Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

T he next morning, Xenia found herself alone in the manor. The Earl of Manderly had arrived, dragging his grumbling brother out for a ride. Brunswick was taking a well-deserved day off, and Mr. Valentine had gone into the village in search of an elusive grooming implement.

This left Xenia with rare solitude, which was a good thing since she wasn't at her best. She'd slept fitfully and blamed it on the eerie poem about Bloody Thom. While she couldn't recall her dreams, she'd awoken with a start…and a feeling that she wasn't alone. Panic and fear had bombarded her. Her pulse had raced as if she'd been running for her life, her knuckles throbbing as if she'd used her fists. Her throat was sore as if she'd been screaming.

She told herself it had been an ordinary nightmare. The kind she'd been having her entire life. Any ghostly presence she'd felt had been the product of her wild imagination. Nonetheless, unease clung to her like an invisible cobweb. To distract herself, she decided to take advantage of Lord Ethan's absence to clean his study. Tidying in his presence was an impossibility: she'd tried once and given up. It was like trying to organize the den of a growling, territorial bear.

But he's not here now, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him .

The curtains behind his desk were drawn. She pushed them open…and coughed. In the streaming sunlight, dust motes swarmed like angry insects from the velvet panels. The dirty floor-to-ceiling windows framed the dense jungle of a garden beyond. Creeping vines of ivy were everywhere and swallowed the gazebo in a far corner.

Turning, Xenia eyed the room from Lord Ethan's perspective—that is, from behind his cluttered desk. She took in the worn furnishings, pitted bookcases, and shabby carpets and wondered why a man of wealth and status would choose to live like this.

"A housekeeper's job is never done," she muttered.

She prioritized what she could do. The rugs would have to wait until there were footmen to carry them outside for a good beating. Dragging in a bucket of cleaning supplies, she set to work on the furniture. The combination of beeswax, lemon juice, and linseed oil did wonders, hiding scratches and giving the weathered wood new shine. Pleased with the results, she cleaned the floors around the rugs until they, too, were gleaming.

Next, she examined the bookshelves. Thanks to her mama's penchant for using abandoned properties as hideaway places, she was an expert at fixing woodworm damage. She would use vinegar to clear away any remaining infestation and then apply tinted beeswax to fill the holes. She followed the pockmarked trail to the cupboard door next to the shelves. When she tried to open the door to assess the damage inside, it wouldn't budge.

Odd. Why is the door locked?

She tried the keys on the ring Lord Ethan had given her. None of them fit. Perhaps she ought to move on; hadn't she learned her lesson with the bats? But her employer hadn't told her not to look in his closet. Moreover, she was on a legitimate mission to assess the extent of woodworm rot. On that well-reasoned note, she plucked a pair of pins from her hair. They were useful for keeping tresses in place and for getting her into places she wanted to be. One couldn't grow up with the mama she had and not learn a few tricks of the trade.

The lock clicked, and she opened the door. What lay beyond wasn't a cupboard but a tiny antechamber that held the most stunning piano she'd ever seen. The grand instrument took up most of the space. Its black lacquer surface gleamed like a panther's skin, its smooth lines and robust curves like those of a prowling beast.

Why does he keep this magnificent piano in here?

The ancient piano in the music room looked like it had come with the house, and she wondered why he would display that one but keep this glamorous showpiece hidden. She traced her fingertip over the ornate gilt swirls that identified the piano maker as "B?sendorfer." Her gaze fell to the row of lustrous ivory keys. Her papa had been a musician. Some of Xenia's best childhood memories were of sitting on his lap as he taught her to play on a battered flash house instrument.

It had been a long time since she'd had a piano to play on, and never one as fine as this. She spotted the box that lay beneath the instrument. Opening the lid, she pulled out a sheaf of paper…music scores. One caught her eye: an unfinished piece labeled simply, "Sonata in C Minor." The title and notes in the margin were written in Lord Ethan's distinctive scrawl.

Had he composed this piece?

The trace of his spicy musk tickled her senses. Her heart thumped as she imagined him composing alone in this secret chamber. Was there anything more swoon-worthy than an artist in the passionate throes of creation?

I wonder what his piece sounds like.

Temptation gripped her. There was no one home to hear her. Peering out into the empty study, she made her decision and quickly sat in front of the piano. Her knees quivered at the thought of playing music her master had composed, of touching keys he'd touched.

Do I dare?

She pressed a key. The tone was beautiful, hypnotically expressive. As she warmed up with a few scales, she marveled at the keyboard's responsiveness, the way the keys seemed to flow beneath her fingers. When she was ready, she turned her attention to the score and played the opening notes.

With Brunswick off for the day, Ethan let himself and his brother in. He was glad that James had dragged him out of the house. Riding served to clear his head, and this hadn't changed after his injury, although certain accommodations had had to be made. He'd learned to ride one-handed from a Spanish instructor, who taught a method that involved a rein placed around the horse's neck. Ethan had trained his new Arabian, Legato, in this manner, and Legato gave him the smoothest ride of any horse he'd owned. The air and sunshine had dispersed Ethan's ruminative thoughts, carrying them away like dandelion seeds on a breeze. He felt better than he had in days.

"The ride was a good idea," he said gruffly.

James clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll do it again, old boy."

"Are you staying for tea?"

"It depends. Are you making it?"

"That is what I have a housekeeper for."

As Ethan said the words, he felt a sense of satisfaction. Even though he'd kept to himself this week, he was aware of the changes Mrs. Wood had made. His meals had improved, and his surroundings were noticeably cleaner. As he crossed the entrance hall, pink marble gleamed beneath his boots, and the chandelier cast a sparkling light. A vase bloomed with flowers, their fresh fragrance mingling pleasantly with that of wood polish.

When he first arrived, the only thing he'd wanted was to lick his wounds in private. Perhaps it was due to his improved sleep and eating habits, but after a few days of brooding, he'd concluded that things were not as dire as he supposed. Yes, he'd lost his true passion in life, and yes, he hadn't a clue what to do with himself. Thanks to his investments and an inheritance from his grandmama, however, he had the means to do whatever he wished—including nothing at all. He'd performed out of desire rather than necessity, a privilege that made him luckier than most musicians.

Another blessing was this estate, which he'd purchased because he'd lost a wager, but which was revealing itself to be a diamond in the rough. Again, he gave credit to Mrs. Wood. He'd contemplated his attraction to her, too, and decided that desiring her wasn't wrong if he didn't act upon it. In fact, maybe Mrs. Wood was a test of his self-discipline. Maybe by resisting her he was proving that he was returning to his normal, civilized self…the man he'd been before his injury.

"Mrs. Wood is working out, I take?"

Normally, James's smugness would have irked Ethan, but he supposed he owed his brother for dropping Mrs. Wood into his lap…

No, don't go there.

So much for his improved self-control. An image from last night's dream flashed in his brain: a female naked and on all fours, her pretty bottom jiggling as he swived her from behind. At first, he'd thought she was Sirena, but when she turned her head, her familiar brown eyes had captivated him with a mix of sweet innocence and heady feminine desire.

He'd spent in scorching bursts.

In the dream…and in reality.

By Jove, he was randy and in need of an outlet. His few encounters with Constance had never satisfied his carnal itch, and it had been ages since he'd indulged in his favorite kind of sexual play—the rough, raw, and real kind that would have caused his ex-fiancée to call for smelling salts. Was it any wonder that he was lusting after a young and attractive female in his proximity? The last thing he needed, however, was for his brother to glean on to his desire for his housekeeper.

He schooled his expression. "Mrs. Wood is proficient at her duties…"

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He must be hearing things.

Silence. And then…

The familiar notes made his blood run cold. An instant later, fury rushed through him.

"She wouldn't bloody dare ," he bit out.

"Dare what?" his brother called behind him.

But he was already stalking to his study.

The piece was exquisite. Entrancing. A work, in truth, of undeniable genius.

As she caressed the keys, Xenia lost herself in the haunting melancholy of the melody.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

A startled shriek left her, and she jumped up, whirling around.

She found herself facing Lord Ethan, and he embodied dark and terrifying rage. His face was an icy mask, his eyes burning with violet flames as he blocked the doorway. There was no escape.

Think, Xenia, think.

She racked her brain for excuses, but it was frozen in panic like the rest of her. Her limbs shook with the force of Lord Ethan's ire, which filled the chamber, choking out light and air.

"I…I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You're sorry ? That is all you have to say?" he roared. "What kind of disrespectful, idiotic, worthless housekeeper are you?"

Worthless girl. Disobedient twit. Good for nothing.

She shut out the echoes of the past. Tried to focus on her explanation.

"I didn't mean to?—"

"Didn't mean to barge into my private space? To use things that do not belong to you? To violate my trust and my property? Goddammit, woman, you've caused nothing but trouble from the day you started. I should have never taken you on?—"

"Easy there, old boy."

The Earl of Manderly appeared behind his brother.

Perfect. Now she had an audience to complete her humiliation.

She curled her hands, fighting the surging heat behind her eyes. Why do I always ruin everything? Why can't I do anything right?

"I kn-know what I did was wrong," she said between hitched breaths. "I understand wh-why you're angry."

"You have no bloody idea why I'm angry!" Lord Ethan bellowed.

He raised a fist, and for a terrified instant, she thought he would strike her.

Beat her—like her mama had.

Instead, he grabbed the sheet of music from the piano rack. With savage motions, he ripped it to pieces. His gaze burned into Xenia's through the storm of falling confetti.

"I'm s-sorry for the trouble I've caused." She forced the words through her cinched throat. "I…I'll pack my things straightaway."

She edged toward the doorway. He glowered at her, unmoving, barricading the exit. She prayed that he would let her go—that he wouldn't hurt her. At the last possible instant, he stepped aside. She darted past him and managed to contain her sobs until she reached the servants' corridor.