Chapter 34 - MARK—HILARIOUSLY HAUGHTY HAUTE TON MINUS HIM

Chapter 34

MARK—HILARIOUSLY HAUGHTY HAUTE TON MINUS HIM

Scooping up the last chocolaty kartoshka, I listened to Scarlett Wilcox’s line of questions. They were pretty good. She’d eliminated a lot of candidates.

“So you’re saying that if your wife wanted you to not go to the races and bet on ponies, you will do that, Mr. Armstrong?” Scarlett asked the gentleman at the far end. He bred prize mares for the Prince Regent that he’d run at the Bibury races. I believed he had an interest at several racing tracks.

The man puffed his cheeks like a chipmunk and said, “Well, there are many considerations. But if my wife were so inclined, and this would lead to her happiness, it would definitely be something to think about.”

Georgina turned to her sister. “I think that’s a no.”

The Earl of Livingston, who was also sitting near, tried to hold in a snorted laugh and failed miserably.

The duke crossed his arms and leaned back like he’d fallen asleep.

Would Torrance admit this was an abject failure?

I cleared my throat. “Perhaps we should take a break. The gardens are lovely.”

“Excellent suggestion, Sebastian. Gentlemen, please go to the dining room. There are more treats, but the ginger Cornish Fairings made by Miss Wilcox are gone.”

Blast it. Was I ever going to have this woman’s biscuits?

His Grace probably offered the enticements as a way to remind the gentlemen of Georgie’s domestic skills.

It wasn’t a her problem.

It was a them issue.

This was a room filled with lackluster performers who’d openly lie to try to gain her dowry.

Before the meeting, Mr. Steele and the housekeeper came and cleared the sideboard of Torrance’s strange liqueurs and elixirs and filled the space with pastries and scones and choice meats. They were all but gone. The men feasted and missed the obvious dessert, Georgie Wilcox.

It was an impulse to wave at her, to get the running lady to come to me. But she stayed safely inside, away from more scandal and me, a man whose future was in flux.

Livingston walked over and offered a glass of champagne. “Oh, this is going swimmingly well. We’ve weeded out candidates of quick tempers and the gamblers.”

“Honestly, sir, this is a disaster. The ones remaining are better liars.”

“O, ye of little faith. Trust me. Trust the process.” He rubbed his hands together like an evil minion. “The only woman to tempt my friend to think of renouncing his bachelorhood will soon be taken. That’s a celebration.”

“Maybe I’m the old-fashioned one, but love should be enough, for her and me.”

Livingston laughed so hard, I thought he’d faint. “No, Sebastian. What does love have to do with it? Or anything? For a woman, a marriage is security and trust. For a man, it’s trust, a warm bed, and a partner to reach the hard-to-reach places. None of it is worth more than your freedom.”

“Freedom to buy courtesans and spend your time gossiping with your mother? Yes, you’ve surely done a great deal with yours.”

He took a ginger-smelling biscuit hidden in a napkin and ate it in front of me. “Well, if you had married her, you would need to ensure she sent me a basket of these Cornish Fairings regularly. The woman is gifted.”

“I’m in pain, and you torment me with her biscuits.”

His face darkened. The levity in his brown eyes disappeared. “My wife did the best thing by leaving. If you can’t be happy that there are good choices for Miss Wilcox, perhaps you should consider walking out the door and going back to the safe, distant music room.”

“What, you want me to go to Dido too?”

“What? Dido Belle, the Kenwood painting, is here?”

“Yes, Torrance arranged for it.”

“You twat, Sebastian. You’re in love with a painting and transferred your lusts to a real woman. You made Miss Wilcox a fetish. Go to your music. Stay away from her.”

“No. No. Not a fetish. I know the difference between paint and flesh. I love her flesh. I mean, I want . . . I want Georgina Wilcox.” I put my palm on his sleeve. “Calm down, sir. Help me find a way to win her. I’ll gamble everything for her.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “You can’t do this to Miss Wilcox. You can’t make love to her and allow her to make life-altering decisions when all you’re experiencing is some Pygmalion transfer emotions. It’s not to be borne.”

My mouth hung open. I was speechless, truly without words.

A gentleman bumped me, offered his apology, and walked with his friend to the sideboard. One I recognized as the man who bred ponies for the races.

“She’s a little brighter than I expected, but I thought she’d be fairer,” he said. “Maybe that’s only the girls sent up from the plantations in the Caribbean.”

“Yeah,” the friend said. “This one’s just from across the river.”

They chuckled amongst themselves.

I looked at Livingston.

We exchanged no words but each of us grabbed a man by the shoulders and hauled them out of the study.

“What’s the meaning of this?” The big fellow who’d made the river comment adjusted his tailcoat. “We have not been dismissed from the competition.”

I pointed to the door. “You failed the test. Both of you must leave.”

“Don’t make a scene,” Livingston said. “Just leave.”

“Let’s take this outside.” The one who made the plantation comment chortled.

As soon as the four of us were outside and the footman had closed the doors, the horseman put up his fists. “Let’s settle this quickly, I have a prize pony to win.”

I wrenched him up by his lousy tied cravat.

Livingston grabbed the other, and my friend, the man of science, gave him a chop perfectly centered in his back.

Before the buffoons could regain their balance, we threw them onto their buttocks and watched them bang down the steps of Anya House.

The fools cursed and shook fists but spent more time complaining of shock.

“Does your helping toss out men mean you are done with this, Livingston?”

“In science, you must eliminate the outliers. This was manual ejection of bad data. Those fools needed to be excluded from Torrance’s experiment.”

Mr. Steele came outside and tossed hats and gloves at the fools. “As the duke would say, do svidaniya. Goodbye!”

He closed the doors, then disappeared. The man asked no questions, as if it were an everyday thing to expel visitors by force.

Stretching, Livingston said, “If a woman must marry, it should be to someone good. Someone who’ll be kind and respectful.”

“My sentiments exactly. That’s why I must stop—”

“No, Sebastian, you won’t. I wish no ill will to Miss Wilcox, but there are a lot more fools like those two in this world. You haven’t the means to protect a wife, any wife. A woman who has a background and life that’s different from yours needs more. You’re a good man, Sebastian. You’ll stand up to strangers but not your family. Prahmn will be worse than the folks we just kicked out. He can hurt you and the Wilcoxes.”

I couldn’t move or respond.

That saying about a broken clock being right twice a day was correct.

Livingston said the truth aloud to my face.

And I was ashamed.

The vaulted prize I needed to become established, I’d pushed my entry to next year. It must feel so arbitrary to Georgina. The delay meant I’d need my family’s support.

How cruel that must sound to her, to think her husband might be dependent on the whims of people who could turn her—us—away.

No woman should be made to endure any abuse for the sake of love. Yet that was how I’d been telling Georgie our lives would be.

I wasn’t as good as the horrid pony owner, a man who could provide for a wife. That boorish man could offer a woman security.

The notion to be a better man and step aside started to burn, scorched my fingertips. Yet when I stepped into the duke’s hell, his red study with the parade of men roaming like Hades’s Cerberus, I felt sick.

I glanced at Georgie. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to sear a memory between the two of us that would be lasting.

But moments ended.

Memories faded.

I shrank into the corner, hoping all the science came to the conclusion that none of these candidates would work. I needed one more chance, just a little more time, but the hourglass for Georgie’s and my future had drained of sand.

* * *

After another round of questioning and further shrinking of the candidate pool, I retook my position in the back next to Livingston, waiting for Torrance and the Wilcox sisters to return.

I believed they’d gone to the maze. The Wilcox women floating on his arms were stylish and graceful. The goddess, my goddess, had the perfect skin, lovely and warm. Unlike my sainted Dido, her chignon was free. The prettiest, tightest curls were pulled high.

The doors to the study opened.

The duke led the ladies back inside and helped them to sit beside his desk.

Torrance turned to the younger. “Miss Scarlett. It’s your turn again to ask the remaining gentlemen. We should pick candidates with whom you’d want your sister to get more acquainted.”

Wait. Did my ears deceive me? Was Torrance backing down?

Miracle. I could sing Georgie’s hymn.

The younger Wilcox looked pensive, making marks with her quill. “Since the science isn’t working, let’s start at behavior, social behavior.”

The duke’s face blanked, but he lifted his palm and waved for her to continue.

She lifted her chin. “Does anyone enjoy Drury Lane?”

That was an easy one. I sat back, waiting to see how the men would ruin this one.

Rounds of It’s delightful.

And variations of The price is good, particularly in the seats by the orchestra pit sounded.

Those were very cheap seats that didn’t adequately protect women from insults, or even from being pelted by food being thrown from a rowdy crowd. I hoped Georgina realized these theater patrons were noes.

My musical student shifted in her seat. “Do we have drama lovers in here that admire Shakespeare?”

Another easy question. Georgie must be tired. Surely Torrance would put an end to this.

Yet what if she’d become so desperate to be married that she’d lower her opinions to find a potential candidate?

My stomach soured. What if I’d made her that desperate?

The scandal still stewed.

Though in the last days, there had been no new cartoons, I knew the ton had not forgotten. Gilroy might even have the audacity to come to the duke’s ball.

A few men mentioned Romeo and Juliet. Another mentioned The Taming of the Shrew, which drew laughs, but not from the sisters or the duke.

“ ‘She moves me not—or not removes, at least, affection’s edge in me.’ ”

The voice, dark and passionate, came from the rear of the crowded room.

“ ‘If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks, as though she bid me stay by her a week.’ ”

The booming voice grew louder, quoting lines from The Taming of the Shrew. Men moved out of the way as one person came forward.

“ ‘If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day when I shall ask the banns, and when be married.’ Oh, Miss Georgina Wilcox, Miss Scarlett Wilcox. ‘Better once than never, for never too late.’ ”

Georgie stood and began to clap. “Mr. Carew, I did not know you liked Shakespeare. You always seem so reserved.”

“Miss Wilcox, I visited under an official capacity to help your family when illness reared its ugly head. This is a social visit. Torrance, if I had known that you also hold meetings to discuss sonnets, I would find a way to fit them into my schedule.”

Georgie’s face lit. The sister’s too.

The affable, handsome man responsible for the little girl’s recovery was standing in the red study and making love to my Georgie with damned Shakespeare’s help.

Was I wrong, wanting him to trip, to do something to look less assured, less elegant?

“Sir, I’m glad you could come,” Torrance said. “Inviting you to this slipped my mind. That was an oversight. A very bad oversight.”

The duke smirked at Georgina, then engaged Mr. Carew in a deeper conversation.

He dismissed everyone else to the dining room.

Resistant, I began to move.

“Let this all go, Sebastian. Let her go.” Livingston’s admonishment was right but didn’t help.

I left as Georgie started smiling, those gorgeous goddess lips broadly curving and the sweet too-smart Miss Scarlett fanning, looking like she’d swoon.

A final glance at the duke showed Torrance slumping into his chair like a burden lifted. He should rest well. I believed he’d won his wager.