Chapter One A Piano Lesson

Chapter One

A Piano Lesson

Oxfordshire, 1826

L ady Elizabeth Morgaine Drake lowered her head, her gaze focused upon her gloves as the carriage pulled into the courtyard. Already, an excited flush heated her cheeks, despite the cold outside. Did her chaperone notice? She brought Larissa to her music lessons precisely because her middle-aged cousin tended to be an absent and unobservant supervisor. Elizabeth looked out the window at Lord Augustine’s stately country manor, then gathered her piano music from its place upon the cushion. She hadn’t touched it all week, by design.

The tall, heavy door opened as she approached, the somber-faced butler admitting her and Larissa with a deep bow. Elizabeth’s father was a duke; she’d grown up accustomed to such scraping and bowing, though it always seemed silly to her. Her father was the distinguished and powerful person. She was just his youngest daughter, flighty and strange, given to whimsy. Whimsy indeed , her conscience chided. These lessons have become too whimsical by half, and you to be married to the Marquess of Fortenbury at Christmas.

She shrugged off such thoughts. Why, a wife ought to improve herself, and Lord Augustine was one of the most talented musicians in London. Truly, his artistry knew no bounds. Her artistry, however…

The butler took their hats and warm, lined pelisses, and guided them through the manor’s grand foyer, past the polished, winding staircase, and into the formal parlor, where the customary setting of biscuits, cocoa, and tea were laid out for their enjoyment. “I shall inform my lord that you have arrived for your piano lesson,” said the butler, bowing again.

“We’re rather early,” said Elizabeth.

“No matter. If you wish, you may proceed to the music room to practice before the start of your lesson.”

“Thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

Larissa collected a plate of fresh biscuits as a maidservant poured tea. Elizabeth looked about the parlor, thinking what a lovely house Lord Augustine kept in the Oxfordshire countryside. St. Pierre was an old family mansion, half done up in a modern way and half left to history. Elizabeth felt ghosts here, but they were the benevolent kind, the sort that had settled in with contented resignation and had no impulse to haunt at all. The windows admitted the afternoon light, and a generous fire crackled beneath an ornate oak mantel, ensuring a perfect temperature.

“The cinnamon biscuits are my favorite,” said Larissa. “I believe they’ve just come out of the oven.”

“Lord Augustine knows how much you like them. He instructs the cook to make them for us on piano lesson days.”

Well, for Larissa. Elizabeth felt too nervous to eat, or perhaps she was too enthralled by August’s great, fine country house. Many things enthralled Elizabeth. Everything had an energy. She listened and learned from that energy and perceived more sometimes than she wished to. It took some time before she realized herself isolated in this ability. Others could not intuit the things she did.

Of Larissa, she perceived a harmless personality: goodness and a deep love for biscuits, sweetness, and comfort. Of Lord Augustine’s butler, a fervor for duty somewhat tempered by an impatience for womenfolk. Of her husband-to-be, Lord Fortenbury, she sensed deep rectitude and faith which made him seem solid. Her father called Lord Fortenbury an “upstanding gentleman,” a summation with which she agreed. He was a wealthy, lofty peer, quite handsome, and a good marriage prospect. He was certainly the best prospect she could manage at this point, with her history of broken engagements.

She’d hardly come to know the first marriage candidate, Lord Cole. He’d died in a tragic digestive accident, choking upon a fish bone shortly after their betrothal was announced. She’d very much liked her second fiancé, Lord Sylvanbrook, until he’d succumbed to a brain apoplexy in ungenteel surroundings mere days before their nuptials. She’d been very, very wrong about his suitability for marriage. Her third prospect—her third!—had died in a fall from his horse two weeks after he’d proposed to her in her father’s study. A fall, her parents said, but she learned later he’d sailed over his horse’s head and into a tree because he’d been racing with a friend.

People had wondered at that, why she had not foreseen this outcome and tried to prevent it, as if she had such specific powers of precognition. As if she might foresee that a horse would stumble! Perfect strangers ascribed all sorts of mysterious powers to her, which was utter nonsense. If she’d known Lord Greyfield might die, of course she would have tried to prevent it. Greyfield had been handsome and virile, if somewhat avaricious of her dowry. One hadn’t needed special powers to understand that. She sensed less avaricious leanings in Lord Fortenbury, which improved his stature as a fiancé.

As for Lord Augustine, she had known him so long and so well that her perception of him contained too many feelings and energies to dissect. Which was nice, in a way. Sometimes she didn’t wish for nagging observations about this or that companion. She only wished to exist with that person. Her closest friends were not readable, merely comfortable.

Though Lord Augustine could be uncomfortable as a teacher.

As she thought it, he appeared in the parlor’s doorway, crossing to greet her and her chaperone. She noted his fleeting bemusement as Larissa looked up with a mouthful of crumbs. They had biscuits aplenty at Arlington Manor, they truly did, but Larissa swore Lord Augustine’s were the best in England, a point she made each week.

Lord Augustine accepted her compliments with grace and confessed to recently polishing off a tray in his study. Elizabeth knew it for a lie—she could sense, at least, when her dear friends lied—but he probably said it to make Larissa more comfortable about her own conspicuous consumption, so in a way, it was a kind lie. Lord Augustine was unfailingly kind.

“Are you ready for our lesson?” he asked Elizabeth.

She felt the flush rise again from her neck up to her ears, and hoped the looped bun at the back of her neck hid some of the color. She was not silly over Lord Augustine. Truly, she wasn’t. He was tall and dashing, with hair as black as hers and piercing, dark-hazel eyes, but he was practically a brother to her, and older besides.

She stood and reached for her music, ignoring the trembling in her fingers. Silly fingers.

“Would you like to join us for the lesson, Cousin Larissa?” he asked her companion.

“Oh, no, my lord. I’ll only be a distraction. I’ll wait here and keep out of your way.”

And eat biscuits and lounge before the fire , thought Elizabeth. Every week he invited Larissa to their lesson, and every week she demurred.

They’d come to count upon it.

The two of them set out for the music hall, located some distance from the parlor where Larissa relaxed. August walked slightly ahead of her, which was just as well, since she was still in full blush. He wore a fine navy blue coat today, and country trousers of heavy linen that, to be frank, clung revealingly to his muscled posterior and set off its fine form to excellent effect. Not that she looked. Well, she didn’t stare .

“How is the weather outdoors?” he asked as they traversed the long corridor. “There were clouds this morning.”

“Still some clouds, but a bit of sun too.”

“That’s good to hear. How are your mother and father?”

“They’re well and send their regards. In fact, they dined with your parents and Lord Theodore last night.”

“And you?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Of course, me. Your brother was very shy and retiring. Do you find him so?”

“Theo’s always been shy. But in good appetite, I imagine. He loves eating at Arlington Hall, for your cook is arguably the best in Oxfordshire.”

“And a terror to everyone. Papa threatens to fire Marcelle, but his food is too good.”

He cast her a reproving look. “You might invite me to dinner now and again.”

“You’re always welcome, Lord Augustine.”

He smiled and turned away. She clutched her music, thinking how handsome he could be when he was in a buoyant humor. Her betrothed, Lord Fortenbury, was handsome too, but in a more…well…astringent way. Of course, Lord Augustine was older than Lord Fortenbury, more “seasoned,” as a gossiping acquaintance had once said rather suggestively.

“I’m looking forward to our lesson,” he said as they passed the ballroom, beyond which the paneled music hall awaited.

“I always look forward to our lessons.” She glanced down at the music he’d assigned, a piece of advanced difficulty by Johann Sebastian Bach. “I’ve practiced every day.”

“I rejoice to hear it.”

When they reached the carved double doors, he ushered her within. She loved his formal music room, with its polished wood walls and high windows that overlooked a picturesque garden and small lake. The grand piano took pride of place in the center, with a cozy sitting area in one corner and imposing shelves of music along the far wall. Of course, such an accomplished musician needed a worthy music chamber. She spun about, appreciating the well-appointed surroundings before she crossed to the piano and sat upon its polished wood bench. She fumbled her music trying to arrange it upon the stand until August was obliged to assist her.

“There,” he said, opening it to her lesson’s page. He had made some notes there the week before, about where she ought to concentrate on tricky fingering, and where to improve upon dynamics. Elizabeth was no novice at the piano, which was why her father had engaged Lord Augustine as her teacher. August was a virtuoso, just the sort of instructor to continue her development…

But that hadn’t really been happening.

“Begin when you’re ready,” he said, sitting in a chair beside her. “And remember the importance of posture.”

“Yes, my lord.”

She straightened her spine and curved her fingers in the way he’d taught her, to caress the keys , he’d said. She took a deep breath and began to play the intricate minuet, striving for accuracy if not musicianship. In the end, she found she could not manage either one. Her tempos were clumsy, her phrasing non-existent. She missed at least one-third of the accidentals, so the piece sounded haunted, with awkward melodies falling flat.

Through all this, he merely looked on, wordless, letting her continue through to the very end of the debacle. She was too busy to blush, too preoccupied to stop or apologize until the whole wretched attempt at sightreading was played out. Her fingers came to rest on the final trio of notes…two of which were wrong. It was a poor showing, one of her worst so far. She put her hands in her lap and turned to face him.

“Perhaps I ought to try again.”

“Do you think that would help?” he asked dubiously.

“It might, now that I’m properly warmed up. Let me try again.”

His lips tightened to a frown, but he gestured for her to proceed. She shook her fingers as if that might remove some of the clumsiness, the utter ineptitude, really, and started to play again. This time she got half the notes right, which was an improvement, but her tempos still lagged. The composer himself would have struggled to recognize the piece, she played it so poorly.

“Well,” he said, looking at the music, then back at her. “That was still fearfully inept. Atrocious, really. It’s as if you didn’t practice at all.”

“What?” She pretended shock. “My lord, I did practice. A little.”

“You told me you practiced every day.” One of his dark brows rose. “Was that a lie?”

Her heart quickened, racing with excitement in her chest. This part of their game thrilled her. “Perhaps I did not practice as much as I should have.”

“Did you lie to me, Lisbet?” he asked again, in a more dire tone.

She swallowed hard, looking over at him. When he used her childhood nickname, it made her feel even more cowed by his sternness. “I did lie. I’m sorry. I suppose…well… The truth is, I barely practiced at all.”

“You shouldn’t lie about such things. I can tell, you know. I’m quite aware of whether you’ve practiced.”

“I mean to practice every day,” she said, avoiding his steely gaze. “But then…I don’t.”

“Indeed.” He sighed. “You’re so talented, with so much promise. How are you to improve if you don’t apply yourself? We’ve had this discussion before.”

“I know.” She squirmed on the hard piano bench. “I’m so ashamed.”

“Your father pays me handsomely for these lessons. He expects you to become a more accomplished musician, when you’ve barely improved. What am I to tell him?”

“I don’t know. Nothing? No need for him to become upset as well.”

He gave a soft tsk . A dangerous sound, in her experience.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and she really was. “I ought to have practiced.”

“Yes, you ought to have. If you don’t, you’re wasting my time, and your own.” He stood and gave a deep, sonorous sigh. “I suppose such behavior must be punished. Again.”

“Must it?” she asked meekly.

He began unbuttoning his coat. “You know it must, if you are to become more responsible with your practicing.”

She could only meet his eyes for short seconds. His gaze was so strict, so direct. “I suppose you’re going to spank me, Lord Augustine.”

“Yes, and harder than last time.” He threw his coat over the chair and started rolling up his sleeves. “For you don’t appear to have taken any motivation from it at all.”

Why, last week’s spanking had been the hardest yet. This would be her seventh spanking at the earl’s hands, all of which were entirely her doing, her fault.

It was during their second lesson she’d tremblingly suggested that a punishment might motivate her to practice harder. She did not know from whence she’d gained the courage to say it aloud to her dark-haired friend. She’d heard the stories, she supposed, the whispered tales of who was most into the “English vice” of spanking and whipping. The majority of such gossip concerned Lord Augustine, who purportedly had not married because no woman would be able to withstand his disciplinary proclivities.

His dark looks and large, strong hands did make one think of power and punishment, but she knew the real reason August hadn’t married—he was still in love with his friend’s oldest sister Felicity, long since wed to an Italian prince.

Still, the idea of it…of August’s disciplinary proclivities …

Some imp inside Elizabeth had wanted to see what it would be like to suffer such discipline, and he’d turned her over his lap and shown her, giving her a very real punishment.

Now she asked for it every time, and he accommodated her without fail.

“Come, Elizabeth,” he said. “You must lie across my knees.”

He took a seat on the very bench where she’d disgraced herself and guided her over his lap. Her middle grew hot with the strange, tingly pulses this caused in her. Why did she want him to discipline her, to hurt her? It went beyond curiosity now.

As he arranged her across his knees, she murmured softly that she ought to have practiced, that she was regretful she had not. He answered that yes, she ought to have, and proceeded in a businesslike manner to draw up her skirts, revealing the thin, cotton pantalettes now in fashion for all women, not just the wanton element of society. He paused, tugging at one of the legs. Was he smoothing a wrinkle? Why had his breath changed? Was that another sigh? He pretended each week it was a great chore to punish her, but he never suggested ending their lessons, which would have been the most effective punishment of all.

“You’re not to squirm about,” he reminded her. “The piano bench will tip.”

“Yes, my lord.”

She knew it would not tip. He was too strong to let that happen, and even if it did tip, he would save her from falling.

“Will you be able to keep your hands out of the way, or should I hold them?”

“Hold them please,” she said, reaching them back. The first time he’d spanked her, he’d collected her hands in a firm grip at the small of her back, and sometimes when she was drifting off to sleep, she thought about how that felt, being restrained and held tight across his lap.

The spanking commenced, the shocking explosion of sensation, of force and punishment upon her helpless bottom. “Ow,” she said softly. “Ow. Ow… ”

She did not yelp or scream, though a reckless cry always seemed in danger of escaping her lips. August’s spanks were loud enough already in the echoing room. The addition of screams or crying might bring the staff, or worse, Larissa.

Instead, Elizabeth pressed her lips together and balled her fingers into fists. August did not release her, even when she pulled at his iron grip. Nor did he stop his steady assault upon her bottom, striking both cheeks and sometimes the backs of her thighs with his powerful palm.

“Oh,” she whispered as the spanking gained intensity. “It hurts.”

She stared at the polished parquet floor, then squeezed her eyes shut. He was not being aggressive, nor abusive, only disciplinary to devastating effect. As the force of his spanks increased, she did kick her legs a bit, tensing her bottom cheeks, but that offered no respite or protection.

After several solid minutes of hard spanking, her bottom burned and ached. Tears gathered behind her tightly shut eyes, tears of pain, or excitement, or a little of both. When he finally stopped, her bottom felt on fire. It hurt, oh it hurt , but the rest of her felt alive and energized. She lay panting, mesmerized by the feel of his palm against her bottom, with only the thin layer of her pantalettes in between.

“I wish I had faith that this spanking would inspire you to practice more,” he said. “But it has not proven so thus far.”

“I really am very sorry. I must do better. When I don’t wish to practice, I’ll have to remember how…” She wiggled her throbbing backside. “How painful this feels.”

“Yes, I hope you will.”

He replaced her skirts and lifted her to her feet. She could not have met his gaze for all the gold and riches in Christendom, but she resumed her place upon the bench when he gestured for her to do so.

“If you won’t practice at home, you shall practice now.” He sat beside her, very close. “Sit straight and concentrate on the keys. Pay attention to the fingering in measures three and six, as I showed you last week.”

“Yes, sir.”

Her fingers trembled as her newly sore bottom pressed against the solid bench. He made her play the piece again, section by section, correcting her missed accidentals and making her keep the proper rhythm.

“The word minuet derives from the French word menuet ,” he said between attempts. “Meaning fine, delicate, small, narrow. It’s a dance of sorts. Your fingers must keep the same rhythm as your feet would do in a courtly dance.”

“I see.”

It was easier to play the notes with his fingers guiding her, correcting her when she went wrong. He put his arm around her to help her find the lower notes. There was nothing improper in it, though it felt very warm and close. By the end of their hour together, she was playing the song with near proficiency, her aching bottom practically forgotten, though not quite.

He assigned her the next song in her music book, another song she would neglect to practice. He played it through for her, to show her how it ought to sound. Though it was of intermediate difficulty, it seemed a tinkling child’s song next to the stormy, complex sonatas she’d heard him play.

“You must look out for the repeats,” he told her. “You’ll remember where those are?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

“And the accidentals here in the second section. The key change at measure eighty-one.”

“Oh yes, I will pay special attention to those this time.”

“See that you do.” He gave her a look. “I’ll circle them for you.”

They both knew his circling wouldn’t help, not if she had it in mind to get more spankings.

Was she behaving badly in this? Wrongly? If she was, he was too. She thought with fleeting guilt of her upstanding fiancé Lord Fortenbury. He would not like to know that Lord Augustine had spanked her several times now on her pantaletted bottom, with her skirts lifted right up. Speaking of which…

“Lord August, you’ve not yet replied to my wedding invitation. Mama and Papa hope you will come to Wales with us for the holidays. For my wedding.”

“Oh, yes. I must send an answer soon.” Now he was the one avoiding her gaze.

“It’s been set for the week before Christmas, at my grandpapa’s manor in Cairwyn.”

“So I heard. That will be picturesque.”

“It will be cold,” she said, laughing. “But I wish you would come. Your parents are coming, and the Lockridges and Warrens. I believe your gentlemen friends will travel with us too.”

“I’ll think about it,” he promised, though he didn’t look very excited.

Lisburne Manor was a cold, unforgiving castle in winter, but the scenery was exquisite, and the extended Welsh side of her family all lived thereabouts.

“I’m surprised Fortenbury agreed to marry in Wales,” he said after a moment. “He’s a Hampshire man through and through.”

“Papa presided upon him to agree,” she admitted. “Because I truly wished to be married in Wales, as my parents were. I feel happiest there, and it will help avoid…well…gossiping in Oxfordshire or London.”

His deep hazel eyes softened as he regarded her. He knew the history of her three failed engagements, and what such gossip would be about.

“I’ll try to come,” he said again, without much conviction. “Are you excited to be married?”

“Of course I am.”

Well, she was, mostly. She wanted children and a home of her own, and the Marquess of Fortenbury seemed steady enough. “Perhaps if you come, you can play the chapel’s old harpsichord for my processional. Or play piano at the reception afterward. My Welsh family is wild for music and dancing.”

“Your Welsh relatives are wild indeed.”

He grinned, perhaps remembering past visits to Cairwyn with her brother. Oh, she wished for August to come. She’d ask her papa to apply the same sort of pressure that had convinced Lord Fortenbury to marry her there.

“Thank you very much for my lesson,” she said, standing and wincing slightly as she straightened. “I’ll see you again next week.”

“I look forward to it. And please, Lisbet, practice, would you?”

His smile was teasing, warm. It made her shiver a little inside. It was only a game, this thing between them, and harmless, she supposed, since she would probably stop taking lessons from him once she married. A few more weeks…

“I will practice,” she promised, half meaning it. “In fact,” she added with her own teasing grin, “I shall be reminded to do so every time I sit down.”