The music enveloped him, dark and venomous, stinging his senses as he lingered at the keys in the lower register, pouring his emotion into his playing. The sound, aching and lyric, punished him, reminding again and again of Callie’s expression, so wounded, so pained, just before she had escaped the house. Before she had escaped him.
I just wish it were anyone else.
He swore, and the sound was swallowed up by the piano. Her cool response to him—so very deserved—had nevertheless left him consumed with a desire to possess her. To brand her his own.
He’d pushed her to the limits of her awareness of herself, of her body, of her emotions. He’d known what he was doing; he’d sensed that he was going too far. But he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. He’d been just as entangled in the moment as she had been. The king himself could have entered the study, and Ralston would have been hard-pressed to stop.
The truth of it shocked him, and his fingers paused on the piano keys. He shook his head, as if he could clear it of her memory. What was it about this woman? This plain, unassuming woman whom he had never before noticed? There is nothing about her that is plain or unassuming now.
And he hated himself for describing her as such.
No…Lady Calpurnia Hartwell was coming into her own in a spectacular way—entirely new and thoroughly different from every woman he had known before her. And it was her heady combination of innocent curiosity and feminine will that had lured him into behaving the way he did.
He wanted her. Viscerally. In a way he’d never wanted any woman before her.
Of course, he could not have her.
Nick had been right; Callie wanted love. Ralston had known that from the very beginning—she didn’t hide her belief in the power of the emotion, her unwavering faith in it. He paused in his playing, wondering what it would feel like to believe so strongly in the power of love to do good. To bring happiness.
He shook his head, bowing low over the keys of the piano. He’d never seen that side of love. He’d only seen the pain it wrought, the soul-crushing devastation that came when it was rescinded. A memory flashed, of his father professing his undying love for his wife. A wife who walked out on her duties as wife and mother without ever looking back. Twice.
So much for love everlasting.
He swore roundly. He might not agree with Callie’s assessment of love, but it did not mean that he had the right to treat her so unconscionably. He would not deny the pleasure he’d felt with her in his arms that afternoon, but he did admit his behavior was unacceptable. She deserved infinitely better.
He would apologize. Even if he did not regret his actions in the slightest.
He continued to play, the notes growing slower, more contemplative, reflecting the mood of their master.
Minutes later, a knock sounded, and Ralston stopped playing, turning on the piano bench to face the door. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it was possible that Callie had returned, that it was she outside the door, waiting for him to allow her entrance.
“Enter.”
The door opened and he registered the woman who stood silhouetted in the bright lights of the hallway beyond. His sister.
He seemed inundated with females deserving of his apology.
“Juliana, come in.” He stood, reaching for a tinderbox and making quick work of lighting a candelabra nearby and waving her in the direction of a chair near the room’s large fireplace. “I had not noticed that it had grown so dark.”
“It is quite late,” Juliana said quietly, taking her seat and waiting while he lit several more candles and seated himself across from her. When she opened her mouth to speak, he stayed her words with a raised hand.
“Please, allow me to apologize.” Her eyes widened as he added, “I should not have lost my temper.”
A smile flashed. “It appears that the loss of temper is yet another something we have in common, brother.”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “So it does.”
Juliana sighed, relaxing into her chair. “I have come to fare la pace.”
Gabriel extended his legs, leaning back with a smile at his sister’s Italian. “I would very much enjoy making peace.”
She extended a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. “In Italy, we have an expression, a gift after an argument—it is an olive branch.”
He accepted the package. “It is the same in English.”
She grinned. “It is nice to know that some things do not change.”
“I should think you have had enough change recently.”
She dipped her head. “As you say.” Her gaze fell to the parcel. “Are you not curious about your gift?”