To Have and to Hold (Finders Keepers #4)

Prologue

April 1812

Miss Cecily Wexford’s mother pinched her arm, shoving her towards the pianoforte. “Go,” she hissed. “Play for them. And impress them.”

Cecily stared at the man seated by the piano. His fingers danced over the keys as though he had born playing the instrument and would go to his grave with the ability intact. His hazel eyes met hers from across the room, and he gave her encouraging smile. Although some of the other ladies had whispered about him, the handsome baronet with a fortune to his name, she had never understood his appeal. For one thing, he must have around twenty years on her—and she supposed that if he had remained unmarried for that long, he had little incentive to marry now. For another, he had none of the dashing manners that a certain other young gentleman she knew did.

Still, in the months of her debut, he had been unfailingly kind to her, dancing with her whenever she found herself short of a partner, and always going out of his way to make conversation with her. She knew how lucky she was to have such a kind friend when navigating society sometimes seemed like balancing on a razor’s edge.

“Miss Wexford,” he said lightly, rising from his place at the pianoforte. “I’m delighted that you’ve come to join me. Please say you will elevate my performance to something that might please the masses.”

She smiled shyly at him. “The masses, I think, have been well pleased.”

“Then they are sure to be transported when you sing.”

“You cannot know that.”

“On the contrary,” he said, gesturing her into the seat and handing her a sheaf of music. “I had the pleasure of hearing you at Lady Wimbledon’s soiree. A rarer voice I’ve not heard.”

“Now I know you’re just trying to make me feel better.” She lowered herself into the seat and examined the music. Her face still felt a little flushed. Coming to the capitol from their home in the country had proven a shock; now, she was expected to not only entertain her family, an ancient squire who drooled as he slept, and the local vicar, but an entire room of the ton . All of whom watched her with somewhat bored interest.

“Is it working?” He smiled down at her as he turned the page to a Scottish air. Robin Adair , one of her favourites.

“I—yes.” She rubbed her arm absently from where her mother had pinched her. Tomorrow, she knew, she would have a bruise, but at least her gloves would cover the mark. “But only because I know you’ll sing with me.”

“As you wish.”

“Would you like to select a duet?”

“Not at all. This will suit you nicely, and I’m certain I can rustle up a harmony from somewhere.”

Just like him, she had heard him sing before. He had a rich tenor that made something stir in her chest, similar to when she had attended the theatre and heard Angelica Catalani sing.

Her music master had once told her that music was the food of the soul, and she wondered if Sir Percy’s soul felt as hungry as hers always did when she attempted to play. As though she could not push hard enough to capture the transient beauty of the music—it was too fleeting, however desperately she attempted to commit it to the world. Once the last note faded, it had gone forever. The thought made her ache in a strange way, and she rested her fingers on the keys, taking a breath.

Then she began to play.

Since attending the capitol, the hunger in her soul had turned to something else—a desire not just for beauty but for love. Specifically, love from the man whose dark eyes watched her so hungrily from his position in the corner. No lady could meet William Devereaux and emerge unscathed. Her heart, certainly, had been affected by his languid compliments, the burn of something unholy in his eyes when he looked at her, and the possessive way he had taken her hand for their dances together. Surely he would offer for her soon, and her life with him would be complete.

Beside her, Sir Percy began to sing, and Cecily’s preoccupation with William briefly turned course. How odd that a man otherwise so old and staid could have such a beautiful voice. It blended with hers, rising and falling, soaring effortlessly as he wove intricate harmonies around her melody. Apparently he had meant it when he’d said that he could rustle up a harmony.

The corner of his mouth quirked as he glanced down at her, and for a moment, she forgot that he was so much older than her, practically her father, and that she had plans to marry William. For a moment, the world held nothing but the two of them and this song bridging the distance between, shimmering in the air like thread.

The song ended, the music stopped, and just as it always did, it faded into nothing, taking the sense of belonging that came with it. Cecily rose, curtsied to Sir Percy, and thanked him for elevating her performance. Then she retreated from the pianoforte in search of William.

For the longest time, Cecily could not find William, and it was only as she lingered by the half-open door leading into the gardens that she finally spied him, illuminated by the lights from the house.

“You were magnificent,” he said, coming forward and taking her hand at once. “Come, take a turn with me. I find the cool air is most refreshing after the stuffiness of the house.”

She laughed uncertainly. “The house isn’t stuffy.”

“Well then, perhaps it’s that I would rather be alone with you, petal. Somewhere your mother’s eyes are not always on us.”

How delightful. This might finally be the moment she received her first kiss, and perhaps even a marriage proposal with it. No wonder he wanted no prying eyes on her—and especially not those of her mother. Cecily knew how little her mother encouraged romantic thoughts in . . . well, anyone.

“Just for a little while,” she said, mindful of her reputation.

“Of course.” He took her hand, leading her deeper into the shadows of the garden. The space was not large, surrounded by a large hedge, but nevertheless, he found a walkway with a small stone bench that could not be seen from the house.

“Now I have you all to myself,” he said with some satisfaction. “Come here, petal.”

She lost no time in obeying, staring up into his face. He was so very handsome, and he had flirted with her for so many months. Surely, he would declare himself.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

She hesitated. The truthful answer was no , or at least not yet. But she thought she certainly could , and she most definitely wanted to, so she nodded. “I—I think so.”

“You think so? Evidently I have not been charming you enough.” He lifted one of her curls from her neck, toying with it absently, and she flushed. “I have a great many plans for you, petal. But I suspect you will need to love me first. Would a kiss tip the balance in my favour, do you think?” He tilted her chin up to his, and his eyes appeared to crackle with that same fire she had seen in them before. Not warmth, the way she had seen in Sir Percy’s eyes, but something entirely more scorching. Liable to burn her.

“Will you apply to my mother after?” she asked breathlessly.

He barked a laugh. “Your mother? My flower, your permission is all I need, I think.”

This was most definitely not how she had imagined his declaration going, but he bent and kissed her, and all thoughts of propriety went out of her head. His mouth was warm and demanding, almost frightening in its roughness as he gripped her wrist a little too tightly. Right where her mother had pinched her. She opened her eyes to protest, but he broke away and shook his head.

“Say nothing, else someone will discover us together.”

That would be bad, she supposed, but if they were going to marry anyway, she didn’t think it mattered quite as much as he was making out. Either way, his arms tightened around her enough that she struggled to breathe, and as he forcibly kissed her again, she could hardly have made a noise if she had wanted to. Not that she did. He dominated every sense, forcing her into submission, and she yielded.

So this is what kissing is like .

Once she had a little more practice, she suspected she would know better what to do, and although she did enjoy this—quite a lot, actually, her body buzzing under his—she suspected she would enjoy it more once she knew what to do with her hands. Where did one put one’s hands during a first kiss? He held her jaw and her wrist, and after some internal debate, she rested her hands lightly on his lapels.

That had evidently been the right thing to do, because he made a noise of approval. “You will look so pretty bare before me,” he said, and she wanted to argue that in all the ways that mattered, she had bared herself before him. But before she could say anything further, his body ripped from hers. She cried out, this time in shock rather than pleasure, as a shadow took William’s lapels, the same she had been holding, and his fist encountered William’s handsome, perfect face.