by Beau North
His face softened. “Shana tovah.”
She felt herself flushing pink. “I’ll just go take these to Mrs. Schiff.”
She was stopped by a hand on the arm. Heat bristled under the touch. She looked up to see him staring down at her as if she were a particularly challenging crossword puzzle. “You will…help me? With my English?”
She swallowed. “I’d love to. But your English is already so good.”
He looked at her lips. Even as inexperienced as she was, there was no mistaking the naked yearning she saw there. George Wickham had certainly never looked at her like that. His attempts to woo her had been clumsy embraces and fumbling, half-hearted kisses. She could allow that George was probably perfectly capable with other women, women he didn’t see as a bratty younger sister.
She suspected that Ari was a man that knew how to kiss. His eyes traveled up to meet her gaze; she was startled to see a blush slip over his face. He brought his hand up, his fingertips grazing her cheek so delicately she hardly felt his touch.
“Winter girl,” he said in a low, quiet voice. His fingers smelled lightly of sawdust. She was glad they stood alone, where no one else could see them.
“When would you like to begin?” she asked breathlessly.
A slow smile spread across his face, making her heart beat a double-punch rhythm against her breastbone. He reached out and took the basket from her hands.
“Soon,” he said, indicating she should follow him into the back, where the wives were preparing the afternoon repast.
With the unsteady energy of a new spring lamb, she followed.
“What can you tell me about him?” she asked Mrs. Schiff, as the other woman helped her unpack her basket.
Maria Schiff was a stout woman in her forties, who’d been lucky enough to come to America from France as a girl, thus avoiding the horrors of what happened in the war. Her husband, Emil, had not been as lucky. Georgiana had never seen a couple so dissimilar in appearance―or so in tandem when together. Emil Schiff was as tall and lean as his wife was short and sturdy; he had curly hair that was an almost alarming shade of red while hers was soft gold and straight as a stick. When they were together, they seemed two halves of the same organism, anticipating one another’s every need.
Now Maria’s eyes followed the direction of Georgiana’s gaze to where Ari Prenska sat with the other unmarried men. His long fingers were picking apart a piece of bread, eating each small chunk with unhurried bites.
Maria laughed and shook her head. “That one. Prenksa. He’s from Lwów, or he was. We’re all from here now.”
“Why do you say it like that? That one?”
“Half the women are mad for him, but he won’t look twice at any of them.”
He’d certainly looked twice at her. Georgiana felt herself warming at the thought.
“He doesn’t have a girl?”
Maria’s expression closed, a door slamming shut behind her eyes. “He did. Before. I think he was engaged.” She hesitated a moment. “His mother was very famous, you know. A pianist.”
She recalled the day they’d met, when she’d burst into the music room, to find him sitting at her piano. He’d told her then his mother played.
“I had no idea she was famous.”
“For a time, from what I hear. It did not last.” She looked up at Georgiana and smiled. “But what in this life does?”
Georgiana looked over at Ari again, only to find his eyes focused on her. She felt herself undressed by that gaze, stripped bare of every stitch. Her face flushed red, and she looked quickly away.
23
October 3, 1954
Pemberley Furniture Manufacturing
Lambton
Georgiana had been correct in one regard, Ari Prenska’s English was already quite good. But she gave him words to practice, loving the way his mouth formed the sounds.
“Ass. Hole.” His brow wrinkled, making her laugh. “You want me to learn this word?”
“I told you, Mr. Prenska. I simply adore coarse language. And if you’re going to be around my brother and my cousin at any time, you’ll hear this word quite often.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You are a strange woman.”
A thrill raced up her spine, making the spaces between her fingers tingle. No one but Lizzie had ever called her a woman, and Lizzie certainly never said it like that.
“Yes, I’ve always been a little odd.” It was something she realized more now than ever before. Her brother, and Richard to an extent, had raised her with certain expectations of what she would become. A proper young woman, a society darling. Her ill-fated liaison with George Wickham had certainly been a setback, but even before that scoundrel’s reappearance in her life, she’d been leaning precariously close to eccentric.
She was absolutely wild for horses and could ride with or without a saddle by the time she was seven. She liked people, generally, but was hobbled by anxiety when meeting new acquaintances. It was why she was taking her college courses by correspondence, rather than attending a university. If not out riding, she would always rather be in her room, reading, or at the piano, her mind a blank canvas and the music her brush.
While she was a pretty woman, with her mother’s golden hair and blue-green eyes, she did not take great care in her appearance. Simple dresses or riding clothes were her preference. She never wore makeup and learned the simplest of hairstyles so as not to spend too much time looking in the mirror.
Of course, Ari Prenska couldn’t know that. For all he knew she always wore the chic blue dress she wore now, one that showed her chest off to the best advantage. After a night of frustrating practice, she’d painstakingly applied mascara to her lashes and red lipstick to her lips (the shade was called Siren), both borrowed from Elizabeth’s vanity. Her hair had been brushed to a shine and left loose around her shoulders. She felt a little silly, getting so dressed up for an elocution lesson in the small room in the factory that served as a classroom for the immigrant workers who wanted to learn English. The Darcys had never made it a requirement, but most of the men who came to work for them wanted to learn. It was after hours now, the factory closed for the night, a silence that was almost eerie. Except for the few cats that lived in the building, she and Ari were alone.
Of course, the one time she’d made an effort with her appearance, Ari had not seemed to notice anything different about her. His brow furrowed as he thought about what she’d said.
“Odd?”
“Unusual, if you like.”
He grinned, and the temperature in the room rose ten degrees. “I like unusual. Usual is…” He searched for the word.
“Easier?” she offered.
“Dull.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat and looked at her list of vocabulary words. Oh good lord, what had she been thinking? Lips, hands, mouth, nape. Then followed a section on slang. Necking. Lovers Lane. She put the list aside, facedown.
“What areas do you feel you need help with?”
“There are too many words that are the same. There is ‘see’ to look and ‘sea’ like ocean. You ‘wind’ the clock and that is spelled the same as the ‘wind’ that blows. This language is not so hard to speak, but I cannot read it.”
She turned the paper over and wrote on the back: Homonym. Homophone. Homographs. “I’m just making notes, Ari, so I’ll know what to focus on next time. Please, continue.”
“What is necking?”
Her head snapped up, ears burning with mortification. Oh yes. She also had the odd habit of reading aloud. He wore a lazy sort of half-smile.
“It’s…ah…” She laughed, nervous. “Well, uh…”
“Is it like płciowy?”
“I don’t…I’m not…certain…”
He stood and approached her, holding her wide-eyed gaze as his fingers came up to stroke the side of her neck. She shivered with pleasure.
“This is neck,” he said quietly. “So what is necking?”
She licked her
lips, wishing now that she hadn’t worn the lipstick. Her lids lowered.
“What do you think it means?”
He leaned down, brushing his lips against the column of her throat. She shivered. “Oh.”
“Is this right?” he murmured, the words against her skin. “Is this necking?”
“It’s usually wetter,” she nearly said, catching the words before they left her. Instead, she swallowed and whispered. “More, Ari. It’s more.”
Not needing to be told twice, one hand came up to cup the back of her neck, the other took a firm hold of her hip and pulled him to her. His mouth closed on hers in a searing kiss. She melted into him, completely at his mercy. He left a scorching trail of lipstick-stained kisses down her neck, his fingers buried in her loose hair. She clutched handfuls of his shirt on either shoulder, yielding to him.
When she opened her eyes, he was looking down at her, catching his breath. His black hair was tousled. She realized with a start that had been her doing.
He frowned at her. “Have you kissed a man before?”
Her face puckered. “No. Well, yes. But he wasn’t really a man, not a proper one.”
Ari grinned. “I think he did not know what to do with you. You kiss like a running away horse.”
“A runaway horse,” she corrected, sliding her fingers into his hair and bringing her face to the space where his jaw met his neck. She could smell him there, that essential scent that was all his own. She wanted to bathe in that smell, to sleep in it and nothing else.
His large hand made circles on her back. “You were too much for him, I think.”
She pulled back to gaze up at him. Siren stained his lips a bright red. “But not too much for you?”
“No, zima. Not too much.”
“Will you teach me?”
His brows raised. His fingers skimmed her neck, a copy of his previous gesture. “You teach me. I teach you.”
She blushed and put her head against his chest. Outwardly, he was calm. Cool, even. But under her ear, she could hear his blood roaring in his veins, his wild heartbeat the most vital of anthems. He stroked her hair, combing it smooth again with his fingers.
October 30, 1954
Pemberley Manor
Lambton
Georgiana nearly gasped when she came into the room to find her brother in close conference with Ari Prenska. Her legs trembled at the sight of him, his blue uniform as tidy as ever, his black hair perfectly in place. He was fastidiously neat, except for the times when they kissed. He never seemed to mind being wrinkled and rumpled then. He gave her a discreet wink before turning back to her brother, making her blush to the roots of her hair.
“This is beautiful work,” Will said, inspecting something small he’d hidden in his hands. “Did you make this?”
“Yes. For your daughter,” Ari said calmly.
Georgiana walked closer, saw that her brother was holding a tiny dresser, about the size of his hand. It was a miniature of the ones they made in the factory. On her brother’s desk, she saw a carved four-poster bed, a dining table with six tiny Chippendale chairs, a secretary and lamps, no bigger than thumb tacks.
“For Maggie? You should be making these to sell!”
Ari’s expression cooled. Georgiana put a hand on her brother’s arm. “What William meant to say is ‘thank you,’ Mr. Prenska.”
“Of course,” Darcy shook his head. “Apologies. It’s just not every day I see such beautiful craftsmanship.”
Ari nodded once in his direction and said a quiet, “Thank you.”
Her brother turned to her and showed her how the little drawers actually worked. “Isn’t this remarkable, Georgie? Seems like only yesterday that I would have been buying these for you.”
Georgiana felt her face burn in mortification. “William, please…”
“And I suppose before you know it, you’ll be buying these for your own children.”
Ari looked sharply at her for just a second, a look that was there and gone in the space of a breath before his expression smoothed, becoming unreadable.
“William, please,” she pleaded.
“I should go,” Ari said.
“Wait, I should pay you for this,” Darcy said. Georgiana could immediately see that it was the wrong thing to say. He didn’t understand Ari had been making a gesture, not trying to sell toys.
“William—”
“Stop nagging me, Georgie. You’re as bad as Elizabeth, I swear.”
“Who’s as bad as me?” Elizabeth came in with her usual flash and fire, dropping her coat and purse into a nearby chair. “Oh, hello. I didn’t realize we had a guest.” She grinned at Ari, who nodded and bowed slightly.
Darcy was holding out a folded stack of bills. Georgiana wanted to sink into the floor.
“No payment, please,” Ari said. “I should go.” He inclined his head toward her brother and Elizabeth, then to her, not meeting her eyes. He walked out without a backwards glance.
“What was that all about?” her brother asked.
Elizabeth took Georgiana’s face in her hands. “You look awfully pale, Georgie. You’re not sleeping either, I see. Are you feeling poorly?”
Georgiana stepped out of her sister’s grasp. “I’m fine. You don’t need to fuss over me.”
Elizabeth was unswayed by the sharpness of her answer. “But it’s what I do, dearest. I fuss over Darcys and make a terrible nuisance of myself.” She stroked Georgiana’s hair. “Should I call the doctor?”
Tears erupted from Georgiana’s eyes. She turned and fled the room.
Darcy looked on, baffled.
“I swear, I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately. I could have sworn she was drunk at dinner last night!”
Elizabeth sighed and walked to the drink cart. She poured a glass of whiskey and brought it back to him.
“My father would be so disappointed in me right now,” she said, handing the glass over to him. “I promised him I’d never marry an idiot. Here, drink this. It’ll soften the news.”
He peered down at her. “What news?”
“Your sister isn’t sad, you cabbage. She’s in love.”
Darcy choked on his drink, spraying whiskey across his clean white shirt.
“What? With who?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Does it matter? I suspect it was that young man who was just here, judging by the way the two of them were looking at each other.” She sighed. “Poor girl. Love is awful.”
He put his glass aside and pulled her into his arms. “A less secure man would take offense to that.”
Elizabeth laughed. The sound still made his body tingle down to his toes.
“You used to be so much smarter than this,” she said, with no small amusement. “Remember when we first met? Remember how easy and effortless it was to admit our feelings to each other?”
He swallowed. He did remember. The wretched months of needing her and convincing himself he didn’t. His foolhardy attempts to forget her. The excruciating certainty that he had lost her forever.
“Oh, god. Poor Georgie.”
“Hmm, yes. Seems she’s a Darcy in more ways than one.”
“More like a Fitzwilliam,” he muttered, recognizing their shared predisposition for making their love lives as difficult as possible. He wondered if Anne had been as bad off as the rest of them when she’d discovered she was in love with Charlotte. What a sorry lot they were. And now that included Georgiana, who unless he was mistaken, was currently in love with one of their Jewish factory workers, which he considered to be an enormous step up from Wickham. At least the young man was employed.
Darcy drained what was left in his glass. His wife was right; he had needed it. But then, Elizabeth usually was right. “What do we do?”
Elizabeth patted his arm and took the empty glass, setting it aside. “I’ll talk to her.”
He pulled her closer, loving the contours of her small frame against his large body, the light in her eyes and the smell that was all her own. Here w
as home, and safety, and warmth, and laughter. And passion. And love. Yes, she was home. Not even Pemberley, for all its rooms and memories, was home when she wasn’t there. He loved her so much that it frightened him sometimes.
“What did I do to deserve you?” He swept a stray curl behind her ear. “What would I do without you?”
“You’ll never have to find out,” she said with a smile. “As far as deserving me goes, it helps that you’re very tall. And an excellent lover.”
He felt a grin tug his lips. His hand traveled from her waist to her breast, a warm weight in his palm. His lips brushed her neck, making her shiver in his arms.
“Is that so, Mrs. Darcy?”
“Yes. Now take me to bed, you big oaf.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She caught up with him on the wide steps leading out into a warm and pleasant night.
“Ari, wait!” The words were strangled by the tears in her voice, but it couldn’t be helped. He stopped and half-turned, his expression stony.
“Ari, I’m sorry if my brother insulted you. He’s…well, he means well.”
He looked up, not at her but at the imposing façade of Pemberley. “Miss Darcy. You belong in there.”
In that moment, he thought of Lizzie and how brave she must have been to love her brother, someone from such a different world, with such a different life. Be brave. She stepped forward until she was almost touching him.
“I belong wherever you are,” she said in a low voice. “I think you know that, Ari Prenska.”
He shook his head, making a sliver of coal-black hair fall across his brow. Damn him for being so handsome.
“You don’t belong in my world,” he said casually. “And I don’t belong in yours.”
A shard of ice slipped between her ribs, right into her still-beating heart. The pain of it was unbearable. She couldn’t stop her lip from quivering.
“Don’t say that, Ari.”
“I’m sorry you thought―”
“You love me,” she blurted.
