Chapter 20 - MARK—BUMPING INTO BIRDIES

Chapter 20

MARK—BUMPING INTO BIRDIES

The retrieved pocket scope in my palm felt heavy but not as weighty or as frigid as the stares I received accompanying Miss Wilcox into Hyde Park’s brush. Her questions, her gentle laugh made me forget the annoyances and absorb the beauty of the grounds. This London treasure was green and—unlike last year, the coldest in a century—lush with flowers. Azaleas and bluebells put pops of pink and blue everywhere.

The abundant nectar called to the birds and this bird-watcher. My usual secondary habit, of viewing the season’s fairest maidens strolling with their mamas or newest suitors, was something I abandoned. Why stray with a goddess on my arm, no matter how safe or boring she thought I was.

She sighed with pleasure as I showed her another red-chested robin.

Was it odd to enjoy the sounds she made? She was an instrument, like a beautiful harp, but one meant not only to be admired but listened to, sought out, and loved.

It wasn’t the first time notions of deeper feelings for Georgina Wilcox crossed my mind, my heart. It was why I didn’t appease my mother. Even if this was a false romance, the time I spent admiring Georgina was true.

Something about being my own man made me want a woman who understood what that meant. The complexity and precarious nature of my position could only be sympathetic to someone who in her own way had taken a stance, rebelled, and now lived with the consequences.

“Lord Mark, I’ve always loved the outdoors. I walk along the Thames. The duke has come with me too.”

Oh. Torrance. Helpful Torrance. “What is it you both like about walking near the Thames? The smell of sulfur. The crowd of boats.”

“We . . . well, I like to listen to the water.”

“Listen? Not watch it and the waves? How does the song of the water compare to a tit’s or a robin’s?”

“Let me think,” she said. In deep thought, probably searching for the right words, she hummed, but I only noticed how shapely her silhouette looked when she crossed her arms—nicely curved, thick hips meant for a full embrace.

“The Thames moans. Sometimes it swishes, lapping at the shore. It sounds lonely, like these birds. The tit and the robin are looking for their mate. The river sounds as if it mourns the loss of love.”

“That’s depressing, Georgina. And hauntingly beautiful.”

She offered me a glimpse of a smile, then quickly turned away.

“What is it?”

Drawing her hand to her face, she whispered, “They’re looking at us. I hate the angry glares.”

Swiveling, peering through trees, I saw a couple, a middle-aged woman and gentleman in a military-style hat, standing at the bend in the lane gawking. I was tempted to take my scope and identify these two, but to know the names would make it worse.

While many saw Georgina and me and didn’t seem to care, other couples had stared.

Some slowed and pointed at us, others backed away as if we were a plague.

The anger I felt at my mother’s warning doubled in my heart.

“Don’t grimace, my lord. Ignore. The angry couple went another direction.”

I’d like to think my scornful gaze wore them down, that I’d protect Georgina from physical harm, name-calling, or any other slights the two had cooked up.

Yet, I knew the truth.

Cowards hated confrontation.

And unless they were without a reason to run, they’d still be on this path awaiting their moment to ruin mine.

My companion’s voice, her sweet tones drew me from my fury. “Please, Mark. Don’t let them antagonize you. Ignore them. Just another curious set of eyes wondering if we were the ones in the cartoon. I think we are too handsome a pair for that.”

Her soft, matter-of-fact tone, her lyrical chuckles, cut like glass. This shouldn’t be a way to live, awaiting random acts of unkindness and having to excuse the ones that intrude upon your peace.

I couldn’t say anything. I was too stunned at how easily she accepted the slights.

One simple, grunted fine had to replace the off-color sentiments I wished to utter.

But I peered at the serene beauty at my side, one who looked unbothered and refreshing in a pinkish-color-trimmed bonnet that shaded her olive skin, skin shimmering like luminous pearls.

“The bird, my lord. Are you stopping to show me another bird?”

“Yes, but let’s go this way, deeper into the hedges.”

The gorse was sculpted, pared back, allowing a line of daffodils to make a solid yellow streak. It was a golden trail, something to follow, something to make my mind focus on nature and the most natural thing in the world, a wonderful woman.

“Tell me what you’ll do when you win the Harlbert’s Prize. Will you crow about it like a magnificent magpie?”

“Perhaps. There are quite a few people I would want to know.”

“Like who?”

“My father would be an obvious candidate.” The man didn’t appreciate art and possessed no true love of music. Why else would he allow such hideous copies of Roman statues in the Grosvenor house? “Yes, I’d love to see his face admitting he was wrong.”

“Just, Lord . . .”

“Lord Prahmn. And add my mother and her war council. I suppose it’s wrong for me to want some understanding from them.”

“If it’s not something they can truly give, will you be fine with that? My sister had to accept that Lord Hampton lost his family when they married.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a family, Georgina.”

Looking over my shoulder, I saw the gawkers had cleared. The path was again ready for our leisurely stroll. I led Georgina and refused to let an inch of sunlight separate us.

“I’m sorry if I ask too impertinent of questions. I’ve sent you running deeper into your thoughts.”

“Running. Yes, Miss Wilcox. Yes, to being lost in my head, but no. No, to your question not being worthy of an answer. I suppose I’d want my brothers to know. My elder brother, Gerald, likes music. He adores Haydn. He’s the only one to encourage me. To be fair, the second oldest, Christopher, he’d already sailed to war before I showed any true talent.”

“All brothers. Sisters are all I have. I would’ve liked to have a brother.” Her eyes held a sense of sadness.

“But weren’t you close to Lord Hampton? I’d been given that impression when we first met.”

“I liked him. He had a great sense of humor. My sister’s husband was good-natured, but he troubled Katherine. I think she . . . we thought he’d open up his world to us. That his influence would grow Wilcox Coal. It did the opposite, and he put a great deal of pressure upon her—”

“To change in some fashion or to ignore the stares.”

Georgina glanced at me and nodded. Though tall, we were the same height, mouth to mouth.

“If I said I’m sorry, I guess that would sound patronizing.”

“Still feels good to hear. Makes me feel less otherworldly too. But let’s not acknowledge them or give credence to their questions.”

“The questioner wants to ignore questions?”

“Yes, Mark, for they want to know why is she here, why does she smile and look so confident? Where is her shame? Doesn’t she know she’s breaking a rule?”

Georgina stooped and picked a white bud from the gorse and twirled it in her fingers. “Or worse—”

“There can’t be anything worse than what you’ve said.”

Casting the flower back to earth, she sighed. “Some want gratitude. Where’s the gratitude? Why doesn’t she humble herself every moment she enters a forbidden room? Doesn’t she know we’ve allowed her to exist? I guess it’s my privilege to be allowed to live.”

Her heavy lashes sparkled. They were damp.

The prettiest flower in Hyde Park had sprouted tears like morning dew.

Stopping under the heavy bough of a chestnut tree, I retrieved a handkerchief and softly mopped her eyes.

“There’s nothing to say,” she remarked, “but sorry.”

“You haven’t done this.”

“Haven’t I? I’ve entangled you. I have good breeding, but manners and thoughtfulness aren’t the same. I should’ve thought things through. The angry faces could be people who would be Wilcox Coal clients or men on the Halbert’s Prize committee. My impulsiveness could ruin all our futures. This cure for my reputation could do the same thing.” Georgina stared into my eyes. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

She regretted our kiss.

I didn’t.

This goddess took the cloth from my fingers. For a few moments of pleasure, the pressure of her fingertips was against mine.

It would be wrong to kiss her now, to take her in my arms and taste those plump lips once more. Then I heard notes.

They were as clear as the birds’ tweets. Da da dum.

But I’d have to remember them. I’d rather stay here, watch the sunshine reflect on the flecks of gold in Georgina’s wet irises and contemplate how to kiss her.

She waved her hands and pushed air toward her face. “I’m making something into more than what it is. I’m well. Let’s think of it as a joke, my lord. The sketch in the paper is someone’s poor joke.”

“Remarkable to take the insults and twist them into something milder.”

“Of course.” She finished wiping her eyes. “People who care nothing for me can’t be a part of my thoughts. That’s control. I don’t wish them to have that.”

“Then why are you nervous when you sing?”

“Because singing for the river or close friends is a joy. Singing out loud to strangers is for them. I give a performance, and I’m expected to take their judgment. I have to wait for their approval.”

I’d assumed Georgina shy, like me. This was so much more.

Last night, I left my mother’s thinking I was my own man, that nothing could harm me.

One look at how self-conscious my world made Georgina, how she had to close her eyes to sing the lyrics out loud, I hurt for her.

“I envy you, Mark. You’re a gifted artist. And you have the courage to accept an audience’s praise and their condemnation. You have to be very confident to do that. That’s a gift.”

“You are gifted. It’s my job to build your confidence to exhibit.”

Holding out my arm to her, I wanted her to seize it, to hold on to me like she knew I’d protect her. I would, no matter the cost.

When another staring couple passed us, Georgina walked at my side with more sunshine between us.

I gulped and had to accept that she didn’t believe in me—not for her safety, not to defend her dreams.

If I failed at music, I could grovel and still be welcomed back into the Sebastian fold. I was a peer’s son, a lord. And with promises to conform, maybe even go for the church, all would be forgiven.

But what of Miss Wilcox?

The Wilcoxes had money problems with their coal business. I doubted if their finances could sustain a prolonged scandal. Clients like my mother and her network could make things difficult.

Watching people watching us, I knew I’d survive the newspapers and the gawkers, but not the goddess. She and the Wilcoxes would be devoured by those who fed on gossip.