Today Daphne du Bois stops by to share an excerpt from her book, The Rogue’s Reluctant Rose.
Excerpt from The Rogue’s Reluctant Rose
Lord Chestleton was seated at Lady Dillwood’s grand piano, looking out of the tall, French windows at the lawn, which had begun to darken with the first shadows of dusk. His fingers danced over the keys but his thoughts seemed to be far away. There was no music open before him, and Araminta assumed that he was playing from memory. Or perhaps, and the thought seemed to fill her with tenderness, this was even a piece of his own composition. She had never heard its like before, nor seen a pianist exhibit such searing passion, as though plumbing the very depths of his soul for a melancholy that no words could ever hope to express.
She only had a profile view of him, and Araminta dared neither to move closer nor leave as she took in the transported expression on his aristocratically handsome face. He might have appeared to be looking out into the carefully tended garden, but he was seeing something else entirely, lost in some private memory which she had no business being party to. Suddenly, she wished she was not there to see it, that she had not succumbed to her curiosity and followed the music. She felt like a voyeur, watching his shoulders rise and fall, his body sway slightly with the haunting melody, the crashing rhythm of the chords. She wished very much that she was safely in the library, minding her own business, ignorant of the scene that was now before her. She wanted to flee, but she dared not move for fear of alerting him to her presence.
Araminta stood for what felt like an eternity, watching the enigmatic marquis pour out his soul into the cold ivory keys of the piano. Of their own accord, her eyes were drawn down to his long slender fingers, almost as pale as the ivory keys themselves. She watched, as if hypnotised, as they danced and flitted over the keys, with an expert ease that seemed almost unbelievable, as though the marquis was, in that instant, more spirit than man. Araminta’s own skill at the instrument was only passably good, enough to have satisfied her tutors and her father’s expectations, but she had never advanced beyond that. Now she understood why. As she watched Chestleton, she knew that she had always lacked the passion to make the instrument sing so, to lament and seduce the soul.
The piano was an extension of the man, a vessel for the emotions that burned and smouldered within him. Before she realised it, Araminta found herself wondering what it would be like to be the receptacle of all that passion, all that burning need, to smooth away that unspeakable despair. She pictured his pale fingers dancing upon her skin as they danced upon the keys, so expert and confident, compelling and strong – drawing ardour from her with every confident touch.
Araminta was just wondering how long he meant to continue, and how long she could stand to listen, when the music suddenly resolved in a sustained chord that rang all around them, seemingly echoing not only off the walls of the music room, but also off the walls of her heart.
In the sudden, ringing silence which followed, she hardly dared breathe, as if even the slightest inhalation would draw his eyes to her. No longer held captive by the magic of the music, Araminta’s veins seemed to flow with ice. She should not be here. As quietly as she could, she began to move towards the door, but it was too late. Suddenly, his head turned and his eyes flew to hers, freezing her in place. For a moment it was as if he did not recognize her, but then, in a terrible instant, his eyes bored deeply into hers, and she was lost.
It was as if for that moment there were no barriers between them, as if a higher connection existed between their two hearts. The last chord surrounded them, locking them in a private world of their own. As his eyes locked on hers she read in them all the emotions she had felt echoing in the music, and she was sure he was able to read exactly what she had been thinking, as if he could see into the very depths of her heart. As if no secret would remain her own.
Involuntarily she took a step back, and just as suddenly he was on his feet, crossing the room in only a few brisk strides.
There was a wild look in his eyes, and Araminta’s knees suddenly went weak, so that she wondered if she was going to fall. His polished black hessians sounded loudly on the bare wooden floor, matching the pounding of her heart in her ears, so that she could not tell where one ended and the other began.
She wondered what he meant to do once he reached her. For a brief moment of madness, she wondered if he meant to ravish her right there on the music room floor, and she wondered if she had it in her to object. Surely no woman could ever be that strong.
In one breathless instant he was beside her, so close that they were inches away from touching, looking down into her beautiful, startled, pale face. She wondered if he would kiss her. She could feel heat radiating from his body. Silence hung between them, laden with a world of things that could not be spoken aloud. He lifted a hand as if to touch her cheek, and then seemed to catch himself at the last moment.
They both knew that with just that one touch all would have been lost, though neither fully understood what it was the other stood to lose.
“Lord Chestleton… I’m sorry. I intruded. I didn’t mean –” she tried to explain haltingly, even as words failed her.
He regarded her for one tense second, no longer than a heartbeat, though to Araminta it felt as if no less than a decade had passed. A frisson of danger passed through her as she awaited his next move.
About The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (2013)Just when success is in sight, she catches the eye of Jasper Devereaux, the scandalous Marquis of Chestleton, whose own growing fascination with the enigmatic young woman compels him to pursue her at all costs. If he can only win her into his bed, his absurd fascination will surely evaporate!
Araminta knows that to be seen in Chestleton’s company could ruin her chances of securing a marriage that will save everything she holds dear. She knows that Chestleton is not the sort of man to take a wife, and with poverty looming, she knows that love is a luxury she cannot afford. When a riding accident forces her to be his unwilling guest at a secluded country house, will her undeniable attraction override her sense of duty? Will a night of passion really be enough for the dastardly lord? And does the strange bitterness she glimpses in his eyes have anything to do with the secrets he is determined to keep close?
Amazon USAmazon UKGoodreads About Daphne du BoisDaphne has stacks of notebooks full of stories that still need to be written, which she insists on bringing with her when she moves around the world (she’s done this a lot!). She likes her books full of romance, adventure, witty repartee and a dash of silly humor. When Daphne isn’t writing, she can be found painting, picnicking, reading and listening to all sorts of exciting music.
TwitterAbout the Author:
I was born in Barnsley, South Yorkshire, England and have always been a bookworm and enjoyed creative writing at school. In 1999 I created the Elencheran Chronicles and have been writing ever since. My first novel, Fezariu's Epiphany, was published in May 2011. When not writing I'm a lover of films, games, books and blogging. I now live in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire, with my wife, Donna, and our six cats - Kain, Razz, Buggles, Charlie, Bilbo and Frodo.
David M. Brown – who has written 854 posts on Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave.