“They would not be alone, since I will be here,” he countered, the underlying message that he would be there for her not transmitting as he wished.
“Somehow I doubt that would convince Lord Essenton. You have the luxury of freedom and waiting years or decades before marriage with your perfect, aristocratic wife, even then to do as you wish. I do not have that luxury.”
“You speak as if in your dotage! I hardly think one or two years will render you unfit as a wife, Miss Darcy. And think of what you could accomplish here. We could compose together, brilliantly, as Professor Florange said!”
“Is this why you brought me here, Mr. Butler? Was it ever about my pleasure in viewing a place wondrous and unique or only to exert your selfish wishes for glory? Is our friendship nothing to you but a means to an end?”
Color washed over his cheeks as anger surged. He involuntarily leaned closer and pressed one palm against the wall above her head. “Never would I wish to cause you pain, Miss Darcy, whether you wish to believe it or not,” he replied acidly, his eyes hard as granite. “My heart is honorable in its intention to want you to excel. Perhaps I am somewhat selfish, but only in that I desire your company and will miss our collaboration when you depart. Can you honestly say you will not miss it as well? Is that what you fear and why you insult me and cheapen our relationship with ludicrous accusations?”
Georgiana had not budged. In unconscious increments, Sebastian had drawn closer to her immobile body until his face was scant inches away from hers. His words penetrated her mind but she found them difficult to assimilate with his presence overpowering her senses. His mouth was so close, his stormy eyes mesmerizing and his masculine cologne stinging her nostrils in a most pleasant manner.
Kiss
me
rose unbidden to her lips and for a dizzying moment she thought she may have spoken aloud when his eyes lowered to her parted mouth and he leaned even closer.
“Butler! Is that you? Ha, indeed it is! What a surprise!”
Sebastian jerked as if scorched by a hot brand and whirled about to face the owner of the voice, his tall body hiding Georgiana, a fact she was grateful for as she needed the concealment to compose her shattered wits and frayed emotions. From the strain in his voice, Sebastian was as impaired, although he did manage to string words into a sentence which is more than she could have done.
“Lord Caxton! Unbelievable. I had no idea you were here. Teaching?”
“As always. A position was offered and I could not pass it up. I have been here for nearly two years now. I cannot stay away from home for too long, however, and will return this summer. I heard you were touring the Continent, so I am not shocked you gravitated this direction. Thinking of enrolling?”
“I already have, for the fall session. Have no fear, however, as I shall not torture you by taking one of your classes.”
“I shall be gone by fall, but my successor will be thrilled at the news. I could not pass by without greeting, but I apologize for interrupting your… discussion with the lady.”
“No! Not at all!” Sebastian stepped to the side and turned toward Georgiana, extending his hand. “Please, forgive my rudeness. Miss Darcy, I have the honor of introducing you to an old friend and long-suffering instructor from Oxford, Baron Caxton of Alford Hall in Suffolk. Caxton, Miss Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”
Caxton bowed, his brows lifting slightly. “Miss Darcy,
enchanté.
It is a pleasure indeed. I have had the good fortune to meet your brother on a handful of occasions and Mrs. Darcy once. Luck has smiled upon me greatly now to make your acquaintance.”
Georgiana’s turbulent emotions had no opportunity to recover, one glance at Lord Caxton sending them spiraling. Air escaped her lungs in a rush, the greatest of self-control required to not stammer and drop her mouth open.
Standing before her was the most physically exquisite man she had ever beheld. He was only of medium height, but brawny and possessing a face to rival the gods as personified on canvas or in marble. Nothing she had viewed in Italy eclipsed the figure standing before her. He was flesh and blood. His perfectly chiseled attractiveness was magnified by lushly curled coal-black hair, dynamic ebony eyes, bronzed skin, and a full mouth lifted in a vibrant smile.
As handsome as his person, equally impactful was his vitality. He possessed an energy within that was rawly male and charismatic, piercing her as a lightning bolt even from several feet away. She was enervated and terrified, her core shaken by an instantaneous, visceral reaction to another human being unlike anything she had ever experienced.
He stepped closer, increasing the power of his impression, and for a second she feared she would swoon! But somehow her hand was in his, being lifted toward his lips, serving as an anchor to her drowning spirit. He stopped before making contact, his warm breath feathering across her knuckles in time with the musical cadence of his voice.
“An extreme pleasure it is, Mademoiselle Darcy, my only sadness is that I have been deprived of your company these many years.”
“You know my brother?” she responded automatically, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears that she barely heard her own voice and had little idea what she was saying.
The baron stared as if equally enchanted, dazzling her further. “Indeed quite well. My uncle is the Duke of Grafton, who has partnered with Mr. Darcy for some years now, as you are undoubtedly aware, and we are rabid horse enthusiasts all. I frequent the tracks and am a member of the Jockey Club, although my duties to Oxford, and now here, do not allow me to participate as I would wish.”
“You are a professor?”
“I teach the violin. One of the few instruments poor Butler here could never master. Quite inept with it, I must reveal.” He nodded toward Sebastian but did not remove his rapt attention from Georgiana. “Thankfully, he has myriad other talents. Miss Darcy, pray, tell me my good fortune is continuing and you will be attending the opera tonight?”
“The answer is an affirmative, my lord. I will be in the company of my uncle and aunt, Lord and Lady Matlock.”
“Excellent news. You shall see me in the orchestra. I lead the string division of the Académie Royale de Musique. Do you like opera, Miss Darcy?”
“Very much.”
“If my prejudice can be excused, I must say that we perform Rossini’s
The
Barber
of
Seville
extraordinarily well. You will be delighted.”
“I am certain I shall.”
“Your opinion is one I will appreciate hearing, Miss Darcy, if I may be granted permission to converse with you in the salon afterwards? Fresh ears offer unique insights that are of tremendous value.”
Georgiana murmured a promise to render a critique, Baron Caxton’s vibrant smile of appreciation increasing the fluttering in her chest and capturing her focus so thoroughly that she almost missed his next sentence. “Tomorrow evening is the gala in memoriam of Duc de Berri. Dare I hope to be so fortunate as to assume your presence there as well?”
“I have been invited and would not miss it for the world.”
“Stupendous! Forgive my continued boldness upon such short acquaintance, but it would be my greatest honor to secure a dance, or possibly two, Miss Darcy? I posit that I must secure your favor now, prior to other gentlemen dominating your attention ere I locate you amid the crowds.”
“You are far too generous, Baron.”
“Not at all. I shall anticipate the delight of your company both evenings. Unless”—he looked suddenly to a forgotten Sebastian—“I beg your forgiveness. Is there an understanding?” He gestured between the two.
“No! Not at all,” Georgiana blurted, shaking her head emphatically. “Mr. Butler and I are friends, nothing more. I would be pleased to dance with you tomorrow Lord Caxton.”
“Wonderful. Well then, until tonight Mademoiselle Darcy. I will be counting the hours, I assure you. Now, I fear I must be on my way. I am already late for class and hopefully my students have decided to devote their free time to practice.”
He bowed deeply, eyes caressing her face before tearing away to address Sebastian. “Butler, will you be at the gala tomorrow? Fabulous. We can reminisce then. Adieu, Miss Darcy.”
He inclined his head again, this time drawing in the hand he still clasped to his lips for a glancing kiss.
Georgiana followed his progress down the hall, entranced and unaware of peripheral stimulants. At the corner Lord Caxton turned his head, smiled broadly as he waved to her, and then disappeared from view.
Chapter Nine
Opera: A Dramatic Song
No! Not at all!… friends, nothing more!”
She had practically shouted it and the words continued to pound inside his brain. The music rising from the orchestra pit and booming voices from the stage were insufficient in drowning the harsh exclamation.
Sebastian stole a glance to the box four to the right of his. Miss Darcy’s profile was softly outlined in the muted light of the opera house, her eyes gazing out and down. Was it just his imagination that she was peering into the recessed pit where the musicians played?
Probably,
he thought sourly,
not
that
it
matters
to
me.
A nudge into his ribs interrupted the musings, Sebastian turning toward his grandmother. Lady Warrow fluttered her fan daintily, her eyes also staring fixedly at the stage. She was smiling, her face gay and relaxed, yet he knew she was displeased. How could she not be? Her escort had been surly and distracted since meeting her in the foyer before leaving for the opera. In truth, he had been battling a host of negative emotions all afternoon.
Sebastian had stood in the hallway outside Professor Florange’s office observing the interplay between Lord Caxton and Miss Darcy while his insides churned savagely.
Seconds before Caxton’s interruption he had been a hairbreadth away from kissing her. In a public passageway! He could almost taste the pleasure of her lips. The warmth of her breath caressed his face with each rapid exhale, utterly intoxicating him and wreaking havoc on his reason. The yearning had been so overwhelming that he did not know what had shaken him more—his raging lust for her kiss or his raging lust to murder Lord Caxton for stopping him! Nothing remotely similar had ever happened to him, and to say he had been unnerved would be the understatement of the century.
His composure had taken a serious hit from their heated encounter. His choler seethed alongside the wild rush of ardor, neither noticeably diminishing in the minutes after Lord Caxton’s intrusion.
Then, to stand there forgotten while Caxton and Miss Darcy flirted was agonizing. He recognized the searing pain that flooded his body as uncontainable jealousy, the additional emotion compounding his distress. He was used to women responding to Lord Caxton, the man’s allure a well-known fact even if other men did not comprehend it; however, watching Miss Darcy’s pronounced reaction was something else entirely.
The cumulative assault rendered him physically ill.
Georgiana had remained silent throughout the ride to the de Valday townhouse on Île Saint-Louis. Whether that was from anger toward him or some other emotion he refused to name he could not begin to discover, the lump in his throat and churning bile in his stomach preventing conversation.
He had stewed all afternoon, arriving at the Théâtre National in a foul mood that did not improve when the brief encounter with Miss Darcy in the crowded salon gave him little to grasp on to. Was she remote in her welcome? Or was his imagination heightened? He could not decide which was the case, but to his mystification he seemed painfully aware of her tiniest nuance as never before.
Attending to the performance was impossible, as his grandmother’s frequent subtle prods into his side proved. For the first time in his life, music did not calm him and for that alone his irritation grew. As the baron had promised, this rendition of
The
Barber
of
Seville
was excellent—or rather those short portions he did manage to focus upon were beautifully done. Maddeningly, he discovered the words of their argument ringing through his brain with strength and clarity sufficient to drown the heavy coloratura contralto of Rosina and lush baritone of Figaro!
He pointedly avoided encountering her in the salon during intermission, that a feat easy to accomplish as the attendance for the gala performance was sold out. The recent stabbing of the Duc de Berri, nephew of Louis XVIII, on the steps of the Rue de Richelieu Opera House, had greatly upset the standard schedule of musical entertainments in Paris. While the antics of Polichinelle continued upon the stage, the heir to France’s throne suffered for hours in one of the salons ere his death before dawn. None in the audience or upon the stage were aware that the tragedy had occurred, but all in Paris grieved and felt the consequences when the Emperor closed the Rue de Richelieu permanently.
The Académie de Musique floundered without a permanent home—and would for months to come—the hastily organized two-night gala to benefit opera and honor Duc de Berri becoming a special event for Parisians.
For Sebastian, the advantage of the evening laid in the crowds of people separating him from Miss Darcy, his emotions yet too raw to trust. He vacillated between wanting to seek her out and apologize to irritation for feeling he needed to apologize. His assurance that ignoring her was best warred with his dismay that she did not appear to be looking for him. Moments of mature reasoning that said their friendship was valuable and worth salvaging were smothered by the childish impulse to run away from an emotional situation he was not prepared to cope with.
A long night of sleeplessness and an endless day of pretending he was not dwelling upon the situation with Miss Darcy—when his thoughts rarely strayed elsewhere—had sapped his strength. He felt older than his grandmother when he finally entered the glittering ballroom where the gala was in full swing. Lady Warrow had chosen another escort for the evening, rightfully assuming the Marquis de Dumet significantly more charming than her grandson would be. Cheery he may not be, but Sebastian had managed to reach a measure of emotional stability by the time he crossed the threshold to be immediately greeted by friends from the Conservatoire. Within minutes of jovial converse, his mood improved. So did his confidence in restoring his friendship with Miss Darcy.
For a time, that is.
“Have you and Mademoiselle Darcy suffered a misunderstanding of some nature?”
Sebastian’s hand jerked at the question but resumed its path toward his mouth, the sip of wine taken before he answered Monsieur Laroche. “Not at all,” he lied. “Why do you ask?”
“You have not danced with the lady yet tonight, nor spoken one word to her, both an oddity striking in their irregularity. We have grown accustomed to the two of you in constant companionship.”
“
We
? Who is this
we
encompassing?”
“Everyone,” Laroche responded.
“
Everyone
is a great number indeed. I was unaware my actions were scrutinized by the entire population of Paris.”
“No need to bristle, my friend. We Frenchman are notorious gossips, especially when it pertains to matters involving love.”
“Therefore it may please you to learn that
love
has nothing to do with my attachment to Miss Darcy. We are friends, nothing more.”
Laroche’s brows lifted at the subtle churlish emphasis on the last two words. “As you wish. Thanks for the clarification to what we were speculating was an extremely poor judgment call on your part.”
“There is that
we
again. How pleased I am to have provided a wealth of amused conversation to so many people. And do, pray tell, enlighten me as to my poor judgment?”
Laroche bobbed his head toward the punch bowl where Georgiana stood engaged in conversation with Lord Caxton. Sebastian winced at the sight of her beautiful face lifted toward the baron, their mutual admiration visible from across the room.
“Leaving a prospective
amour
in the custody of Lord Caxton is unwise, or incredibly foolish. Women are drawn to him as a magnet, as are a few men I could name but shall not. Personally, I am blinded to his allure but not heedless of the reality. Nor am I so moronic as to allow my sweet Flavie to be in the same building the baron is in let alone talk to him!”
“Your mistrust of Mademoiselle Flavie’s devotion to you, Laroche, strikes me as a personal character flaw or failing in your relationship. And this after you boast incessantly of your lady’s infatuation and crazed hunger for you,” Sebastian countered, hoping to ruffle the ofttimes volatile musician and thus divert the topic away from Baron Caxton’s attentiveness to Miss Darcy, a fact surely as obvious to everyone in the room as it painfully was to him. Alas, Laroche did not react as desired.
“I am merely presenting the truth of it. You have known the baron longer than anyone here so must have seen hundreds of women fall at his feet,
oui
?”
“Lord Caxton is an upstanding gentleman of London Society. His manners are impeccable with no hint of scandal or impropriety ever.”
Laroche grunted. “Pathetic. What man would not sell his soul to be that handsome and to possess his power over the opposite sex? God knows I would, and then revel in the joy of endless pleasure and adoration every day until the devil takes me. Yet, he behaves as a
gentleman
! Unnatural, I maintain.”
“With that attitude, I suspect Mademoiselle Flavie has the greater reason to distrust.”
“Laugh all you want, Butler, and go on living with your delusions. It is true that he is a fine gentleman and respected teacher. We have yet to see him tumble a single maid or hear a whisper of an indiscretion with a female student…”
“I doubt you will.”
“…but we are waiting.”
“
We
again? How is it that I am not including in this infamous
we
?”
“You will be, once you are a true student… and after the initiation!”
“Initiation?”
“Never mind that”—Laroche waved Sebastian’s concerned scowl away—“you will pass the test and then can partake of the betting. Yes, the betting”—he hastily nodded at the question etched upon Sebastian’s face—“such as when will Lord Caxton weary of his costly visits to Madame Roux’s establishment and succumb to one of the determined ladies who dog his every step, with heaving bosoms and bold solicitations freely advanced. The man is only human, is he not?”
Sebastian shook his head. “I believe you and your cronies are doomed to failure on this wager. I
have
known Caxton for years, and he simply is not a rogue. I venture your wager will remain uncollected.”
“Ah, but if he were to set his gaze upon a woman? That, my friend, would be a different story altogether.” Again he nodded his head toward Lord Caxton and Miss Darcy—the two now on the dance floor for the second set—leaned close to Sebastian, and whispered, “Is there a female alive who could resist such masculine handsomeness and charisma?”
The swallow of wine lodged in his throat, Sebastian gulping past the spasm that threatened to spew the liquid out of his mouth. Laroche pounded him on the back, his laughter preventing further references to Lord Caxton’s mystique and Miss Darcy. Sebastian decided his burning throat, red face, and coughing fit were worth the disruption in that undesirable topic. Thankfully, before Laroche revisited the subject, they were joined by a group of fellow musicians from the Conservatoire, the lanky man in the front sweeping his eyes amusedly over Sebastian and then quirking a brow at Laroche.
“You must have told Butler about Reims. I knew he would be thrilled but did not anticipate choking to death over the news.”
“We were discussing the mystery of the baron freely wooing Miss Darcy, Gaston. I had yet to mention Ambroise Guilmant-Deffayet’s symposium on Guillaume de Machaut.”
“Most unwise of you, Laroche, pointing out Butler’s glaring error when we need him along on our excursion.”
“What,” Sebastian rasped, adding another cough, “the bloody hell are you babbling about?”
“The symposium. In Reims. Taught by Guilmant-Deffayet. On Machaut. Pay attention, Butler!”
“Ease up on the poor man, Gaston,” piped up the man to Gaston’s left. “He has lost his lady and ruined a perfectly fine swallow of Cinsaut on the same night. Let me rescue this before you spill it—adding to the tragedy—while Gaston cheers you with details on the symposium.”
The speaker grabbed the wine glass from Sebastian’s slack grip and proceeded to drain half the contents before Sebastian could formulate a response. Not that there was an opening to argue, since Gaston instantly did as suggested.
“It is as Anjou and Laroche have said. Guilmant-Deffayet is hosting a two-week lecture series on the poetry and compositions of Machaut. In Reims. We heard of it today and it begins in four days so, well, you can do the math.”
“We know your penchant for medieval poetry and motets, religious compositions and music history,” Laroche explained. “You have quoted Machaut numerous times and played portions of
Le
Remède de Fortune
for Madame de la Croix’s soiree so assumed this was a opportunity you would not miss.”
“Besides,” Anjou interjected, “you have more money than all of us combined and we are not above begging if necessary.”
Gaston shook his head even while laughing. “No need to beg. Look at Butler’s face! Prepare your travel bags, gentlemen. We are leaving for Reims two days hence.”