She might be his music instructor, but he’d be the one teaching her the art of love. How two bodies came together. Bodies that walked around all day wearing so many layers of clothing, eyes and faces hidden by bonnets, toes hidden by boots, fingers by gloves.

So many layers of propriety to peel away until they were there, in his bed, with nothing between them. Then they could properly explore, learn the lay of the land.

How had she been coming and going from his home for so many years without him noticing her? He’d been so blind. He’d been sunk inside his mind. His mind that trapped him, like he was an old sea chest, wrapped round with chains and flung into the ocean. Happiness couldn’t escape from such a prison. But Viola had found a way to reach him.

She played the final notes, drawing them out with consummate musicianship.

The audience burst into applause, and an audible murmur of approbation swelled around him. One gentleman even leaped to his feet shouting “Bravo, bravo, Miss Beaton!” as though he wanted to throw roses at her feet.

In that moment, it hit West with blinding clarity. It wasn’t right for this woman to be relegated to the role of caretaker, amanuensis, or music instructor . . . she belonged on the stage.

She couldn’t hide away behind those plain gowns and that severe hairstyle. Everyone knew the truth now.

She could be playing for kings and emperors. She could have the world at her feet.

She could have him at her feet.

Scattering rose petals over her body and tracing their path with his lips. Loving her body and paying tribute to her power.

His sisters gathered round her, smiling and congratulating her. They all joined hands and took a bow. Footmen drew the curtains closed.

West started toward the curtains, wanting to congratulate Viola, to tell her some of the thoughts crowding his mind, when Countess Chittenden, in a yellow turban ornamented by two red feathers, pushed her daughter, Lady Winifred, forward.

“Your Grace. I enjoyed the musicale immensely.” He could never tell what Lady Winifred was thinking. Her utterances were all made in the same even, placid tone of voice.

“Wasn’t Miss Beaton astonishing?” he asked.

The countess gave him a sharp look. “She played well, but my Winifred is also an accomplished pianist. And, I daresay, more measured and modest in her method of playing. We are hosting a small dinner party next week and I do hope we’ll have the pleasure of your company?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He searched the room for Viola. He found her standing next to the punch bowl in conversation with an elderly gentleman who was standing a little too close to her, in West’s opinion.

“If you’ll excuse me, Lady Chittenden, Lady Winifred.”

“Will you be promenading in Hyde Park tomorrow, Your Grace?” asked Lady Chittenden.