More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress by Mary Balogh Page B

request.
    â€œWhy?” she asked, but he merely raised his eyebrows in that arrogant way he had and stared back at her.
    She held them out toward him hesitantly, palms down. But he took them in his own and turned them over.
    It was one of the most uncomfortable moments of Jane’s life. His hands dwarfed her own, cupping hers loosely. She could easily have pulled away, and every instinct urged her to do so. But then she would reveal her discomfort and its only possible source. She felt the pull of his masculinity like a physical force. She found it difficult to breathe.
    â€œNo calluses,” he said. “You have not done much menial work, then, Jane?”
    She wished he would not sometimes lapse into calling her by the name only her parents had ever used. “Not a great deal, your grace,” she said.
    â€œThey are beautiful hands,” he said, “as one might expect. They match the rest of your person. They change bandages gently without causing undue pain. One wonders what other magic they could create with their touch. Jane, you could be the most sought-after courtesan in all of England if you so chose.”
    She pulled her hands back then, but his own tightened about them a little faster than she moved.
    â€œI did add ‘if you chose,’ ” he pointed out, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “What other magic can they create? I wonder. Are they musical hands? Do you play an instrument? The pianoforte?”
    â€œA little,” she admitted. Unlike her mother, she had never been any more than a proficient pianist.
    His hands were still tight on hers. His dark eyes burned upward into her own. Her claim to be able to escape him at any time by simply walking out through the door was ridiculous now. By just a slight jerking on her hands he could have her down across him in a moment.
    She glared at him, determined not to show fear or any other discomfort.
    â€œShow me.” He released her hands and indicated the pianoforte on the far side of the drawing room. It was a lovely instrument, she had noticed before, though not as magnificent as the one in the music room.
    â€œI am out of practice,” she said.
    â€œFor God’s sake, Miss Ingleby,” he retorted, “do not be coy. I always withdraw in haste to the card room whenever the young misses of the
ton
are about to demonstrate their party pieces at any fashionable entertainment. But I have degenerated to the point at which I am almost eager to listen to someone who openly admits that she plays only a little and is out of practice. Now go and play before my mind turns to other sport while you are still within grabbing distance.”
    She went.
    She played one of the pieces she had committed to memory long ago, a Bach fugue. By happy chance she made only two errors, both in the first few bars and neither glaring.
    â€œCome here,” the duke said again when she had finished.
    She crossed the room, sat in the chair she usually occupied, and looked directly at him. She had discovered that doing so protected her from being bullied. Itappeared to suggest to him that she was capable of giving as good as she got.
    â€œYou were right,” he said abruptly. “You play a little. A very little. You play without flair. You play each note as if it were a separate entity that had no connection with what came before or after. You depress each key as if it were simply an inanimate strip of ivory, as if you believed it impossible to coax
music
out of it. You must have had an inferior teacher.”
    The criticism of herself she could take quite philosophically. She had never had any illusions about her skills. But she bristled when he cast such aspersions on her mother.
    â€œI did not!” she retorted. “How dare you presume to judge my teacher by my performance. She had more talent in her little finger than I have in my whole body. She could make it seem as if the music came from
her
rather than from a mere