Scottish Brides by Christina Dodd Page B

of the room.
    Frowning slightly, Clarissa shifted the stool, reshuffled the music, then shifted the stool again. Finally, she laid her hands on the keys.
    And played.
    Predictably perfectly.
    After three minutes, two of Duncan’s aunts resumed their conversation, whispering softly. Beside Rose, Jeremy shifted his weight, once, twice; then he straightened and, with a murmured “Excuse me,” drifted off to study a cabinent filled with Dresden miniatures.
    Rose, as partial to good music as Lady Hermione, willed herself to concentrate, yet even she found her mind wandering. Clarissa’s performance was technically flawless but emotionally barren. Every note was struck correctly, but there was no heart, no soul — no feeling—to bring the music alive.
    Surrendering to the inevitable, Rose stopped trying to listen and let the notes flow past her; she scanned the company, most now distracted, then glanced at Duncan beside her.
    In time to see him stifle a yawn.
    She stifled a grin and leaned closer. “Seriously, you aren’t going to marry her, are you?”
    He looked down at her, then replied through gritted teeth, “Mind your own business.”
    Rose let her grin show; his expression only grew harder. She looked away, across the room—Clarissa’s first piece was reaching its penultimate crescendo. Deliberately, Rose leaned lightly against Duncan, letting their bodies touch fractionally as she brushed past him, across him, on her way to Lady Hermione’s chaise.
    She heard the swift hiss of his indrawn breath, felt the sudden, brutally powerful seizing of his muscles.
    Lips curving lightly, Rose headed straight for the safety of his mother’s presence; reaching the chaise, she nodded to Lady Hermione, then turned and gazed innocently about the room, studiously refusing to let her eyes flick to Duncan, still approaching, rigid, by the wall.
    From the corner of her eye, she could see his hands were fisted, that his gaze had followed her; it remained fixed, in-tent, on her. She suspected he was envisaging throttling her, closing his long, strong fingers about her neck and wringing it—his usual response to her teasing.
    To her considerable surprise, he straightened; fists relaxing, he prowled toward her.
    Rose quelled a frown; when she teased him, Duncan usually avoided her. He ran; she chased—that’s how it had always been.
    Not this time.
    As Clarissa concluded her first piece, Duncan strolled up and halted directly behind her, slightly to one side. Trapping her between the back of the chaise and him. His strolling prowl had appeared nonchalant, yet Rose could sense his tension, the controlled, steely power behind every movement.
    Clarissa held the final chords, then lifted her fingers from the keys. Everyone applauded politely; Rose clapped distractedly. Duncan clapped slowly, softly, deliberately, directly behind her right shoulder—she got the distinct impression he was applauding her performance, not Clarissa’s.
    After favoring the company with a suitably demure smile, Clarissa looked at her mother, then Lady Hermione, and then at Rose and Duncan. Rose summoned an encouraging smile; she knew without looking that Duncan was watching Clarissa, virtually over her own head. Clarissa smiled and turned back to the piano, and started her second piece.
    Rose struggled to breathe, struggled to ignore the vise that, once again, had clamped about her lungs. Her senses flickered wildly, in a state unnervingly akin to panic, her mind wholly focused not on the music, but on Duncan, so close, so still, so silent behind her.
    The first sweep of heat along the side of her neck and shoulder, exposed by her gown, caught her unawares. She frowned slightly, then banished the expression as the sensation ceased.
    It returned a moment later, hotter, stronger, extending over more of her, from her shoulder to the swells of her breasts, bare above her neckline.
    And it was her turn