Page 83 of Dukes All Night Long

Yet the opera was always warm, even when there wasn’t a performance.

The performance wardrobe would have made a queen jealous, but Zara’s dresses were from two seasons past. Black dresses and Society’s rules were no excuse for a wardrobe that demeaned her value. It also gave her a good reason to wear a costume for a night out.

He preferred to sleep next to the opera.

Silas had come to Bath in part because Daisy’s letters had been full of praise for Edgar’s genius and his plans for the opera. Since his arrival, every artist said the same thing. Even Zara.

Edgar was an honorable husband, but he was happiest at his house.

“Silas?”

Zara’s sex-rough voice stirred more than his libido. “I’m here.”

She pushed herself upright, bringing the sheet with her to cover her breasts. What it didn’t hide, her hair did as it tumbled over her shoulders. “Where’s the bedding?”

“Here and there.” She’d pushed the pillows to the floor so she could brace herself against the headboard while he’d made her scream a third time. He’d kicked the coverlet free when she’d ridden him into oblivion.

He dried his hands on the thin towel next to the basin. Edgar Blake might have been an operatic genius, but he’d been an idiotic husband. Any man who had Zara in his bed would never leave it. “Hungry?”

“Famished. I’ll just—” She hesitated as she spied her clothes in a pile, out of reach. “I’ll just…”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Embarrassment, really?”

“Says the man who isn’t wearing trousers.”

His neck heated as he lifted the tray he’d made downstairs and carried it to the bed. Ham, cheese, and bread. Pickles. Butter. She might be cold and threadbare, but at least she ate well enough. “I thought it best to have some protection while I started the fire.”

Zara plucked a slice of cheese from the tray. “Good. I didn’t get to see you remove it earlier.”

This version of her, bold and slightly wild, was a revelation. This was the girl who had bolted from home, from the only life she’d ever known, and fled to Italy with her singing teacher.

“And I’m not embarrassed.” The way she wrestled with the sheet, trying to stay covered while making a snack, indicated otherwise. “I’m worried.”

Silas’s chest tightened as he focused on buttering a slice of bread. “About?”

“You’ve made me an alto.” Zara’s bashful laugh was a charming contrast to the woman who had screamed his name until she was hoarse.

“You’ll recover in no time.”

She would, though it would be a crime to let her. Just like it had been a crime to watch her waste away in a cold tower. “Do you know what I noticed about the performance this evening?”

So much had changed between them that it was difficult to believe they’d been at the opera a few hours earlier.

“The conductor held the high note too long,” Zara said. “The poor soloist was almost cross-eyed. He was getting even for something.”

“Like Audrey eating sardines before rehearsal.” Silas made a face. There was little worse than singing a duet with a woman whose breath smelled like a fish market.

“Which is why it’s never wise to begin affairs with singing partners.” She cast him a sideways glance. “Most of the time.”

What they’d begun might be an affair, but it felt different from the few others he’d had. “It depends on the partners.” He kissed her bare shoulder as he settled back against the pillows. “But that’s not it. Their backdrops were garish.”

“Not everyone can be Ben,” she said. “He really is an artist. The same with Daisy. She could make much more money as a modiste. I’m not sure why she stays with us.”

“She loves being here, where everyone is an artist.” He leaned back against the headboard. “That’s missing across the river. They lean on the gilt. It’s beautiful, but it’s hollow.”

It was the difference between listening to Audrey perform but feeling Zara sing—or having sex with Audrey but making love to Zara.

“Art is a luxury few can afford,” she said as she set the half-finished tray aside. “Especially in the offseason.”

“When I traveled with my parents, I learned a little of everything. Mending costumes while we rocked between villages or patching damaged sets and props after bouncing along a rutted road. Father taught me lines all the while. There was never time for a proper rehearsal.”

Zara handed him a pillow, then another. Silas pulled his shirt over his head and winked when he caught her staring.

“Devil.” She tossed a third pillow at his chest and smirked when it landed with a quiet thump . It was the thinnest of the lot. Silas kept it and gave her another to put behind her head.

He continued his tale. “Father avoided London as though bailiffs were after him—and they might have been. But I wondered whether there was a school there, or at least a place where I could learn more.”

“About the theatre?” She yawned.

He hadn’t known how to express it then. He still wasn’t certain of it, but now he had a better idea.

“Mother would read Daisy’s letters while we traveled, sometimes as bedtime stories.

Each time, she spoke of the talent here, and Edgar’s skill at teaching.

How committed he was to the troupe. I knew I wanted to come here and learn. ”

“You didn’t get much time with him,” Zara whispered.

Silas kissed her nose to dispel the shadows in her eyes. “I didn’t. But I’ve learned as much or more from the others.” He draped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close. “And you are a natural teacher.”

Right now, she was a distraction. Her skin against his, her hand on his chest, and her toes tickling his calf.

“There isn’t a school to teach these things, to learn from masters of their crafts. But there could be. Here.”

“We could stage performances as lessons,” she murmured, her breath brushing his chest. “And if we had an opera season, the students could help Ben and Daisy so it all wouldn’t fall on their shoulders.”

“Andrew could give his lessons there, or we could let out space during the day.” It would be fun to hear musicians improve over time and see painters in the private boxes. “We could present plays or musicales, not just opera.”

Edgar would spin in his grave. Let him. So long as he doesn’t haunt the place, he has no say in what happens to it.

“It’s a lovely dream,” Zara said. A moment later she was snoring, not much louder than a kitten’s purr.

It sounded like home.

Silas put out the candles and watched the firelight cast shadows across the ceiling.

It looked like home.

Zara snuggled against him under the warm sheets. Her silky hair twined around his fingers.

It felt like home.