I looked up at him, and he leaned nearer, those familiar crescent-shaped eyes and clean-shaven chin, and laid his forehead on mine.

I ran my tongue over my lips that had gone dry and met his gaze. “So, now what?”

His hand lifted to my cheek and stroked it. “Everything’s different now, isn’t it?” A gentle smile. “What will you do with your life?”

I closed my eyes. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”

His finger came down the side of my face and teased my lips.

“Anything that includes me?”

“Perhaps.” I looked up. “How are you at handling horses? I’ve been meaning to hire a driver.”

His look was amused and sympathetic all at once. Oh, how I adored this man. “Better than handling certain redheads.”

I smacked his arm, and somehow it relieved the night’s tension.

Filled the cracks with a bit of joy.

“I bet I can guess your plans.” He leaned back. “After your mourning period, you’ll go out and continue to perform, maybe even better than before, and with a newfound joy that no one will truly understand. You’ll appear in concert hall after concert hall all over the Continent and amaze your audiences . . . then come home to a quiet house and live the simple, uncomplicated life you were always meant to have. One you fully deserve.”

I gave a polite smile but said nothing to contradict him. I’d known for years what I’d do with myself when I finally possessed freedom, but I dared not shock Richard with it. Not yet. I’d at least let him kiss me first.

“You’ll have your pianoforte shop, perhaps a few students, and your friends. Modest and simple and delightfully musical, a life of high quality is what fits you best.”

Few people actually knew me, as it turned out. I was a Chopin nocturne—surprising, complex, and impossible to master.

Many tried. I’m happy to report that they had all failed.

Well, nearly.