Chapter 39 - GEORGINA—THE FIRST DANCE

Chapter 39

GEORGINA—THE FIRST DANCE

The duke didn’t make his appearance for several hours. He seemed to be one who suffered often from the spring sicknesses.

Yet when he did show, the man was immaculate—white breeches the color of snow, an ivory tailcoat resembling the freshest dairy cream and embellished with seed pearls that surely took weeks to stitch into place.

His white waistcoat glimmered with silver threads. I’d always thought the duke a handsome man, but this was breathtaking. I wasn’t affected because of any sentiment of fancying him. It was how he carried himself. He seemed above everyone in this place. Much of the old money, the ton, was here to taste his wines and devour his foods, to find him lacking.

No one could. Not even the Prince Regent.

The shock and, now growing, awe could be seen on the older guards’ wrinkled faces, their lowering snide noses. Why was it so hard to imagine a man of color with wealth and breeding could be anything less than amazing?

The faint tan in his light olive skin made him beautiful. With touches of art and even his beloved kartoshka piled on silver plates next to a beautiful white soup, he was as English as everyone here but also Russian and Blackamoor.

I felt very proud to know him. I was grateful the Duke of Torrance had championed the Wilcox family.

“Everyone,” I said in a voice unable to hide my glee, “I think our host has found us and is coming our way.”

“Yes, he is.” Katherine sounded wistful. Then I noticed seed pearls on her train. The duke made their outfits match. She looked as if she were the hostess for his ball. Couldn’t she see that if she confessed and told him everything about the pregnancy, the babies, he’d forgive her?

The duke passed the dancers and the performers who wove in and out of the crowd waving colorful flags of silver and gold.

“Welcome to my ball, ladies.” He tapped his large nose as he seemed to examine us, chignon to slippers. “Lovely ladies. You honor my ball.”

Scarlett raised her finger to him. “Sir, what is the significance of the flags?”

“Silver is redemption. Gold is for power. I think they are strong themes to suggest change.” He looked us over again. “I wish to dance with the prettiest Wilcox.”

His hand reached toward Katherine, but then he bent and asked Lydia, “Shall we, madam?”

For a moment, a tiny second, Katherine’s blank expression formed a frown. Then she acquiesced and put the child’s gloved hand in his.

“The duke has singled out our Lydia, Katherine.” I waved them off. “That’s good.”

My sister turned toward the refreshments and disappeared.

Watching Lydia giggle, the duke whirled her around the dance floor.

“I think she’s standing on his toes to waltz,” Scarlett said. “That’s adorable. He’s so good to her.”

It was a humorous, endearing sight, the big man and his biggest admirer swaying under the enormous crystal chandelier.

Mr. Carew entered the hall. Dressed in an ebony tailcoat and dark pantaloons, he looked formal and austere, not the relaxed, affable man we’d known for years.

His hands—they fumbled, rubbing together in white gloves. He seemed nervous. Then he saw us and smiled.

When he came toward us, he bowed. “You look lovely, Miss Wilcox. And Miss Scarlett Wilcox, you’re breathtaking. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in women’s slippers, just your father’s boots.”

He laughed and extended his hand to my sister, and they began to dance.

Oh my. I realized that during the duke’s parade of men, Mr. Carew didn’t know of the competition. He was merely a man caught up in reciting Shakespeare.

Carew wasn’t here for me or anyone.

The duke came to my side. “I didn’t have a conversation with Mr. Carew yet. I thought you might want a little more time at this magical ball to discover your magic.”

“Again, Duke.” Lydia hugged him about his legs. “One more dance.”

“But you can win the bet, Your Grace. Mr. Carew would not refuse to honor your request.”

He stretched a hand to my cheek. “How can I win if you’re the slightest bit unhappy? Don’t fret. As Lady Hampton would say, the d’yavol will have his due.”

The duke bent and picked up Lydia but held my gaze. “Be careful tonight, there are reporters here and darkness. Stay in the light, the brightness of your good heart. All will be well once you perform.”

He turned me toward Mark, and then took Lydia for another spin about the ballroom. What could I do so that the duke and I were both victorious?

* * *

Mark came to me, directly from leaving the furious-looking man, the one I saw earlier sputtering. My music teacher, with garnet-colored cheeks and endearing dimples, bowed to me, then took my hand, kissing it gently before releasing it.

“Miss Wilcox,” he said in a very formal, commanding tone, “good evening. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stay, so I’d like to begin your exhibition of Pleyel. Are you ready to perform?”

Leave? Now?

We hadn’t even danced.

He breathed hard. It wasn’t passion. It was naked fury. “Prahmn is here.”

The tension in his shoulders, the strain in his neck muscles above his fluffy starched cravat told me of his rage. Mark looked like my father on one of those bad coal days. Mama had us leave Papa alone, where he’d sit in her parlor and she’d play the pianoforte or quote him Psalms until he calmed.

Taking Mark’s arm, I swayed him from heading deeper into the ballroom. Off to the side, under a sconce, I saw flames in his eyes.

“Ignore the noise, my lord. You know your worth and what’s right. Nothing anyone says can change that.”

“This said by the woman who refuses to marry me.”

My gaze locked with his. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“It’s a yes, I can’t live without you or no, I can. No is very simple, Georgie.”

If I knew how much I loved him and how much he needed me, I’d run, fancy gold slippers and all. “After the ball, we shall speak about everything.”

Mark peered around my shoulder. “The woman’s with him too. How disrespectful. His hypocrisy is astounding.”

“Please calm down and make sense.”

He bit his lip, and I could see fire and steam coming out my love’s nostrils. “The Marquess of Prahmn told me how disappointed he was in me. I told him how disappointed I was in him. The exchange was unpleasant.”

Mark closed his eyes for a moment. “Georgie, I ask you again to marry me, and I promise that you’ll not regret a day of our union. I’ll do anything to prove myself worthy. I seek your trust. I will build with you a future if you will accept me.”

The word yes lifted from my tongue. But flames radiating in his father’s red face, the scorn coming from his companion’s painted countenance as they neared, chilled my spirit.

“I think we should discuss this tomorrow, away from the ball and prying eyes. They are behind us.”

“Forget them. Georgie, let it be you and me against the world.”

“Tomorrow, sir. There are too many people. The newspapers too. We should be alone and you can take your time convincing me.”

His lips formed a tight line. Then he nodded. “Yes, I see you haven’t had a chance to weigh all of your options. You don’t need to tell me again that you want a man with an established profession—”

“You will be established. Your sonata is wonderful.”

“Yes, my newly finished, non-award-winning piece that will be submitted to the Harlbert’s Prize is wondrous.”

He didn’t believe in himself, not anymore. Prahmn had done that.

Then I saw my reflection on the silver finish of the sconce. I was guilty. I’d taken his confidence too.

He mopped at his brow. “Forgive me. I’m tired. I’ve lost everything tonight. Perhaps it was overdue.” He sighed, letting out more heated breath. “Let’s get your performance done. We’ll stand before the crowd and finally kill the rumors that there was nothing between us other than a music teacher and his student or the fleeting respectability of true love.”

He held out his hand, and I took it. I wanted to slow him, to give him more encouragement, but he’d already led us through the wild crowd and around the fire-breathing acrobats.

At the pianoforte, Mark adjusted his tailcoat and sat at the grand instrument. He began to dazzle the room with a wondrous introduction to Pleyel’s hymn.

The packed drawing room began to hush. He took one palm from the keys, grabbed my hand, and kissed my wrist. “Begin, Miss Wilcox. Show the ball that your voice belongs here.”

I was ready.

We’d prepared. For the first time in public, I would offer my words in song. Opening my mouth, I struck the first note, but the angry gentleman, the Marquess of Prahmn, rushed at us and slammed his fist along the pianoforte’s top.