The memory was so worn and tattered, to speak of it should barely hurt. To discuss it with Beckman made Sara sad, though, made her wistful and tired.

If she’d had her violin, she’d be playing Beethoven slow movements. As it was, she had Beckman’s escort and a spring evening with more promise than many other nights had held—though it was temporary promise.

Let that be enough. Let some other younger, more innocent woman have the Beethoven. Sara no longer deserved it.

Beck strolled along beside Lady Warne’s housekeeper, shock silently coursing through him.

“So how did you stop playing?” He was surprised to hear his voice sounding so steady.

“I just… stopped,” Sara said. “When I was young, Reynard was my business manager—also my husband—and deserving of my loyalty on that basis alone. Then, as we toured, I was too scared, too innocent, too blasted ignorant to be able to get along without him. He began to take for granted I would do his bidding and eased his grip on me. He drank more, he gambled more, he was less and less discerning regarding his liaisons, and I grew less and less intimidated by him. I took over the finances, dealt with the various house managers, began to schedule my own performances, and so forth. When I had enough put by to afford it, I told him we were purchasing a modest property in Italy and finding a teacher for Polly.”

“But he became ill.”

“He was always ill, ill in his spirit, but yes, he became ill in body as well, but not before he’d gambled us right back into enormous debts.”

“Did you consider touring again?”

“I did, only briefly. A woman at seventeen is a very different resource from a woman at twenty-five, and I’d already robbed Polly of her most marriageable years, exposed her to all manner of wickedness and unsettled living. I wanted better for my daughter, and anything seemed better than facing another drunken, roaring, leering mob who excused their rudeness in the name of appreciation for art.”

She wasn’t wrong in her assessment, and that made Beck hurt for her all the more.

“So you’ve been retired now for, what—several years?” They’d come to the pond but not to the end of their discussion.

Sara smiled sadly. “I’ve been a housekeeper for several years.”

“Don’t you miss it?” Beck seated her on the bench near the edge of the water. “Don’t you miss the excitement, the adulation?”

“The stinking, yelling… No. As a musician under those circumstances, one has to learn to hold back, to not feel, or one… perishes, and not feeling takes great effort.”

He settled beside her, knowing there was more and worse to the tale but unwilling to dig for it. Not feeling did indeed take great effort, or dedication to some form of poison, to achieve.

“You’re happy, then, as housekeeper at Three Springs?”

“Happy is a luxury few can afford,” she said as Beck settled his coat around her. “I am content.”

“Your husband.” Beck took Sara’s hand in his. “He was… unkind, then?”

She was quiet for so long he wasn’t sure she’d answer, but he couldn’t very well ask outright if the man had beaten her, denied her food, or intimately abused her.

“In the eyes of Continental society, Reynard was merely unconventional, managing his wife’s talent, but he wasn’t unkind. He could convince you, even you, Beckman, he was simply ensuring the God-given gift of my abilities was shared with a deserving and appreciative audience. What’s more, he’d convince you he did this not because it was his personal choice, but for me, and for the sake of art itself.”

“What about in your eyes, Sarabande?”

“One has to have a conscience to be susceptible to labels such as kind or unkind.” Sara looked out over the pond, where the fading light had turned the water’s surface to a gleaming mirror. “Reynard was not burdened with a conscience, except where it suited his convenience.”

“And your parents.” Beck began to rub his thumb over the back of her hand. “They were taken in by his charade?”

She was again silent—Sara Hunt, former musician and housekeeper, knew silence in a way Beck was fathoming all too well—but then she leaned over, resting her weight against Beck’s larger frame as Allie had done earlier in the day. “They were grieving my brother’s passing,” she said at length. “I tell myself that explains their initial willingness to be taken in by Reynard. It’s hard, you see, because I’m a mother now, and I cannot imagine letting any of the Reynards of the world within two counties of Allie. Not ever, not while I draw breath.”

“You were grieving your brother’s passing too,” Beck pointed out, tucking her more closely still.

She cocked her head. “I was, as was Polly, but she was so young…”

For long moments, Beck waited, hoping she’d say more but knowing she’d already disclosed a great deal, for her. The sky went from pink to orange, to gray then purple, and still he waited, his arm around her shoulders.

“He died in spring,” Sara said, almost to herself. “Gavin did, and I was married in spring, and Reynard died in the spring too.” She turned her face into Beck’s chest and slipped her arms around his waist. He didn’t realize she was crying until a spot of damp warmth bloomed near his collarbone.

“Beckman? Maudie neglected to…”

Sara’s voice trailed off when she didn’t see him in his sitting room, so she opened the door to his bedroom. Her eyebrows rose as she fell silent, taking in the tableau before her.

He was absolutely, utterly, without-a-stitch naked, and absolutely, utterly, without-a-doubt breathtaking.

“My goodness.” Sara stood there, feeling drunk, unable to move, holding a pitcher of water between her hands. As casual as you please, Beck strolled over, took the water from her, drew her into the room by her wrist and pushed the door closed.

“A pleasure to see you.” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, barely touching her but bringing his heat and the clean scent of him near enough for Sara to sense both. And in just a few words and a few steps, he’d shifted his species, going from a hardworking man partway through his bedtime routine to a prowling beast bent on seduction.

“Beckman?”

“That would be me.” In no hurry whatsoever, he picked up a blue velvet dressing gown and loosely belted it around his waist. She watched him, even when he was decently covered.

Beck smiled, and not the smile of a hardworking man preparing to retire. “You look at me like that, and I am reminded that for a week I have been a perfect gentleman—a long, difficult, profoundly frustrating week.”

Sara knew he expected a reply, but she was entranced by the naked skin of his throat and chest. Her hand came up as if to brush along his sternum then fell self-consciously back to her side. The week had been very long indeed, and he was not the only one who’d been burdened by good behavior.

“Touch me, Sara.” Beck kept his hands at his sides. “It has to have been a long week for you too.”

“This isn’t wise.” But even as she spoke, she did stroke a single finger down his sternum. He closed his eyes, fisted his hands, and she did it again with two fingers, pushing the material of his dressing gown a little aside as she did. In the light of the candles gracing his room, the trail of hair down his midline gleamed like gilded fire.

Beckman opened eyes bluer than his velvet dressing gown. “Indulge yourself. Investigate me, Sara. Investigate me beyond a walk to the pond or a tour around the rose bushes. See if what I offer is worth your consideration, lest you make a decision on supposition rather than fact.”

“You want me to inspect you, like a horse?”

“I want you to take your time,” Beck said. “To assure yourself you know all you need to decide your course. Consider this a trial ride, and see how I suit you.”