The Princess and the Pauper by Alexandra Benedict Page A

startling cries of music, he’d believed the instrument
alive and his grandfather a sorcerer.
    “ It doesn’t matter where I
came from,” murmured Grey.
    “ And the woman? Is she a
lady?”
    “ No. She’s not a lady. She’s—”
    Grey was damn near tempted to say
“everything,” and cursed himself for resorting to childhood
monikers whenever he thought of her.
    A familiar pressure welled
inside his chest. And then a beat puls ed in his head. He would usually take a
violin and express the music, a frantic, fractured piece. Later,
he’d stitch together a composition. The process tormented him,
exhausted him. As a boy, the music had come to him without
opposition or pain. How he yearned for those lost days . . . in
more ways than one.
    Grey placed the bottle of brandy on the
table, still out of Harry’s reach, and resisted the urge to play,
for even with his bloated fingers, the desire was great.
    His expression thoughtful, Harry leaned
back in his chair. “She is a lady, isn’t she?”
    Grey ignored the last bit, said
instead, “And if I don’t put her up in an apartment?”
    “ Then I’m afraid you’ll have to
marry the chit because she’s not your friend.”
    “ The hell I will,” he
grumbled.
    “ Would you really ruin her? Make
her a fallen woman? It’s not your style, chum.”
    Grey rubbed his brow, unnerved that a
larker like Harry should think him so honorable. “I’ll not ruin
her.”
    She was already ruined.
    “ Right, then,” said Harry. “I know of a
splendid little flat in Haymarket.”
    But the thought of sending Emily
across town, to her own damn bedroom down the hall, knotted his innards.
She had upturned every aspect of his life. It would be better for
them both, the separation, but he couldn’t imagine being parted
from her again. Not even by a short distance.
    Grey downed what was left in his glass,
then simply said, “No.”
    After a pause, Harry folded his
arms across his chest. “You know, I resent you at times. You’ve no
imagination.”
    At that , Grey lifted a brow.
    “ I’m not talking about music,”
said Harry. “I’m talking about life. You’ve all the money in the world,
yet no imagination on how to spend it. I’ve a thousand different
ways to spend it, if it were mine.”
    “ I’m sure you
do.”
    “ I’m serious. I know how to
be happy.”
    Grey roll ed the empty glass in his hand, his
voice low. “And I don’t?”
    He snorted. “This house. The girl. It
could all shine. And you’d be the envy of every gentleman, titled
or not. But you’d sooner live in the shadows than the light. Damn
unfair, if you ask me.”
    “ I didn’t ask
you.”
    “ Yes, well—”
    “ Good night, Harry.”
    “ But— ”
    “ I said good night.”
    “ Night, old
chum, ” he
murmured and headed for the door.
    As soon as Harry left the room, Grey
set the glass on the table, his heart and head beginning to pound.
Harry was becoming a nuisance. Emily was already a torment. He
still felt her intoxicating lips on his mouth, still yearned to
feel them again. Her kisses were dangerous, though, inspiring
promises that would never be fulfilled. He knew that. He knew he
should push her away, give her her own life so she wouldn’t break
apart his . . . but his soul ached at the thought of it.
    As Harry had so
officiously suggested, perhaps Grey didn’t know how to be happy.
Perhaps the trouble was—and always had been—the hard-to-swallow
truth. Emily was his anchor. She both steadied him and drowned him. And
perhaps it was time he stopped giving a damn if she took everything
from him.
    Maybe then he’d be free.
    ~ * ~
    Emily pulled the fleece wrapper
tighter around her c hest. Her new suite of rooms were drafty. For three days,
workers had stripped paper and repapered. Soon the furniture,
drapes and rugs would be delivered. And after that, well, after
that she would have a comfortable life. Rees had promised to look
after her earthly needs, and she believed him there. She