She didn’t need the score by now: the music swept through her mind a half note ahead of her bowing. The notes slid like water from her cello.

A breeze stirred the pages again, but this time her concentration didn’t break. She was almost at the end when the door to the corridor opened without notice. She jerked her head up with a scowl. Mary knew just how much she hated to be interrupted during practice.

But it wasn’t Mary; it was her father, carrying his cello. His face was drawn, his eyes dark.

She lifted the bow from the strings and nodded to the chair on the other side of the fire, near the window. As he carried his instrument across the room, she tugged at her gown so it covered her legs again. Because she often played before bedtime, all her nightdresses were made with a very high slit, which freed her legs while allowing her to be decently covered.

Her father understood the limitations of playing sideways. No serious cellist could tolerate the restriction of her arm movement.

Now he sat down and drew his bow across the strings, tuning his instrument to hers.

“The new arrangement of Bach’s Italian Concerto?” she suggested. Playing duets was the heart of their relationship. From the time she was a very small girl, she treasured his evening visits to the nursery. She had begun working hard at music in order to earn a smile from him . . . but she kept working once it got into her blood.

The earl was never very good at demonstrations of affection. But he had come to the nursery every single evening, without fail, and had taught her to play. The time had come when there was nothing left to teach her, but still they practiced together.

He nodded now in silent agreement to the Bach. They drew their bows at the same moment, having played together for so long that they followed each other without conscious thought. The piece she had suggested was powerful and rich, the notes deep and nearly sobbing from their strings.

She played the counterpoint, her notes dancing around his, picking up the severe bass line, blending it with the melody, weaving a strand of sunlight into midnight. Her father sat facing her, his expression a mix of joy and fierce concentration.

Halfway through, the wind stirred again and she glanced up. Her bow nearly faltered even as the arrangement sent her notes soaring above her father’s strong bowing. His utter absorption was fortunate, because to her complete astonishment, Gowan was standing just outside the open French door behind her father, on the balcony.

Her left hand flew up and down the fingerboard automatically as she stared at the Duke of Kinross. Then her father lifted his bow and the music stopped abruptly, leaving her notes to fall into the air like thin versions of what they should be. Had he heard something? She lifted her bow as well, scarcely breathing.

“Da capo?” he said. To her relief, there was no suspicion in her father’s voice, merely an acknowledgment that she was no longer in the music. Little wonder: it was impossible to maintain the intense concentration needed for a piece like this when one’s fiancé materializes like a Scottish specter on a tiny balcony, twenty feet above the ground, outside one’s bedroom. How on earth had he got there?

If her father were to turn around . . .

The vain part of her wanted Gowan to believe she was a sensuous woman whose crimson lip color advertised her inner self. She twitched her nightdress and it fell open, exposing her left leg. Her father would never notice; no musician looked at another while playing. Indeed, he often closed his eyes while he played.

“Yes,” she replied. “Or rather, no; instead, let’s play the Largo from Vivaldi’s Concerto in G Major. I was working on Melchett’s cello arrangement earlier.”

“Do you need the score?”

“No. I worked on it quite a lot in the month before I became ill. I’ve been playing the second cello, if you would take the first.”

Her father nodded. “Remember the lyricism in the music, Edie. Last time, you were concentrating too much on the fingering and not listening to what the music meant.” The weariness had fallen from his voice.

Reassured that her father was oblivious to Gowan’s presence on her balcony, Edie relaxed a bit and let herself glance at the duke again. He was still leaning there, silent, outlined against the sky. The feeling she had for him was so odd.

Meeting his eyes, seeing a glint in them that was surely lent by the devil . . . she felt as great a pull inside her heart and body as she had upon hearing the cello for the first time.

Her father bent his head and repositioned his bow. Edie drew her bow long and slow in the first section, and fell into the music.

She wanted Gowan to understand this passion of hers, to see that it wasn’t a mere pastime. So she pushed him out of her mind, and moved back into the music with the weight of years of experience behind her, her bow now playing an elegant flurry of notes above her father’s melody, now providing a stately counterpoint.

Slowly the music swelled around them, taking the air and distilling it into sounds so sweet that they were emotions become audible. Her body swayed in unison with her bowing. They neared the most difficult part of the piece. Edie bent her head, making absolutely certain that her fingers leapt flawlessly from note to note.

She did not stumble. Her bowing had never been better. Her father didn’t look at her, but with a musician’s perception she knew there was the deep joy spreading through his body. His taut despair was gone now as he breathed music, created music. The last measures were slow breaths, music and air winding together.

As the final note floated across the evening air, her father at last raised his head. Edie twitched her gown so it fell back over her leg, while keeping her eyes from straying to the balcony behind him.

“You were right,” he said, rising. “You have indeed learned the piece.” That was high praise.

Edie smiled at him. They were often at odds, but she loved him deeply. And under all his stiff demeanor she knew he loved her. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Good night, Father.”

He inclined his head, one musician paying respect to another. “Daughter. Good night.”

He collected his instrument, crossed the room, and left without another word.

Edie closed the door behind him and turned. Gowan had melted into the darkness. She could just see him, silhouetted against the starry sky. Rather than move toward him, she leaned back against the door and, like a wanton, let her leg slip through her nightdress. “Your Grace,” she said. “I am surprised to have a visitor at this hour of night.”

Gowan moved into the room. “I, too, am surprised.”

“What surprises you?” She remained where she was, willing him to come to her. Music exhilarated Edie; she had always known that. But she had never realized that it could drive a deeper intoxication, singing in her veins. This new, deeper one made her want to play the man before her like an instrument. Or let him play her . . . she wasn’t certain. It was an unfamiliar kind of madness, but just as all-encompassing.

Like the blood in her body, like the music in her soul.

Madness.

“Your father says that you rival the greatest player in all England.”

“He’s my father. He exaggerates.”

“I gather from what I heard tonight that he himself is one of the great players as well.” He had cut in half the distance between them.

“That’s true.” A thrilling sense of power was flowing through Edie’s veins. It was the feeling of a woman’s power, something she had never bothered to learn about. No wonder Layla flirted with other men . . .