The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

Her worst fears had come true. Frederick had fallen in love with her. What on earth was she to do?

For long minutes, she lay staring at the canopy overhead, debating unanswerable questions such as: How deeply in love was he? Might he fall out of love if she pushed? What could she do if…?

Regardless of her inability to form any answers, the issue wasn’t about to go away; she had to get up and confront it.

She rang for Kitty, who was delighted to see her awake, alert, and—so Kitty claimed—blooming. Stacie allowed the maid to fuss over her and tend to the wound in her side, which, thanks to her stays, had proved less serious than everyone had feared, before helping her dress.

She insisted on donning a new gown, one in a stunning shade of teal; she felt certain she was going to need every ounce of confidence-boosting support she could muster for the upcoming discussion with her loving spouse.

Eventually, she deemed herself as ready as she would ever be. Leaving Kitty tidying the room, Stacie headed for the stairs; she carefully held on to the bannister as she descended, in case she suffered a sudden spell of the fainting sort to which she’d heard ladies in a delicate condition were sometimes prone.

Regardless of what lay between her and its father, she wanted their child with every bone in her body.

She reached the front hall, paused to draw breath, and heard lovely music spilling from the music room. Frederick was playing that lilting, dancing air she’d heard him practicing before, but it seemed he’d finally strung all the segments together; the melody was vibrant yet delicate—a truly glorious piece.

She let her feet follow the sound. Not wanting to interrupt and have him prematurely stop, she paused in the corridor just outside the music room and listened.

And found herself swept into a magical delight of exquisitely playful chords, accented by trills executed as only a player of Frederick’s quality could produce.

Finally, the piece drew to a well-rounded conclusion. As the last chords rang out, she drew in a deeper breath and walked into the music room.

“Bravo!” Smiling—with the echoes of the piece still ringing in her ears, she was unable not to—when Frederick looked up from the keyboard, she met his eyes. “That was utterly captivating.” She walked to where she could lean against the piano’s side. “What is it? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Any hope she’d entertained that he didn’t love her—that she’d imagined it—was slain by the warmth in his gaze.

Although his eyes searched hers, his fingers returned to the keys, idly stringing together bits and pieces of the melody. “I haven’t named it yet,” he told her. “I wrote it for you.”

Understanding rocked her. He hadn’t composed for years, not since the piece he’d written for his first love more than a decade ago. All the ton knew that. All the ton hoped he would start composing again—and now he had.

For her.

As if to underscore that, he said, “I’m thinking of calling it ‘Anthem to My Muse.’” The devil arched a brow at her, inviting her comment.

What lady in her right mind wouldn’t want her musician husband to compose such a wonderful piece in her honor?

Yet such a piece, played for others, would be tantamount to a public avowal of his love for her.

She narrowed her eyes on his face. “You are diabolical.”

Unrepentant and assured, he held her gaze. “I’m a man in love with my wife.”

And there it was.

Unable to look away, captured not only by his personality but also by all he now meant to her—and all that he was making it abundantly clear she meant to him—she ignored the vise tightening about her lungs, ignored the fear that hovered, waiting to swamp her, and instead, drew in a determined breath and said, “You promised. You gave me your word you wouldn’t fall in love with me.”

He nodded in ready agreement. His fingers embarked on a succession of trills, and a wistful, almost-artful smile flirted about his lips. “Think back,” he said. “I promised

I wouldn’t fall in love with you after we were wed. And I didn’t. I couldn’t, because I was already very much in love with you by then.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Falling in love is one of those peculiar activities you can’t really repeat,” he explained, “not unless you somehow manage to reverse the state first—and I haven’t a clue how to do that, and I daresay, neither do you.”

She frowned. “You’re saying you were in love with me before we agreed to marry?”

His smile turned self-deprecating, a sight she realized she’d seen often in recent weeks. “Why else do you think I suggested we make our sham engagement a reality?”

She stared at him. “I thought it was because of all the perfectly sensible and logical reasons you gave me.”