by Nina Mason
On the second point, Christian knew the Captain would no more approve of Christian trifling with Georgianna than he approved of his drunken engagement to Miss Stubbs. Not that he blamed his friend for his censure. For he bitterly condemned (and deeply regretted) both behaviors himself.
Still hopeful about the play, he assessed, between turns at the billiards table, the suitability of the room as a make-shift stage. The dimensions were ideal, if the table could be pushed to one side and one or two of the bookcases moved. A screen might be brought in for costume changes and a curtain strung just there. They also might unlock the pocket doors leading into the library, which could serve as the green room from which the actors entered.
Yes, the billiards room might do very well—if the others were amenable to the idea and could agree upon a play. If not, perhaps they could stage a tableau of a famous painting instead. Doing so would not be half as entertaining as playacting, but at least it would give them something to do to amuse themselves while snow-bound together.
At intervals, his thoughts drifted back to the kiss, which he found more affecting than he cared to admit. Miss Georgianna might be an innocent, but she was open to being schooled. What sensual delights they might have shared as a married couple! But alas, it was not to be.
Unless, of course, he could find a way to break the engagement to Miss Stubbs without disgracing himself and his family in the process.
Pushing both women out of his mind, he chalked his cue and took his shot, missing a “count” by a hair’s breadth.
“Damn. So close.”
“Lucky for me then we are not playing horseshoes.” The Captain grinned as he chalked his stick.
The game they were playing was “straight rail,” on the Captain’s pocketless or “carom” billiards table. Like most carom games, straight rail was played with three balls: two cues and an object ball, red in this case. The object of the game was simple: one point, called a “count” was scored each time a player’s cue ball made contact with the other two balls on a single stroke. A win was achieved by reaching an agreed upon number of counts; 200, in the present game.
The score now stood at 150-100, with the Captain leading, owing to his superiority at “crotching” and “nursing”—differing ways of grouping the object balls to make them easier to hit in one shot.
They played until an hour before dinner, at which point Christian, still lagging behind in counts, forfeited the game so they could dress for dinner. Full dress was the de rigueur evening attire at Greystone Hall. Trousers were permissible, thankfully, owing more to the Captain’s desire to hide his false leg than to current fashion.
At home, Capt. Raynalds ran as tight a ship as he had at sea. Dinner was served promptly at half past six without exception, and generally consisted of two courses lasting one hour each. After dessert, the ladies would withdraw, leaving the gentlemen to their cheroots, port, and presumed manly conversation. Christian had always thought this a silly practice, as the gentlemen had by then spent the whole of the day in each other’s company.
What more of consequence could they have to say to each other?
He supposed the custom was invented by men who married for beauty and money rather than substance or wit. Or men like himself, who stupidly engaged themselves to women whose company they found barely tolerable. It was, nevertheless, how things were done in the upper echelons of English society, and was, therefore, done at Greystone Hall as well.
With the help of the Captain’s valet, Christian put on a clean shirt, double-breasted silk waistcoat, and black wool tailcoat with self-covered buttons. Under his tan trousers, he wore linen drawers, woolen stockings, and black-leather slippers. His cravat, he tied himself, as the Captain’s valet was unfamiliar with the style of knot he preferred. The final touches were a diamond stick-pin and a gold watch fob, which hung on the front of his trousers.
As he checked himself in the full-length mirror, he smiled at the fine figure he cut (without the benefit of padding in either coat or trousers) and the memory of the compliment paid him the night before by Miss Raynalds.
We, none of us, would ever think you a coxcomb, Lieutenant. A Corinthian or dandy, maybe—owing to your impeccable taste in clothes—but never a fop.
And that was precisely the impression he aspired to create.
Making his way downstairs at six o’clock sharp, Christian met the others in the parlor for drinks before they all trooped into the dining room. The fire was going and the long table was set with fine china, silver, and crystal. Silver candlesticks burned at either end and, at the center, stood an epergne offering a seasonal display of pinecones, chestnuts, and evergreens.
Everyone remarked on the beauty of the table-setting as they took their places. Christian, by design, was surrounded by ladies, with Miss Raynalds on his left, Mrs. Raynalds on his right, and Miss Bennet directly across. He could not look at the latter without recalling the sweet taste of her lips, the heady smell of her rose-water cologne, of the feel of her body pressed against his.
He’d said he would avoid doorways in future, but now was having second thoughts. Would it be so wrong to steal a few more kisses before he went to his doom? If they chose the right play…and the right parlor games…and found themselves under the mistletoe another time or two…he might manage it without being labeled too great a scoundrel.
He could, of course, simply tell her the truth and pray she took pity upon him.
Did he dare? To be fair to her, he really should. And might, if the right moment happened to present itself. But not before their performance tonight of the aria from Tolemeo … or the play, if his plan went forward ... or the Christmas Eve party when he might steal a kiss as a forfeiture … or the Twelfth Night Ball, when he could take her in his arms without inviting gossip (though perhaps not as many times as he desired to do so).
Yes, taking such liberties when he was promised to another might be considered misleading and dishonest, but it might be his last chance—his only chance, really—to share such sweet intimacies with the woman he loved to the depths of his being.
The only woman he would ever love so dearly, God help him.
Just look at her. So lovely in the candlelight. So beautiful in any light, with her porcelain complexion, sparkling eyes, and rosy lips. He could kiss those lips a million times—nay, ten million—and it still would not be enough. Not nearly enough.
With Georgie, he would never have enough.
And it was more than her appearance that attracted him. Yes, indeed. In addition to being a true English rose, she was clever, thoughtful, spirited, graceful, and kind. She also knew how to dress and behave appropriately for any occasion.
The same could not be said of Miss Stubbs, who could never pass for a fine lady, however much imitation she practiced or instruction she received. But alas, he had made his bed and now must lie in it … with a woman, sadly, he could never admire, converse with intelligently, be proud to have on his arm, or desire to have in his bed.
There was also the fear of what his father would say or do when he introduced Miss Stubbs as his wife.
While Christian was thusly engrossed in thought, the first course came in on trays and, as usual consisted of enough food to feed a small army. Pigeon pie, fricassee of chicken and onions, sweetbreads, braised mutton, and roasted goose were only some of the tempting dishes offered.
As they ate, they spoke mainly of the weather, when the roads might be open again to travel, and the Christmas festivities to which each of them looked forward most. As they conversed, Christian worried Miss Bennet might return to Craven Castle as soon as she was able to do so.
By the time the second course arrived, Christian was sure he could not eat another bite, but made room for a small taste of gooseberry tart and Rhenish cream. He must not, after all, insult his hostess by refusing the bounty laid before him.
As he further stuffed himself, Miss Raynalds asked, “Did you know the word dessert originated from the French word desservir, w
hich means ‘to clear the table’?”
“I did indeed,” said he, licking the Rhenish cream from his lips. “Since, for obvious reasons, I have become something of an expert on sweets. Did you know, for instance, that sweet foods were first fed to the gods in ancient Mesopotamia and India, among other ancient civilizations? Before sugarcane became available worldwide, dried fruit and honey were the sweeteners most commonly used.”
“Why do you say ‘for obvious reasons’?” Miss Bennet inquired, brow furrowed, from across the table. “For I have not observed you being especially fond of desserts.”
“If he was, he would not be so svelte, I dare say,” Miss Raynalds quipped with good humor.
“My family is in sugar, Miss Bennet,” Christian said in all seriousness. “Did I never happen to mention it?”
“Sugar?” Georgianna asked, appearing confused.
“As well as rum,” he told her, “which, as you probably know, is distilled from the juice or byproducts of sugarcane.”
“I had no idea …”
He cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “How rum was made?”
“That your family was in sugar—or anything at all, for that matter. For I naturally assumed you made your fortune in the war, like my brother-in-law.”
“Probably because I rarely speak of it,” Christian proffered with growing discomfort.
“He rarely speaks of his family at all, Miss Georgianna,” the Captain interjected. “But the fact is, our Lieutenant Churchill is the eldest son of the Earl of Wingfield. One day, he will inherit his father’s title and peerage, along with his plantations in the British West Indies and his great estate in Derbyshire.”
“From what my brother tells me,” Miss Raynalds chimed in enthusiastically, “Wingfield Hall is as magnificent as Pemberley, the stately home of Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. Have you read it, Miss Bennet? For it is a marvelous book, as I’m sure your sister will agree.” She darted a glance in Louisa’s direction before settling her gaze once again on Georgianna. “Ironically, it is by the same lady who authored Sense and Sensibility.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “Which, dear me, I forgot to fetch for you this afternoon. You must remind me to do so immediately after dinner, before the gentlemen rejoin us for the evening’s entertainments. You do still plan to play while the Lieutenant sings for us, do you not?”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Bennet said, looking exceedingly ill at ease. “We practiced it this afternoon to ready ourselves for the performance.”
She blushed as she mentioned their rehearsal, leading him to assume she was thinking of his kiss. Did she enjoy it as much as he did? Did she share his longing to do it again?
His own face warmed as he confirmed the Raynaldses assertions with regard to his prospects. “They speak the truth. I will indeed be an earl one day, and a sugar baron, too … unless my father disinherits me in the meantime.”
Miss Bennet’s pretty brow puckered. “Why would he do that?”
“Oh, any number of reasons,” he conjectured with a flourish of his fork. “For you know as well as I how mercurial fathers can be when it comes to their heirs.”
Christian had assumed Miss Bennet knew of his wealth, given that the Captain and his sister possessed the knowledge of his background. Learning that she was ignorant of his circumstances only made him admire—and regret—her the more. For believing he hailed from humble roots had not diminished her interest in him in the least.
Eight
Rather than adjourn to the drawing room immediately after dinner, each of the three ladies went upstairs on separate errands. Louisa went to the nursery to sing little Sonny to sleep; Miss Raynalds went to collect Sense and Sensibility; and Georgie went to her room to grab her favorite paisley shawl. For the house was rather chilly in the evenings with only the fires to warm its drafty rooms.
At the top of the stairs, she was astonished to meet Lt. Churchill preparing to go down.
“Miss Bennet!” he exclaimed, evidently as startled as she was by the meeting.
“As you see.”
Memories of the kiss they shared bloomed inside her mind as he studied her with an expression of concern. “Why have you come upstairs? You are not unwell, I hope.”
“I am perfectly well,” she assured him, even as she melted under his stare. “I have only come to retrieve my shawl.”
“And very glad I am to hear it. For I would be very sorry for you to miss our performance … as well as the proposal I plan to make to the group once the musical portion of the evening is concluded.”
“Proposal?” He’d aroused her curiosity as well as her desire to taste those lips of his once more. “What sort of proposal?”
“That you will have to wait to hear with the rest.”
“You are being very mysterious,” she said, fixating on his mouth. “What mischief are you up to, I wonder?”
“Nothing too wicked, I daresay.” As he said it, his eyes twinkled with a devilishness strongly suggesting otherwise.
Excited by his teasing—and his nearness—she struggled to keep her countenance. “Then I shall await your proposition with bated breath.”
“Do, Miss Bennet. For it will prove stimulating for both of us, if all goes as I hope it will.”
Bypassing her, he started down the stairs as she continued toward her room, her interest excited. What might he have in mind?
A few steps beyond, she met Miss Raynalds coming toward her with her copy of Sense and Sensibility. “Here is the book you wanted,” the girl said, pressing the novel into her hand. “I do hope you derive as much pleasure from reading it as did your sister and I.”
“Upon my soul, Miss Raynalds, I do not expect to derive the least pleasure from reading the book. What I do hope to gain is the satisfaction of discovering a secret contained within its pages—a secret that might devastate m hopes where a certain gentleman is concerned.”
“Do you mean Lieutenant Churchill?”
“It is possible that I do,” she demurely replied.
As Georgie looked from the girl’s bewildered countenance to the book in her hand, she got an idea—an idea that could save her the inconvenience of reading the novel. “Miss Raynalds…what can you tell me of Edward Ferrars?”
“Georgie! Upon my word. You are supposed to read the novel, not coerce dear Winnie into giving you a plot synopsis!” The sharp reprimand was delivered by Louisa, who had just come out of the nursery. “I am extremely disappointed in you. Now, both of you, take yourselves downstairs this minute or the gentlemen will enter the drawing room only to find no one there.”
Infuriated by her sister’s scolding, Georgie raced to her room and, with an indignant huff, flung Sense and Sensibility at the bed. Skidding across the counterpane, it hit the wall before dropping to the floor. Leaving it where it fell, she hurried to the wardrobe, grabbed her shawl, and wrapped it around her shoulders as she descended the stairs.
“There you are, Miss Bennet,” Lt. Churchill exclaimed as she entered the drawing room out of breath. “I was beginning to fear you truly were unwell.”
“Your fears were in vain, Lieutenant,” she returned with an amiable smile. “For, as you can see, I am quite well. And even were I ailing, I would rally long enough for our recital. For I would not for the world let a trifling cold or some other minor complaint disappoint you or the others.”
“Well, I am very glad you are well … and with us now. Shall we begin forthwith? Or do you need time to warm your fingers for the performance?”
“My fingers are perfectly warm, I assure you,” she said, flushing under the heat of his stare.
Lord, how she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him senseless, right here in front of everyone. But, of course, doing so would shock the whole room. Her sister, especially. So, to quell the temptation, she scurried toward the pianoforte and took her seat at the keyboard.
She played and he sang, as beautifully and expressively as before, making her wonder again if he sincerely
meant what he sang. The way he’d kissed her that afternoon led her to suspect (and hope) he might. And oh! how she longed for him to kiss her again with equal passion. Perhaps if she positioned herself under the mistletoe again, he might do so. For his longing looks at dinner were far more revealing of his true feelings than were his vocal disavowals.
Georgie played another song before giving up her seat to Miss Raynalds, so that she, too, might entertain them all. This she did admirably, if not scandalously, with an air from The Beggar’s Opera titled “What Shall I Do to Show How Much I Love Her?” The song’s lyrics, like most in the production, did not fit its title.
Virgins are like the fair flowers in its Lustre,
Which in the Garden enamels the Ground;
Near it the Bees in play flutter and cluster,
And gaudy Butterflies frolick around.
But, when one pluck’d, ’tis no longer alluring,
To Covent Gardens ’tis sent (as yet sweet),
There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring
Rots, stinks, and shrinks, and is trod under feet.
The song brought back disagreeable memories of the one time in her life Georgie’s father took her to London with him alone. The night they arrived, he took her to a performance of The Beggar’s Opera in Covent Garden. Expecting something along the lines of Marriage of Figaro, she’d been shocked to discover the players were all thieves, libertines, and prostitutes. She’d been even more shocked to learn it had been the most popular play in London during the previous century.
She had not understood all that was said and sung that evening, but she comprehended enough to know it was highly indecent—as well as exceedingly inappropriate for a girl of fourteen to be exposed to by her own father.
Flushed and queasy, Georgie closed her eyes and drove the memory back into the dark corner of her mind from which it had escaped. She’d never told anyone what happened that night. Not even Louisa. And certainly not her mother. For talking about it would make it real instead of a long-ago bad dream she’d tried in vain to forget. To her great dismay, the nightmare recurred from time to time in various forms.
