Sonata for a Scoundrel by Anthea Lawson Page B

himself.
    Anger—at Clara, at his own inattention, at the court that turned a blind eye—had made him act recklessly. He should never have kissed her. But, Christ, that kiss. He had meant it only as a warning.
    A warning that turned to a conflagration between one breath and the next. Suddenly there had been nothing but the night, Clara’s lips beneath his, and a blaze of desire, burning bright and hot.
    He had behaved abominably. If Nicholas had not found them, Dare would have been as bad as any rogue of the ton . He’d been a heartbeat away from parting her lips and licking his tongue into the moist hollow of her mouth, an instant from slipping his fingers beneath her bodice and caressing the sweet curve of her breast.
    A rap at the door proved a welcome distraction. Henri went to answer, but Dare knew it was the servant reporting that his horse was ready.
    “You cannot ride out tonight, in the cold and dark,” Henri said, for the fifth time.
    “I must.” And the miserable night ride would help cool the ache of unspent desire that rose every time he thought of Clara Becker.
    She had no place in his thoughts, and no place on the tour. Henri would ensure she was escorted safely back to London. Then Dare could make his amends to Nicholas, and convince the composer to continue on to the Continent with him.
    The grand competition was two months away, and Becker was his trump card.
    That musical duel meant everything. No matter how tempting Clara Becker’s lips and sweetly curved body, she could not compare to the permanent acclaim that winning the competition would bring. It would be the culmination of Darien’s career; a lifetime spent honing his skill. He would claim the title of the greatest violinist of the era.
    Nothing could be allowed to stand in his way.

 
     
    CHAPTER TEN

     
    Rumors Confirmed! We have it on utmost authority that Master Darien Reynard is touring with a new composer—the handsome young Mr. Nicholas Becker. Two gentlemen for the price of one, ladies!
    -The Bath Gazetteer
     
    D espite the luxurious bed, Clara slept fitfully. She woke frequently and peeked through the curtains to see if it was still safely dark, or if morning had broken, hard and unforgiving.
    At length, the sky transformed from ink to paper. Exhaustion and sorrow weighing heavily on her shoulders, she pushed the rich coverlet back, and rose. The carpet was thick beneath her toes, and the well-banked coals in the hearth still sent out tendrils of heat. She shivered at the thought of returning to the cold, bare rooms of their house in London.
    No. She must convince Nicholas to remain with Master Reynard.
    Before the maids came to pack her few pitiful belongings, Clara dug her notebook from beneath the pile of pillows and slipped it into her reticule. She gave a longing look to the trunks that had arrived yesterday, full of resplendent gowns. Such expense and haste, to make clothing she would never wear.
    With a low sigh, Clara opened her battered valise and donned her mended gray dress. It would help remind Nicholas of how very much they were giving up.
    She heard him stirring in the sitting room—the thud of his door closing, the thump of his case hitting the carpet. When she pushed open her bedroom door, she saw him pacing beside the fireplace, his face tight, his blond hair mussed.
    “Good morning,” he said as she entered the sitting room. “Are you ready to depart? I have arranged our transportation back to London.”
    “No. Nicholas, we can’t leave the tour.”
    “We cannot stay! Clara, if Papa knew, if he had seen, last night…” Nicholas bunched his hands into fists. “We must leave. It is the right thing, the only thing to do.”
    Swallowing back her impatience, she moved to her brother’s side and set a hand on his arm.
    “Don’t you also remember what he said, when we agreed to this scheme? This is your chance to restore our family, Nicholas. You are the only one who can do so. Master Reynard’s