Chapter 6

"Well, well, well! If it is not my good friend risen from the dead!"

Colin grinned wryly as he stepped into the familiar study in Sinclair Park. Ethan had always had a flair for the dramatic, much to his and their friends' chagrin.

"It is a good thing to know some things never change," he remarked as he sat on one of the velvet upholstered chairs. He raised an eyebrow as he regarded Ethan's unabashed smile. "Although, I could do without your regular ‘gifts.'"

"And they were lovely gifts, too. A pity you did not seem to have a taste for them." His friend shook his head in sham disappointment. "But do tell me why you have finally decided to step out of that dreary den of yours. You cannot possibly have come all the way here to thank me for my gifts—as useless as they have been."

Colin shook his head. "About that, I am here to tell you to stop sending me your gifts."

The Duke of Sinclair sighed as he poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Colin. "I simply thought you needed cheering up."

"Not by sending half-naked women into my bedchamber." Colin grimaced.

The last one had already started pleasuring herself on his bed when he discovered her. He had to rouse his servants to change the sheets right after throwing the wench out—politely, of course.

"You have been spending too much time on your own." Ethan shrugged. "But since you find them so distasteful, then I shall desist."

"Good, because Evelyn will be making her bow soon, and I cannot have your gifts showing up unannounced with my sister in the house." The mere thought of his younger sister softened his normally stiff expression. "I intend to make sure that all goes well for her. That, and you know that my grandmother will also be in attendance."

His friend shuddered visibly at the mention of the formidable Lady Wellington. "Fine. Consider me warned to steer clear of Blackthorn Estate for the rest of the Season. Now"—he wiggled his eyebrows—"what is the other purpose of this singular foray of yours into the outside world?"

Sinclair Park was hardly the outside world, as his friend liked to dramatically put it. Considering, however, that Colin had stubbornly stuck to his isolation in Blackthorn Estate, eschewing even the immaculately maintained townhouse he had kept for half a decade, then perhaps Ethan had a valid point.

"I would like to ask where Lady Alice Barkley lives," Colin told him.

He held the brandy up to the light and regarded it with a slight smile, recalling the audacious young lady who found herself in his private rooms just last night.

Gods above, he could hardly sleep just thinking of her luscious figure. If he closed his eyes, he could still see that smoldering, brilliant green gaze and those slightly parted lips he longed to taste.

"Lady Alice Barkley?" Ethan repeated with a confused look. "The Marquess of Brandon's daughter? What business do you have with the chit?"

Colin's smile grew wider. "Why, I intend to ask for her hand in marriage, of course."

At his words, his friend ungraciously spat out the brandy he had been sipping, his eyes wide with shock. "You intend to marry Lady Alice Barkley?"

"Louder, Ethan. I do not think those outside of London heard you."

The Duke of Sinclair quickly regained his composure and shook his head. "I never thought you would want to marry—and Lady Alice Barkley, at that."

"Why?" Colin frowned. "Is there something wrong with her?"

His friend shook his head. "Why, there certainly is nothing wrong with her. She looks beautiful enough?—"

What do you mean by "beautiful enough"?

Colin wanted to scream at him. The young lady who had sneaked into his bedchamber had all the audacity of a warrior goddess and the sensuality of a vixen. He had seen a great many debutantes in his time, flirted with an unaccountable number of young widows willing to climb into his bed, and yet none of them had ever had the effect that Lady Alice had on him.

"—she is just a little odd," Ethan finished lamely.

"By ‘odd', do you mean, perchance, that she does not feel the slightest compunction to flirt with you?" Colin muttered wryly.

"Not only me but most other gentlemen as well."

"Then we should add ‘sensible' to her list of laudable traits."

Ethan gave him a look of mock injury. "Yes, but when you said you wanted to marry someone, I would have to admit that I expected someone else. Lady Alice Barkley never crossed my mind."

"Perhaps you should be the one going out more, my friend."

"Or perhaps you need to get out more," the Duke of Sinclair shot back. "Fortunately for you, I know very well where Lady Alice Barkley resides, and I shall accompany you there myself."

"The support is greatly appreciated."

"Naturally." Ethan grinned at him, ever the charming rogue. "I want to see for myself how the reclusive Duke of Thorns goes about asking for a lady's hand in marriage."

Colin smiled a little at that.

Most fortunate indeed.

* * *

Merciful Lord in heaven, that is awful!

Alice winced as the discordant note resounded all over the parlor, the one deviant thread in an otherwise elegant tapestry. This was only followed by several more errant notes that would make squawking chickens sound far more melodious. She caught the sympathetic glance of her mama, who had since then discarded her embroidery.

"Oh dear, I do think that is enough for one day," Beatrice Barkley, the Marchioness of Brandon, sighed despondently. She reached out and patted Alice's shoulder. "I am certain that with time, you will improve, my dearest."

Alice could only hang her head miserably. "Of course, Mama."

Lady Brandon managed to eke out a helpless smile and patted her daughter's head reassuringly once more before exiting the parlor with a downcast expression.

It could not be helped—Alice was simply terrible at the pianoforte, turning even the simplest song into an auditory nightmare. Her mama had always asserted that a young lady should be proficient in the musical arts, but her eldest daughter simply did not have the talent for it.

Alice pressed her lips into a thin line as she started to play the tune again with renewed vigor, each note that reverberated from her fingers more ghastly than the last. Still, she pressed on, if only so that her abominable pianoforte skills could drown out her thoughts.

"Alice, please, have mercy," Phoebe finally pleaded with her.

Alice looked at her younger sister morosely. "Mama always said I needed to put more effort into my music."

"Mama has also given you leave to stop," her younger sister reminded her. "Your music?—"

"Is far more abominable than in the past?" Alice supplied weakly.

Phoebe nodded. "You seem distracted, Sister dear."

Alice dropped her hands from the keys. "Is it that obvious?"

Her younger sister nodded again and smiled just a little. "That and the fact that you are blushing."

Her hands immediately flew to her warm cheeks. Horror of horrors—she truly was blushing! And on account of that beastly man at that!

"It is nothing," Alice said quickly, looking away from Phoebe's probing gaze. "It is just an unusually hot day, that is all."

Phoebe did not deign to reply. She merely stood up and sat beside Alice, sharing the seat on the pianoforte as they had when they were much younger, pounding away at the keys, much to their mama's consternation. Those days seemed so very far away now with Alice in her third Season and Phoebe about to make her bow.

"Do you remember how we used to play together?" she said softly.

Alice nodded. "Mama used to fly up into the boughs in despair." She giggled. She wrinkled her nose wryly. "Fortunately, you managed to excel at it. At the very least, one of us can hold her own mettle in a concert."

"Perhaps if we play together like we did back then, some improvements could be made," Phoebe suggested gently.

"I seem to recall that when we played together, we brought Mr. Lawrence to tears," Alice pointed out. "And not the good kind either."

Mr. Lawrence had been the first to conclude that Alice's dismal skills in the pianoforte could not be improved. He had stayed long enough as their music tutor only because the Marchioness paid him handsomely to suffer through her daughter's playing. In the end, even he could no longer endure it and left.

Alice had refused any other tutor since then.

"Mr. Lawrence was already old, and his ears were failing him," Phoebe sighed despondently through a decidedly impish smile. "I say we play together and not mind at all what comes of it. At the very least, we will get some enjoyment out of it."

"A capital idea," Alice agreed.

After all, there was no better release from one's worries than pounding away at the hapless keys. If the result was an abomination, then so be it.

Together, they played, their fingers flying over the keys in varying degrees of grace—well, Phoebe played, while Alice hopelessly bludgeoned out of the poor pianoforte whatever song it was that she intended to play.

Phoebe was right—she did not need to think too much about the music she was creating. She could simply pound away at the pianoforte and let out all the confusion and anxiety she felt.

She would drown out his intense stare, or the way his lips curled into a smile that was pure male arrogance. With the loud racket, she would overwhelm her own senses so that she did not have to dwell on how he made her feel with a mere touch.

She had already started to lose herself in the music—her own terribly warped version of it—when one of the maids politely cleared her throat, calling her wild performance to a screeching halt.

"My Ladies," the maid stammered, "I apologize for interrupting, but we have callers."

"Callers?"

Phoebe's eyes lit up, but Alice could only narrow hers in suspicion even as her heart began to flutter in her chest. Her sister was yet to make her bow, and she herself had not had any callers. Not since the last Season, much to her mama's unending despair.

She lifted her gaze from the keys and sucked in a deep breath when she saw precisely who their callers were.

Standing in the doorway to their parlor with a smug smile on his handsome face was none other than Colin Fitzroy, the Duke of Blackthorn.

And he had brought a companion with him.