Chapter 16 - GEORGINA—A FIRST LESSON

Chapter 16

GEORGINA—A FIRST LESSON

The music room in Anya House should be a place of miracles. The gilded trim, the walls bearing the magical color of rose always stole my breath. It was the same hue reflected in the Thames when the sun set. I felt I should cover my head in reverence as one did entering church, but I let my freshly washed curls be free.

Pulled up high with an onyx ribbon, the tight curls fanned out like a crown.

Lord Mark Sebastian stared at me for a long moment. Then he danced his fingers along the pianoforte’s keys. “Miss Wilcox, let’s try the hymn again.”

Did he not like what he saw?

Was I unkempt or had he never seen a woman be free?

Waiting for his rhythm to settle, I no longer refrained from twirling. My gold-and-yellow dress, we’d found at the bottom of Mama’s trunk. The gathers about my natural waist dated the skirting but enhanced my figure and made the gown ready for movement.

“I can’t concentrate if you keep spinning. It’s also difficult for you to sing, Miss Georgina.”

“Almost on a simple first-name basis.”

“Well, ah . . . I . . . Miss Wil—”

“Georgina. Sir, you can be familiar. We are pretending to be a couple enraptured. Servants and guests stopping by for science meetings can poke their heads in or slow-walk past and see me twirling to your music. We are on display.”

He fingered a few more keys. “I need you closer, here by the pianoforte concentrating. Your voice is quite lovely, surprisingly so.”

My mouth formed the words thank you, but my tongue refused to say it. Instead, the part of me that wanted to run, that wanted to escape scrutiny, went for an argument. “Why? Why does my voice surprise you? Courtesans can sing. Women who love the sun can too.”

He looked up, but his hands never missed a note.

“It’s surprising because you actually have the passion to carry a tune. You could be proficient with practice. You definitely must learn to breathe and sing.”

“An unexpected answer. An honest one.”

“Would I—” His hands made a run on the keys. “Would I be anything else?”

“I don’t know, Lord Mark Sebastian. Could you be?”

“I could be Mark. I mean I am Mark. I need you to count and breathe.”

“And be familiar?”

He closed his eyes. “You’re beautiful. I’m attracted. I need you to sing.”

His words rushed out, so honest and free of guile.

Yet, this made me self-conscious. I forced air slowly across my lips. “Fine. I will practice, even if you find my voice surprising.”

This time he stopped. His piercing gaze cut into me. “Uncles, parents, and paramours gush about a young woman’s prospects. They are often wrong and are being generous to solicit my help or to attract my attention. Seems a third son with connections is still a worthy alliance.”

“Thank you, I think.”

His brow rose. He must find my sentiment odd, but I didn’t want to hear how my voice was “good for a woman with my background.” I didn’t care to know how his stumbling upon me, thinking me a courtesan was refreshing.

“You seem annoyed, Miss Wilcox.”

“And you seem too easy with this arrangement.”

“Why should I not be? You sing well when you focus. I get to play upon this extraordinary instrument and listen to how the room I designed captures echoes and elongates notes. Since Torrance is not your uncle or any relation, and he’s not come to see us practice, I suspect he’s not a paramour. This is not some game we are playing for his benefit.”

“We are playing a game. We’re trying to survive a few lessons and hope to hear no gossip.”

“It’s early, Miss Wilcox.”

“I choose to believe we’ve not been discovered. I’m not ruined. You are free. Then I don’t have to sing at a ball.”

To celebrate, I spun and watched the brocade fabric of my skirt billow. “You should concentrate on the joy of being out of these circumstances too.”

He bit his lip, then settled again playing the pianoforte. “I don’t claim to understand women and what mortifies you or gives you pause or makes you dance. But you’re a beauty, Miss Wilcox, and you can sing. You’re not taking this lesson seriously. It makes me mad to see talent being wasted.”

I stopped mid-twirl, walked back, and laid my palm flat on the waxed surface of the musical instrument. “I bake too. Does that make me a baker?”

“Wouldn’t know, ma’am. I haven’t had your biscuits. The duke has.”

He sounded jealous, and it made me laugh. “His Grace is like a brother to me. You needn’t be jealous. You’re my fake fiancé. I will not cheat on your sentiments, but if you have a better attitude, I might bake for you.”

When I chuckled this time, he did too. “I’m sorry, Miss Wilcox.”

“Georgina.”

“Georgina, I’m very deliberate when it comes to music, everything about it. And . . .”

“And what, Lord Mark Sebastian?”

“It’s Mark, the composer who can’t finish his sonata. I had it and now the notes have stopped again.”

“I’m sorry, Mark. But that’s no reason to grouse. And grousing doesn’t bode well for our ruse. Remember, we are pretending to be a couple intended for matrimony.”

“How far do we take this, Miss Wilcox? My mother has sent a note requesting to see me. If she’s heard of my secret alliance, she’ll want to meet you prior to the duke’s ball. Would you like to meet her? Are you willing to take this ruse to that extent?”

Looking at his earnest face, charismatic blue eyes, I did wonder what his parents looked like. What traits of theirs did he have? From whom did he get his dimples?

“Georgina? I have a friend who complains I don’t listen. I think I understand now.”

“I heard you, but I don’t know what to say. What if I meet her and like her? Won’t I feel awful begging off. And what if she doesn’t like me? Well, then there will be hard feelings. I don’t think we should create more hate for the world. What say you?”

A puzzled look shadowed his face.

“Well, my lord, you might not know what I mean. Or maybe I’ve asked too many questions. Forgive me.”

His mouth opened then closed, but no words came out.

“Please, start playing again. I’m ready.”

He did but this time it was a song I did not know—something slow and haunting. “Your singing is good.”

“From a waste to good? What do I owe the change in your assessment?”

He lifted one hand and tapped his temple. “You’re purposely trying to distract me. Is something wrong? Or is this the reason you don’t exhibit, no one has the patience to play for you?”

“Very simple, my lord. Fear. Crowds looking at me make feel very chilly. You can’t sing cold.” I listened to how he played, the command he had on the pianoforte. “And you have no fear of the public?”

“I have fears. I fear beauty being spoiled, of not creating beautiful work.”

I offered him a smile. “Those are greater fears than I’ve known. How do you withstand?”

He flipped through sheets of music. “At least I summon courage. Talent isn’t a torture.”

“You’re neither a torment nor a torture, Mark.”

“That is good. For kissing you is the thing that creates fantasies. I’d not want you to regret that moment or any moment I perform for you.”

Closing my eyes, willing my cheeks not to become fire, I turned about the room. The hymn Mark played was by some man named Pleyel. “This composer wrote songs of worship and vanity.”

“Sort of the same thing, Georgina. I suppose some worship an intelligent woman. Others think it vanity.”

“Did you just call me vain?”

“No. Helen Maria Williams wrote the words you half-heartedly sing. She is to blame for exposing you.”

He laughed and smiled at me and loosened his cravat. “You are a wonder. So bold with your questions, but timid when you sing. I’m sure practice could change things.”

Perhaps the frustrations he’d shown at me, at himself, even the smidgeon of jealousy of the duke, were the things that kept him from writing his music.

He tapped his finger. “Enough of a rest. On the third count, let’s begin.”

Trying to get that breathing thing right, I sang.

“While Thee I seek, protecting Pow’r,

Be my vain wishes stilled,

And may this consecrated hour

With better hopes be filled.”

“What is the hour, sir? We’ve been at this a while.”

“Barely two hours. But that was better, Georgina.”

Going to the window, I looked at the empty street. The sun poured through the glass.

“We’ll take a break in a moment.” My teacher’s voice pulled me back to him, not outside this house and running to see where the lane led. Never did learn where to find the shortcut to the mews.

“Perhaps we should try another stanza,” he said in a louder voice, then yanked a watch from his blue waistcoat. “Actually, let’s keep going. We have another hour before our time ends.”

That sounded sad.

We were not very far into this piece, and I knew no more about my teacher or what he longed to compose.

“I will miss this music room tonight. It’s very feminine compared to His Grace’s study. And it’s very different from my house.”

“How so? Doesn’t everyone have Russian tapestries? Torrance had very specific requirements. He wanted it designed for a woman’s pleasure. I think it might be a tribute to his sister or something for his future duchess.”

“Then, I think he must add more paintings like the watercolors behind you.” I came back to the pianoforte. “Do you have sisters, Lord Mark Sebastian?”

“Afraid not. I met Miss Scarlett and Lydia Wilcox. They seem full of life.”

That was a beautiful way to describe the two, or even our house on the other side of the Thames, full of stomping and arguments and slammed doors.

“Yet, having seen the concerns and worries that gentlewomen have, I’m not sure I’d like to see a sister having to put up with these rules only to be coerced by my parents into a match that may make sense on paper but not her heart.”

“If she were truly in love, that wouldn’t make a difference to your parents.”

He looked away, concentrating on the ivory keys. “Silence. I guess that is an answer.” I bit my lip for a moment. “When they find out about our faux alliance, will they be angry with you?”

“Yes, but this ruse will be done by the time my father returns from holiday. If my mother knows, I doubt if she will say anything.”

“If your father, the Marquess of Prahmn, does find out about your escape from my clutches, what will happen?”

“I’ll have to sit through a few lectures and threats of being cut off. Life will go on. And then my mother will have a new list of vetted candidates awaiting me at the next ball.”

That sounded wretched. Yet, the gentleman was so matter-of-fact, removed from it. “You don’t mind being a rebel, even a fake one?”

He lifted his hands and dropped them to his hips, exposing more of the check-patterned waistcoat that swaddled a muscular physique. “I suppose I don’t. But don’t credit me with false bravery. I’m cavalier because I know this is temporary. The separation from truth and make-believe helps me.”

This made me laugh.

“But such negative talk, Georgina? ‘Clutches’ sounds criminal and you shy away when I call you gorgeous. Why?”

Now it was my turn to be quiet. I shrugged.

His gaze stayed on my face. My cheeks felt warm, felt stroked by an invisible touch.

“Da dum. Da da dum.” Mark flew from the seat to the nearby table. He ripped the cork from the inkwell with his teeth, then began furiously writing. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

The pleasure in his voice scared me. Then I realized he’d written another stanza in his piece.

I stayed quiet, hoping that whatever anointing he’d gained stayed with him, set in his soul to give him all the music he desired.

Ten minutes passed.

His quill stilled.

When his eyes closed, I knew it was gone. The inspiration or the notion had departed.

“Sorry, my lord.”

He scooped up the cork, which had fallen by his boot. He closed the bottle and put down the quill. “Nothing to be sorry for. I have another piece of it.”

“What are you working on? Why are you so perplexed? You’re more angered over this than your parents’ lectures.”

Mark turned to me. “You wouldn’t understand.”

I stepped closer and examined the page, even humming what I saw written. “Try. This is lovely.”

“You read sheet music? Of course you would, Torrance only knows exceptional women.” He turned back to the pages and put his hands to his head like he wanted to smash his skull. “This will be my entry to the Harlbert’s Prize if I can finish. It’s a once-a-year competition. If I win, it will be the beginning of my career.”

“A career for a gentleman?”

“Yes, some of us aren’t wealthy or wanting a wife that’s an heiress. I wish to be a recognized, celebrated composer.”

“That sounds vain. A new piece that will dazzle the committee will make you renowned? How odd, to need a prize to say you’re good when you already are.”

He packed up his papers, then went back to the pianoforte. “I freely admit not understanding women, but I think you need to understand men a bit more. Just because I say a thing, doesn’t make it so. Prahmn will never just take my word.”

“No, I quite understand. You need a group of men to tell your father.”

Lord Mark closed the instrument just as Katherine stepped inside. “Are you ready? We really need to get back to . . . Lydia. Am I interrupting something?”

“Lady Hampton.” My music teacher bowed, took his papers and went to the door. “No. I’ve just asked Miss Wilcox to study a little more before our next session.”

“You do the same. We meet here tomorrow?”

“No. Wednesday. I have an appointment tomorrow.”

“Where will my fiancé be off to?”

His gaze marked me with heat, like it was impertinent to ask. But this was me crossing that line of make-believe and caring. I did care. I wanted Mark to achieve his goals.

“Bird-watching in Hyde Park. I’m hunting for the rarest of flying creatures. The habit relaxes me. My current selection of a muse is temporal and testy.”

He left and Katherine gave me a look that was a cross between Well done and What have you done?

I took her by the arm, looking forward to our drive back to Ground Street. Perhaps she’d educate me a little more on men and their need to be accepted by everyone except those who care about their dreams.