My sweet, dear son! How I regret this turn of events and wish I knew how best to advise you! I have no love for Lady Cassandra and fully understand your hesitation, nay distaste, for the lady, however I do appreciate the advantages to a union with her, dowry and estate lands and the rest compensations you are well aware of. Your father is writing this moment with a demand for you to return home and marry Lady Cassandra. One word from you will halt the process with Lord Everest. I cannot offer advice on your response, Sebastian, other than to try to repress your own temper and consider this with cool rationale.
“Like hell!” he shouted—not the first outburst flung into the air as he read his mother’s letter. He scanned through the remainder, but other than a handful of lines relating mundane local matters toward the end, it was about the pending engagement of Lady Cassandra. “He can have her,” Sebastian muttered, even as he reread the letter to make sure he missed nothing, “although I pity him marrying that dreadful harpy.”
He shuddered then inhaled deeply before opening his father’s letter. No warm greeting here, not that there ever was. Lord Essenton wrote his son rarely—wrote anyone rarely for that matter—and in most instances it was to scold. Fatherly affection was not expected.
The entire message was written on one side of the page, his father’s script tidy and compact. His fury was evinced by more exclamation marks than usual and the choice of numerous colorful words and phrases. Lady Essenton’s warning helped soften the blow, but Sebastian winced nevertheless. No restraint was shown, Lord Essenton blunt and brutal in his angry accusations and demands, and throughout the first reading, Sebastian was a child again, enduring another lengthy harangue while tears stung the insides of his eyes. Now, as then, he weathered the storm, eventually passed through it, and after cooling down, recognized that he was stronger and had tolerated this tirade better than the one before.
He read the letter two more times before refolding carefully, placing it onto the table with the others, and focusing on unwinding every tight muscle from head to toe. Closing his eyes, he willed his wild emotions to calm. It was a chore, but eventually he reached a place of quiescence.
Nothing had changed from his perspective. He never would have agreed to marry Lady Cassandra, and once she was married to Lord Everest, the subject would be closed. Yes, Lord Essenton would stew and rage, probably send two or three verbally abusive letters and give him hell when he did return home—no matter if it was three years hence—but one thing he could not do was force Sebastian into anything.
Our compromise is voided as it relates to your marital status. Fritter away your life abroad forever if that is your desire. I shall not argue the matter further as long as you come home, marry, and go about the business of getting her pregnant!
These sentences written by his father struck a chord. “Very well, Father,” he slurred in the final moments before he fell asleep, “I will do my best to marry and happily do what it takes to conceive a child.”
Assuming Miss Darcy wants to marry me…
***
“But the weather is glorious and perfect for shopping! How can you even think about staying home?”
“Staying inside, even on this glorious day, my dear Yvette, is a delightful thought. Yes, above shopping.”
Yvette and Zoë stared at Georgiana as if she had just proposed flying to the moon. “This is three days in a row,” Zoë declared. “Are you ill?”
“Have you and the baron suffered a spat? Is your heart now broken by him so soon after being broken by Monsieur Butler?” Yvette mourned, her frown of concern as overblown as Zoë’s.
“My heart has been broken by no one,” Georgiana assured for the umpteenth time, sighing and walking toward the piano.
“But the baron has not called upon you for days and days!”
“It has been all of two days, Yvette, and he warned me that he needed to attend to Conservatoire duties. He will be here this afternoon for tea, if that information comforts and allays speculation.”
“And Monsieur Butler? Surely he must be home by now and yet he does not visit. The tragedy increases! We shall inquire as to his whereabouts while socializing today, my dearest Georgiana. Surely someone will have news.”
“You will do no such thing! Mr. Butler’s business is none of mine unless he chooses to enlighten me!” Georgiana smiled at her two friends, softening her face and tone after the sharp retort. “Truly, dearest Yvette and Zoë, all is well. I am merely tired and desirous of solitude. I have missed playing. I know you do not understand, but trust me that my opting to remain home is not a reflection of internal sadness or because I do not enjoy shopping and your company. Now, hasten on your way before the best ribbons are gone.”
The twins did not look convinced but they argued no further. Minutes later Georgiana was alone. Blessedly alone. Everyone in the house was gone except for the servants, who wandered about quietly attending to their tasks. Even Mrs. Annesley had gone for an afternoon by herself in the city. Lord Caxton promised to join her for tea later in the day, as soon as it was possible to break away from practice for an upcoming symphony performance, but that gave Georgiana upwards of three hours of freedom.
“Freedom,” she mumbled as she spread the sheets along the piano rest. An odd word choice, she thought, pausing to reflect. Am I not happily anticipating the baron’s visit? She nodded as an answer and it was true that she enjoyed his company.
But…
She ran the tip of her index finger over the symbols inked on the staff, following the lines across to the brace and then down to the lower staff. Without lifting from the parchment, she completed the circuit, tracing each clef and note sign until reaching the bottom of the page. There she paused, staring at the signature scrawled in the margin for a minute before brushing her fingertip over it.
Sebastian Cedric Frasier Albert Butler.
It amused her that he used his full name on some of his compositions while on others he only wrote Sebastian Butler. After a comparative study, she deduced that those psalms placed to music when he was younger bore all five, the habit disappearing with more recent pages. Why? She could not hazard a guess, but she preferred the complete attribution and if the subject presented, she planned to tell him so. She had never asked his full name. Knowing it, even with the mystery of what each name meant or why it was chosen, felt intimate somehow, as if they were connected by a secret few knew. It was comforting.
Two days before she had risen from bed determined to spend more than fleeting minutes glancing at Mr. Butler’s psalms. The honor bestowed upon her when he entrusted his compositions to her was not taken lightly, and guilt consumed her that he would be back in Paris with her not having played a single note. Guilt, however, was not the driving force.
She missed him.
For three weeks he had been gone. Admittedly, during the first week she barely thought of him, her days and nights bursting with activity and the magnetic presence of Lord Caxton sparing her scant time to breathe. By the second week the vague melancholy and emptiness that had persisted since his departure surfaced from where it had been buried beneath the frivolity. Incrementally, the hole expanded until it became an ache and invaded her dreams.
Losing herself within the music brought him closer and eased her heart. The psalms were beautiful, even those written when young, thus it was a joy to play and sing. She did not mark on his paper but jotted suggestions, musings, and alternative refrains onto separate blank sheets. She played the pieces over and over, practicing her variations in places, until many of them were memorized. Then she allowed her eyes to close and fingers to automatically press the correct keys to create a swell of harmony in song.
Time passed swiftly. To Georgiana it felt as if she had barely sat down when she heard the door chime. Her eyes flew open and the music halted with a discordant peal joining her gasp of shock upon noting it was half past four! She lurched from the bench, realizing how long she had been at the activity when her legs protested and she nearly co
llapsed to her knees. Ignoring the intense tingles and spasms attacking blood starved muscles, she hastily stuffed the music sheets into Mr. Butler’s leather portfolio and shoved it into the bench’s hidden recess, turning just as Lord Caxton entered the salon on the heels of Monsieur Vigneux, the butler.
“Miss Darcy,” he began, bowing deeply, “I apologize for arriving much later than I anticipated. I do pray you are not vexed with me?”
“Not at all, Baron. I was delighting in my solitude.”
“Oh. Have I intruded upon you then?”
“Please, no, I did not mean to imply not wishing to see you!” she stammered to a halt, blushing at his penetrating gaze and feeling utterly foolish. Her muscles continued to ache, her neck especially in need of a rub and stretch—neither of which she could do with him in the room—and her wits remained scattered from the abrupt shift in the atmosphere.
“I heard you playing when I entered the foyer. Quite a lovely composition it was but one I am unfamiliar with. Who is the composer?”
“An obscure English composer, I do not even recall the name. Here, let me pour you some tea. How was the practice? Will Paris society once again be astounded by another Académie Royale masterpiece?”
If he noticed her evasiveness and rushed sentences he was too polite to comment. Instead, he answered her question and the conversation moved forward into common areas, allotting Georgiana the time to regain her composure. She was not sure why she avoided mentioning Mr. Butler. There was no shame in their friendship or the compositions he lent to her or the fact that she wrote music herself. Yet none of these were topics she wished to discuss with Lord Caxton. Mr. Butler and the feelings he stirred within her were private and too confusing to discuss with anyone, especially the baron.
Twenty minutes passed. Georgiana was relaxed and over her upset, engaged in the pleasantries as they sipped their tea, with no premonition that a momentous turning point in her life was about to happen. One minute they were chatting about the planned horseback ride for tomorrow, weather permitting, when in the next breath Lord Caxton placed his cup onto the low table between their seats and moved to sit beside her on the settee.
“Miss Darcy,” he began, his tone grave and face serious, “it has increasingly weighed upon my heart the need to express, in a direct manner, how thankful I am to have met you and to verbalize—so as to have no misunderstanding—that these past weeks have not only been the happiest of my life but are a fulfillment of a long held hope. That is, of course, to find the woman I could spend my life with.”
Georgiana was unable to avert her gaze from his handsome, mesmerizing face. His dark eyes scanned across her features like a caress, causing her heart to pound painfully inside her chest. Suddenly she could not breathe and felt drenched in a fog as the impact of his words pierced through her. Oh God! Please do not propose!
He relaxed his face and smiled. “Now, I see that my vehemence is startling to you. Please, do not be alarmed, Miss Darcy.”
He took hold of her hands where they lay slack in her lap, pressing firmly between his warm palms—Georgiana too dumbfounded to notice—and went on, “I appreciate that you are young and perhaps not as assured of your feelings. I am not, at this juncture, asking for anything other than the honor of proceeding as we have thus far.”
“I will be leaving for home in less than three weeks,” she forced between wooden lips.
“Yes, I am aware of this fact, and the thought has brought me an extensive measure of distress. Part of the reason I was later than I anticipated for our tea today, Miss Darcy, was due to a meeting with the Conservatoire director to discuss my resignation date effective in April rather than late June.”
“I see. Your family will be thrilled to have you home.”
“Yes,” he laughed, “I am sure they will, however I admit I was not thinking of my family. I was only thinking of you, or us, I should say. Miss Darcy, I have no wish to trifle with you or walk away today without my intentions unmistakable. There is not a shred of doubt in my mind that you would be a remarkable Baroness Caxton. This is my ultimate desire; however, for now I will be content to court you as is proper until formal permission can be granted by Mr. Darcy. Some say we are already entered into a courtship—”
“They do? Who is saying that? Why?”
He cocked his head and frowned while also smiling in such a way that Georgiana instantly felt the fool. Of course it would appear as if they were courting! She had heard the whispers, seen the jealous stares, and even been bluntly asked a handful of times. Yet, fool or not, she sensed a river of irritation rising from her belly. Was she to receive the brunt of gossip every time she danced with a man, or tied together for eternity after a few days of harmless entertainments? She withdrew her hands from his—only in that instant aware that he held them—and struggled to make sense of her churning emotions.
“It is not surprising that the assumption is being leapt to, Miss Darcy,” Lord Caxton soothed. “I have been conspicuous in my interest in you and have never done so with another woman. Playing games is not in my nature. I see what I want and am determined in my pursuit. In this instance, it is you that I want.”
“My Lord Baron, I am… at a loss for words. Naturally, I am flattered and not adverse to, to… you and… I…”
“And that is sufficient for the time being, Miss Darcy. All I ask, if you can see to answer one question for me honestly and from your heart, thus giving me hope for more, is this: Can you imagine yourself as a baroness? My baroness?”
Georgiana hesitated, searching his face as she searched her heart. Could she be his baroness? Did she feel affection for him strong enough for marriage? Was she in love with him?
Far inside, buried under the emotional turmoil, a rational voice proffered that if she had to ask the questions, the answer should probably be no. The fact that the voice possessed a musical quality in a deep baritone lent credence to the logic. Yet, the baron had asked for honesty.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I can imagine this, but…”
“Thank you, Miss Darcy!” he interrupted, springing from the seat and bowing. “With that, I am content. Now, I have taken up far too much of your time. Until tomorrow then.” And with minimal fuss, he was gone, leaving Georgiana standing in the familiar foyer yet feeling lost.
Chapter Twelve
Psalms on the Pianoforte
Mr. Butler arrived at the grand townhouse on the Quai d’Orléans on the following day with the thick pouch of copied lecture notes and purchased music sheets tucked under his arm. It was nearly three in the afternoon, two days after his return to Paris, the delay in seeking out a visit with Miss Darcy not a purposeful one.
He had fallen asleep after reading the letters from his parents with every intention of waking to visit with his grandmother before she left for whatever evening engagement he was sure she had scheduled. Instead, it was his grandmother who bullied his valet into rousing him for a late midday meal and tea in her salon—the next day! He had slept for over eighteen hours. A hasty bath and shave was adequate to join Lady Warrow in her sunny, femininely decorated parlor, Sebastian so ravenous that the cold sandwiches, meats, cakes, and fruit were replenished twice.
They talked about his expedition to Reims and what he learned there. She talked about her exploits and some of the juicer gossip bandied about. Neither brought up the topic of Lady Cassandra and his father’s wrath. Sebastian assumed she knew—his grandmother always knew everything—but he certainly did not want to talk about it. Nor did she mention Miss Darcy, a point he thought odd but could not very well broach himself.
He ached to see her. Literally ached. Eighteen hours of heavy sleep with pleasant dreams of her by his side, belonging to him, had eased his heart and cemented his purpose.
I love her.
There was no longer any doubt in that reality. It did not mean he had an agenda or prepared speech for how to go about expressing his love. He was unsure how their future together would mesh with his study at the
Conservatoire or plans to pursue his music. Worst of all, he had no clue as to whether she felt anything for him greater than friendship. Yet none of this changed the simple fact that he was utterly, passionately, and with every fiber of his soul in love with her.
What did change his plan was a closer inspection of his reflection in the mirror of his dressing room later that night.
“Good God! I look ghastly! Why did you not say something?” He turned an accusatory glare on his valet.
Hendricks continued to iron the trousers laid on the table and did not bother to glance up from his important task. He shrugged one shoulder, drily responding, “I figured you could ascertain the obvious without me having to point it out. Besides, you needed to eat, since the last thing I want is you grumpy when I am trying to cut your hair.” He glanced up then, putting the iron aside and picking up the trousers to fold. “You should know by now that your unruly hair cannot go three weeks without a trim, let alone five.”
Sebastian grunted, but he did not argue. Hendricks was a childhood friend—a servant’s son who he called “Jimmy” in those days—before becoming his valet when he left for Oxford. Lord Essenton had not approved of a close companion being one’s manservant, no matter how qualified, but Sebastian insisted, another fight ensuing, and had never regretted his choice. Well, maybe at times like this when Hendricks’s flippancy grated on his frayed nerves. Still, the valet was correct. Sebastian’s hair needed a trim before he left for Reims, a suggestion from Hendricks that he had ignored.
“Very well,” he grumbled, sitting on the stool, “do your worst.”
“Not now. Tomorrow, after I wash it thoroughly. You have a pound of road dust in there,” he explained when Sebastian opened his mouth to protest. “Cutting it like that is unwise. Besides, I have all this to attend to,” he said as he swept a hand over the pile of clothes lying on the floor beside the partially unpacked portmanteau.
Miss Darcy Falls in Love Page 17
