Chapter 1
The Widowed Countess
Peter Spencer, third son of the Earl of Ravensdale, leaned forward in his chair and slid his left hand downward, his fingers ghosting over the strings as his thumb caressed the smooth wood that made up the neck of his cello.
Without question, he felt more comfortable with the curved instrument resting snugly between his legs than he felt doing almost anything else. He didn’t require an audience. He didn’t require praise. And yet…
Blood thrummed through his veins at the knowledge that in less than one week, he would be studying under the finest cellist in all of England. His gaze skimmed the perimeter of the gilded ballroom, and he smiled to himself. He would not miss London society over the next six months. He’d never truly fit in with the other gents, playing cards, wagering, and pursuing other gentlemanly and not-so-gentlemanly entertainments. He’d always sensed that he wanted something else.
Only a few lingering guests remained in the massive room, most having moved into the adjacent hall where supper was being served. There would be dancing after, but he’d fulfilled his obligation as a guest musician for the evening, leaving him free to bow out for the remainder of the night. If left to him, he would decline these invitations altogether. His mother, however, had a most annoying habit of accepting them on his behalf.
He plucked a soft arpeggio, contemplating the farewell party his brother had threatened. Stone had mentioned scotch, cards, and a brothel—not necessarily in that order.
For God’s sake, it wasn’t as though Peter was getting married. He was simply moving to Brighton.
Golden-red flashed across the room. Not fire, but it might as well be.
The widowed Countess Starling. She stood nearby, partially hidden by a large column, staring out the terrace windows, hugging her arms in front of herself.
This lady was living proof that beauty and wealth didn’t always equal happiness. Earlier, from his vantage point on the dais, he’d observed a cluster of popular ladies blatantly give her the cut direct. She’d handled it well, lifting her chin and moving along, not missing a step.
But he’d seen it. The hurt, the almost imperceptible shudder of pain. And now, rather than follow the crowd into the supper-room, she held herself back.
She turned and met his gaze. Forest-green eyes, alabaster skin, and an hourglass shape to rival all figures.
He rose. “My Lady,” he acknowledged her, balancing Rosa on her endpin. Since the first time he’d met the widow last summer at one of his mother’s house parties, she had intrigued him.
Not only because of her beauty. Numerous nubile young beauties paraded themselves in society and hardly any of them ever captured his attention beyond a fleeting appreciation.
No, Lady Starling intrigued him because of her failed potential. She reminded him of a perfectly constructed violin that no one had ever bothered to tune.
Unfortunately, she also intimidated the hell out of him.
“Do you ever dance?” Her cool voice echoed in the empty hall.
Peter narrowed his eyes and pushed back a wayward lock of hair. She didn’t appear to be hinting that she was seeking him out as an escort.
“On occasion, but I prefer to be on this side of the dance floor.” He indicated the small box where the orchestra played.
Her closed posture tugged at him, evoking a myriad of conflicting emotions.
Pity. Desire. And something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Peter ignored the urge to settle his gaze on her full bosoms, or her round, inviting hips, and dipped his chin to stare down at his instrument, which was a less-volatile curvaceous lady—one who would never betray him, a lady who would give her best so long as he took care of her properly.
“I hate dancing.” Her voice was clipped, almost as though she was speaking to herself. “At least you have an excuse to avoid it.”
He glanced back up in time to see her drag a disparaging gaze over his cello. He was oddly offended on behalf of his instrument.
“I thought you were staying with your husband’s family in Brighton this spring.” Although her absence hadn’t protected her from being involved in the latest scandal. The scandal, in fact, that led to Baron Chaswick’s hasty society wedding.
“My in-laws try my patience. They were my husband’s family, never mine. Nothing for me there.” The droll tone of her voice hitched as she glanced toward the windows. “Perhaps nothing for me here, either.”
Peter frowned, not so much at her circumstances, but at his response to the pain revealed when her façade slipped.
No doubt, Lord Starling’s sisters had been less than welcoming. The Earl of Starling had been thirty years his wife’s senior. His family would not have accepted his widow warmly, as was usually the case when a wealthy and titled gentleman married a much younger, beautiful woman.
From what he’d heard of her sexual prowess, however, he could assume she’d kept the old man happy in his last days. His cohort, Chaswick, had attested to that after having embarked on an affair with her at a house party earlier that year.
“I’ve finished playing for the night,” he surprised himself by saying. “Will you join me at a table in the supper-room?” He wasn’t hungry. He’d intended to pack Rosa up and send for his carriage.
She shrugged, forcing a half-smile. A flame-colored curl fell forward, drawing Peter’s attention to her expansive décolletage. “Yes. Perhaps. No.”
Her ambiguous response reminded him why he’d never approached her before. It wasn’t polite to sit when a lady remained standing in his presence, but the usual rules didn’t apply here, did they?
He lowered himself, thinking to experiment with a particular run that had been playing through his mind. He pressed his fingers onto the strings, sliding them down, a motion that felt as familiar to him as walking.
And then Lady Starling sighed.
A melodic sigh that slid from a high ‘D’ to low ‘D’, spanning a perfect octave. It sent a warmth down his spine and had him staring at her again, noticing the curve of her neck, feminine and fragile. And the delicate slope of her shoulders.
“A stroll through the gardens then?” Likely, she’d refuse him again.
He rubbed a hand beneath his cravat and then rolled his shoulders. Damned hot in here. Halfway through the Season, one couldn’t escape the heat in even the most spectacular of Mayfair ballrooms. Especially after it had accommodated a few hundred sweating, dancing humans for several hours. Add to that the flames from all the candles…
He’d need to pack Rosa up first.
Lady Starling sent him a suspicious sideways glance. “Wouldn’t you prefer to ask one of the debutantes? I’m not fooled by your musical obsession, Mister Spencer. You’re one of Ravensdale’s sons and sought after as much as any titled gentleman.”
Peter could only laugh at that. He was the third son of an earl—granted, an incredibly wealthy earl, ensuring that he would never lack funds. But his estate, Millcot Lodge in Essex, was a modest one, and he would never hold a title.
Which was perfectly fine with him, as he was rather fond of his father and two older brothers—even if Stone had the most annoying habit of bruising his arm with the occasional brotherly sock.