music for hours at a time.
    He still remembered sitting at one such piano and discovering the Chopin nocturne sitting on the music stand, and his joy when he’d heard the music Chopin had written. Alexander had been such a quiet boy, and the piano had allowed him to express himself in a way he never could verbally. It was now two years since he’d touched a piano, because he simply had had no opportunity.
    The music, the woman, drew him and he stood and watched her play. She grinned at him when she made a small error, but forged on, giving a competent rendition of the beautiful piece.
    “You’re quite good,” he said, and she laughed.
    “I suppose you could do better, then.”
    “Perhaps.”
    Elsie lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Do not tell me that in addition to being a master painter you also play the piano.”
    “A bit.”
     
    Elsie moved over and made a gesture for him to sit next to her. He hesitated only a moment before taking a seat, giving her that shy smile she found so completely charming. If Elsie were honest, she could admit she found everything about Alexander charming.
    “No one will hear?” he asked uncertainly.
    “The ballroom is an addition and quite separate from my father’s suite. He won’t hear a thing.”
    He placed his hands, strong and only slightly paint-stained, on the keys almost reverently. “I haven’t played in years.”
    And then he began, and Elsie felt her skin prickle with overwhelming emotion, as if what she was hearing was so beautiful it could not be contained. She played well. He played masterfully.
    She looked at this man next to her and knew, deep inside, that he was something special, something undiscovered and far, far more than a muralist’s assistant. She’d already noticed he spoke like an educated man, his rich baritone sounding almost aristocratic. His manners were impeccable. And she could not overlook his raw beauty, his quiet strength. In Elsie’s world, men were not kind or passionate, or beautiful. They were polite and, frankly, quite boring. Who was he? Where did he come from?
    As he played, he grew more confident, and lost himself entirely in the piece, his eyes closed, his strong hands creating nuances she was not capable of. When he finished, she clapped softly, but with exuberance.
    “Marvelous. Oh, that was lovely. I shall never play that piece again,” she gushed, and he looked down at the keys and smiled.
    “I’m out of practice,” he said.
    “Really, Alexander, you cannot be modest when you play like that.” She stared at him, this puzzle next to her. “Who are you? You’re more than you seem, aren’t you?”
    His smile slowly disappeared. “I am Monsieur’s assistant. Nothing more.” And he stood abruptly. “I must get back to work.”
    Elsie reached out and grabbed his arm, touching his sleeve but feeling the heat of his skin beneath the well-worn cotton. “I’m sorry. Please. Play something else.” His arm was rigid beneath her hand, and he closed his eyes as if he were in pain as he drew his arm slowly out of her grasp. “Alexander, I’m sorry. I’ve no right to question you or demand anything of you. Except perhaps to play for me again.”
    He looked at her almost unwillingly, that handsome face hard, his expression implacable. “I don’t think you should continue coming here at night,” he said. “I have work to do and you are