Isabelle hid her frown as she contemplated that look. What could one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in England have to be displeased about? He had a beautiful woman on his arm, the crème of society in his home, and his botanical studies to occupy his mind. With everything a man could possibly want, why did he look as though someone was twisting a knife in his gut?
With a gentle tug at her elbow, Lord Woolsley drew her away. She lifted her chin and told herself not to pity Marshall Lockwood. He didn’t need it.
Soon, the assembled guests found their seats. Marshall sat in the front row, with Lady Lucy on his left. Isabelle sat several rows back with her brother and Woolsley. A hush fell over the audience as Herr Kaufman lowered himself to the plush bench at his instrument. He raised his hands; his fingers hovered a breath’s width above the ivory keys. As the movement progressed, Herr Kaufman persuaded his instrument to convey sounds of pained longing and guarded happiness through passages that were by turn heart wrenching and exhilarating.
Her eyes settled on Marshall’s back. Lady Lucy leaned against him to whisper in his ear. Isabelle’s chest tightened at the intimate gesture. But then — hope! Marshall waved her away like an annoying fly, just as the movement ended with two strong chords. Isabelle exhaled a sigh of relief.
The second movement was more poignant even than the first. Discordant notes interjected throughout the sweeter passages struck to the very core of her own rather precarious situation. No matter how she tried to arrange her life in a semblance of ordered civility, she was tripped by new, unhappy hurdles: her divorce, her exile in the cottage, her impending marriage to a man she did not love. It was as though Herr Kaufman — and Beethoven before him — put her woes to music for all the world to hear.
At the end of the frenzied third movement, less than twenty minutes after his fingers first touched the keys, Herr Kaufman stood to receive his applause. Isabelle joined with the rest of Marshall’s guests in enthusiastic appreciation of the man’s virtuosity.
The guests began to migrate into other rooms for refreshments and cards. She startled at the cool breath that ghosted over the back of her neck.
“You’re pale, my dear.” Woolsley’s brow creased in concern. Maybe being married to him wouldn’t be so bad, after all, she thought dejectedly.
“I’m all right.” Isabelle waved a dismissive hand. “Just a touch lightheaded. It’s quite warm.”
Woolsley led her through the French doors at the back of the room and out onto the balcony. Still dazed from the overwhelming musical experience, Isabelle accompanied him to the far end, beyond the light spilling from the music room. The air outside was only marginally cooler than inside, but at least a faint breeze stirred the tepid atmosphere.
They stood in silence for a short time. Isabelle’s mind replayed bits of the music over and over. “It was a lovely performance, don’t you think, my lord?”
“Nyle,” he replied.
She furrowed her brow. “What does the sonata have to do with Egypt?”
“My given name is Nyle.”
The next instant his hands were on her waist and he was pulling her close. Isabelle’s heart beat against her ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage.
“May I call you Isabelle, Duchess?”
She detected a mocking note in his voice, but nodded and made a sound of agreement. He pressed cool lips to her cheek, then grazed her jaw. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back to accept his kiss.
The mechanics of the kiss were similar to those she’d shared with Marshall. But it felt completely different. No warmth in her blood at Woolsley’s touch. No fire in her belly. Only a cold fist slowly closing around her heart.
When he broke away from their embrace, however, Lord Woolsley — Nyle, she reminded herself — gave a lazy grin. He traced her collarbone with a gloved finger. “You’re exceedingly lovely, Isabelle.”
“Thank you. Nyle,” she added.
“We suit admirably,” he said in a low voice, while his hand slid down to splay across her bottom.
She nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. Admirably.”
He cupped her face with his free hand and bent to kiss her neck.
This time, she could not contain the shudder that coursed up her spine. Could she really endure his touch for the rest of her days? It was unthinkable. She suddenly envisioned herself with chronic headaches springing up just after dinner every night until she died. Or he died. Or they both died of fatal unhappiness.
“A shiver of delight?” His voice grated against her throat. “It pleases me to see you so affected.” He straightened and fixed his concentrated gaze on her. “I believe there is something we should discuss.”