Chapter 26 - GEORGINA—COOKING UP THE TRUTH

Chapter 26

GEORGINA—COOKING UP THE TRUTH

Mark had me in his arms, kissing me while I had my hands full of flour.

“Forgive me,” he said.

I might’ve gotten out a yes, before his lips found mine again.

Sweet like honey and cardamom, Mark’s passion was better than I’d remembered. His hands encircled my waist, my hips, nestled me nearer.

Suddenly, I wished to be closer, close enough that I could reach into his mind and free his song.

Any anger I had at his tone left with his true apology.

But this, seeking me, wanting me, hungering for me in the kitchen, heated through any resistance I retained.

Skillful, his thumb dipped into the neckline of my gown and drew a treble clef along my throat. His mouth shifted and followed. His lips traced the arch of my neck.

When I felt his hands playing the ribbons of my corset, fingering the cording like pianoforte chords, I ran to the other side of the table and whispered, “I need to finish the biscuits.”

“Georgie, I want your biscuits. I need them to be mine.”

“The dough I’ve halved. It will make twelve. Is that enough?”

“There’s never enough of you. I’m trying to say—”

“You should head back to the pianoforte.”

“Why, Georgie? I was making music with you.”

“This is a kitchen. The Duke of Torrance’s enormous space with an oven and cabinetry on three walls—”

“The way you sound, the way you breathe, you’re an instrument, a magnificent harp that my fingers must possess.”

I eased to the wall with spices, my slippers stepping into the spilled flour he’d swept into a pile. “Look at these jars. He could have apothecaries train here.”

“I hear you in my bed, singing my name as I love you. I want that. Don’t run from us, Georgie.”

His words silenced my ramble. Mark said he wished to love me.

He came closer. “Please don’t run because I am not going to run. I have no more notes. Where they should be is your laugh or the sound of you saying my name. Even how you ask questions spins in my mind every waking minute and more when I drift to sleep.”

Mark took me again in his arms and he held me. With brow against mine, he said, “Georgie, will you be my world. You are my every obsession, true and lovely. I need you to be mine.”

This time when he kissed me, I melted against him. His arms held me safely and securely. His mouth sculpted mine, guiding my response, showing me how to relax and breathe.

He was passion and fire.

And I loved him.

A noise in the hall made me push him away. “We can’t keep doing this. His Grace’s housekeeper and butler both acquiesced to my using the kitchen. If I’m caught—”

“In the throes of passion with your fiancé, would that be wrong?”

Climbing up the short ladder, I wiped up the last of the spilled flour from the wall of jars. “It’s a game, remember.”

“That kiss was no game. My confession is true.”

“None of this can be true. It’s what we agreed.”

“We can un-agree.”

“Mark, that’s not a word.”

He came to the ladder and put his hands out to steady it. “What if we turned our false secret courtship into a true one? Come down, Georgie.”

It was safer up here. I couldn’t be weak and make a mistake that would ruin me and my sisters.

“Then I will wait for you to come down, Sweet Georgie.”

My music teacher stayed at the bottom of the ladder with arms stretched wide to teach me about love or being in love.

Yet, I already knew.

I saw what it did to Katherine, and I felt the ruining of the duke by the loss of love.

Though I was sure I did love Mark and I knew I liked the way it felt to be kissed by him, I wasn’t going to be left devastated by love. I wasn’t a gambler. I couldn’t risk the misery of a broken heart.

“Please come down.” His hand was on my ankle, by the lace of my chemise. His finger heated through my stockings.

I jumped from the ladder.

He took my hand and steadied me. “Why are you frightened by me, Georgie?”

“I’m not frightened by you but by what this means. Mark, what are you asking me?”

“You’re a gentlewoman. I am a gentleman. Let’s be engaged. Let’s love.”

“And then what, Mark?”

“Be happy?”

“That’s not an answer.” I climbed back on the ladder. “We should try some of these spices. I’m looking for the right thing to add to my biscuits.”

Before he could respond, I handed him one. The label was in Russian. “Wonder what spetsiya is?”

Mark took the jar and popped open the top. “Shall we?”

He whipped a finger in and I did too. At the same time, like we were performing a ritual, we stuck the samplings into our mouths.

And began coughing.

“Pepper. Strong pepper,” I said when I could swallow without tasting fire.

“Let’s stick to the containers in English.” He cleared his throat. “There must be a pump and water in the larder. Let’s find it.”

We went to the closet-sized room and began to roam about in the dark.

Mark was behind me. Then his arms were about me.

He spun me and kissed me with his fiery mouth.

With hands at my hips, I found him rushing, lifting my hem, touching my bodice, making me feel like liquid, like a rolling boil, like I’d soon be nothing but steam.

I didn’t want a moment or a memory in the dark. “No. No. Mark.”

He backed into the light.

I smoothed my bodice of wrinkles and picked up my apron, which had fallen. I wanted to wear it like a shawl to cover the swells of my bosom that his hands had lovingly caressed.

My cheeks had to be flame for I wanted more of his touch. It might be wonderful to be free like vapor.

“Georgie, marry me.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped at his brow. His waistcoat had wrinkled, his shirt too. “I’ve not wanted a woman so much, not like this. You’re in my head.”

“Am I crowding out the notes?”

“Yes. No. Of course not.” He stuck his hand in his straight dark brown, almost black hair. “Everything is a torment. If I could have you, have your love, I might be free.”

“But then, what would I be? A wife? A mistress of a third son? I have no fortune. I don’t think the Marchioness of Prahmn would be pleased with such a bride.”

“She’ll come around. She always has.”

“And your father? Will he come around?”

He rubbed his brow. “He . . . they don’t matter. This is about us.”

“I saw my brother-in-law be rejected. It was painful for Tavis. Do you want to go live across the river and use your scope to view Mayfair, the world where you used to belong?”

He put his hands to my shoulders. “Georgie, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“I’m not running right now. But I’m heading to the truth. You’ve said you want my love, that you want to marry me. Shall I be the excuse for no sonata? No Harlbert’s Prize?”

“What?” Mark pulled away. “Georgie?”

“I know your parents will blame me for ruining you. But will you blame me too?”

“Georgie, no. How can I convince you?”

“Every naysayer will claim I distracted your genius. Your very smart friend Livingston will state I’m the cause of your misery. He’ll crow that I stole the notes to your music. That my problems or concerns overshadowed yours.”

“No, Georgie, he’ll claim I’m in love with you because I loved the painting of Dido.”

“What? Is this a fetish? You love a painting of a Black woman and now you care for me?”

“Yes. No. Livingston is wrong. Georgie, I wouldn’t do that. You’re not a painting and I’d never blame you for my failings or every time I wasn’t good enough.”

“I can’t take that chance. Make-believe is safer. That’s the world where Lord Mark and Miss Wilcox live happily ever after. Not 1817, Mayfair.”

His cheeks became red; he was speechless.

My heart was safe in my chest. I went back to the dough I’d been making. “I’ve let the eggs sit too long. I hope that doesn’t make my biscuits flat. The duke loves my biscuits.”

Mark folded his arms. “You’ve had a chance to rethink the duke’s offer. You’re looking to be the mistress of this place, the Duchess of Torrance. The duke told me bits of your conversation.”

“Nonsense. His Grace is a friend.” I watched thunderclouds cover Mark’s face. He didn’t believe me, or that a woman would turn down two gentlemen to maintain her peace.

“Is money important to you, Georgie? In a husband, is that a consideration?”

“One of many. Does he have to be as wealthy as the Duke of Torrance? No. But he must have some prospects. Children have to be provided for. And look at you.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of my circumstances.”

“My brother-in-law was cut off from his family. He relied on my sister’s money. Men look for means as well. His habits almost bankrupted us. If a man can’t stand on his own, no matter what he inherits, he’s not much use to a wife.”

Mark put his hands in his tailcoat pockets. “Well, I suppose that rules my name off your list. I will inherit nothing. I have very little.”

“It should’ve been off the list when you thought I’d marry the duke. Or when, for a moment, you thought Mr. Carew had my eye. You hurriedly wanted to make love to me, merely to claim me. We’ve exchanged no vows, or done anything to make the moment mean something other than my ruin.”

“Is this what you think of me? Georgie, I profess to thinking myself in love. I’m not that experienced with women. Most of you terrify me, but don’t doubt what I feel. You are music.”

“How do you wish me to be your music when you have doubts? You alone have my kisses and you question my fidelity to our false alliance. Shouldn’t I have doubts about you saying anything to bed me?”

“It’s a larder. No bed. Just standing up, holding you, centering you in pleasure, worshiping your body . . .” He covered his mouth. “A thousand pardons. I shouldn’t say—”

“At least you’ve said aloud you want me, but that’s not enough.”

“Georgie, if I tell someone I want to marry them and they don’t believe me, then we have a problem. Perhaps we are of two different worlds.”

“We are. And it’s nice to cross the river, but you have to choose where to live. We can wait until you win a prize to go forward with our life. Anything before will have Livingston and everyone else saying I was your ruin.”

“I am ruined, Georgie. I can’t stop thinking of you. It’s too late to turn away because I am in love with you.”

I moved farther from him. “No. Don’t say any more. I won’t be swayed to a bed or wall.”

“There isn’t a wall between us except the ones you are building to keep us apart. Why are you twisting my words? You know I struggle with them. I don’t want to offend you. I want to love you.”

I started stirring the stiff dough. All the flour was wasted. If I put this on the table, it would stick. None of these biscuits would be any good. Mark and I wouldn’t be any good, not when the passion died.

“Georgie, I know you feel what’s between us. Our struggle is in vain. We should be together.”

“I don’t want struggle, Mark. I don’t want to work so hard at being in love. That’s what the ton wants for couples like us—troubles, humiliation, strife. That’s what Gilroy’s cartoon captured, two fools exhibiting about a pianoforte, being lovey-dovey, while the world plots their doom.” I shook my head, then went to the waste bin and dumped the dough.

I turned and took a long look at the man I loved, dark hair and eyes, and knew what I felt wasn’t enough. “At the duke’s ball, I sing. You play. Then we end our secret affair as we had planned. We stop now, no one is hurt. We can go on as friends. No one’s future is changed.”

He wiped at his mouth and headed toward the door. “I gave my word. I’ll continue our charade. Maybe this heartache will clear enough space for the notes to flow.”

“I want you to win, Mark. But I need to win too.”

With a bow, my music teacher left.

When I no longer heard his footsteps, I ran to the larder, pitched my biscuit bowl into the sink and cried.