As a dancer, he was superb, possessing the fluid rhythm she recognized as unique amongst those who were gifted musicians. Waltz, quadrille, allemande—all were performed with skill and verve. On the ballroom floor, his restraint vanished and this was both exhilarating and overwhelming. Dancing, forever that one activity where close proximity and touching were allowed, provided a convenient, proper place for Lord Caxton to unleash his sensual magnetism.
“Tonight, Miss Darcy, I intend to teach you the steps of the mazurka,” he said as they entered the mansion where the Russian ambassador to France dwelt and where a ball was about to begin.
“The Russian dance? Oh my, I am not sure I am capable if the steps are as complicated and fast as the rumors say.”
“The mazurka is actually a Polish dance brought to Russia as a sort of souvenir of their conquests. Your history lesson for the day,” he added with a soft laugh, steering her cleverly through the throng crowding the foyer. “And indeed, it is a fast, powerful dance, yet not unlike a quadrille as far as the steps themselves. It is beautiful and graceful when performed correctly.”
“You are well versed in the dance, I suppose?”
“Fair enough. I am also a good teacher. I am confident you shall master it and know I will enjoy instructing you.”
The penetrating look as he spoke the last, along with the subtle squeeze of her arm against his side caused her cheeks to flush. Was there an insinuation in his words and tone of more than just the dance? There was scant time to reason it out, Georgiana tucking it away along with everything else he said and did for a future period of inspection.
And as she suspected, dancing with Lord Caxton was as breathless this time around as it was when they first danced together at the gala. Neither time was the rapid rhythm of the dance, even one as extreme as the mazurka, the primary cause for her accelerated body functions or scattered wits.
Georgiana knew most ladies would decide she was crazy, but distance was necessary, and she was relieved that rules of decorum dictated only two dances per gentleman. On the dance floor Lord Caxton stretched the limits of propriety. It was never to the point of rudeness, severe invasion to her space, or gross misconduct, but he did grasp onto the opportunity as a way to express his innermost desires.
Conversation was safer to Georgiana’s way of thinking, and for that reason, she preferred casual activities rater than dancing. A stroll along a sunlit garden promenade offered that.
“When did you begin playing the violin?” Georgiana halted beside one of the Corinthian columns placed around the exterior of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel in Tuileries Garden, shielding her eyes from the sun and squinting up at the baron.
He wrinkled his brow in thought. “I am not sure I remember precisely. We had tutors frequently over the years when I was young, who exposed us to music of some sort. Along the way, I learned to play several instruments, but the violin appealed to me most. Yet it would not be until my stay at Harrow that I felt a true affinity and thus focused on it above all else.”
“Your parents obviously encouraged your musical education.”
He shrugged at her statement, resuming their stroll down the concourse toward the palace. “Not particularly, no. We merely happened to have tutors who possessed skills to varying degrees. My mother can play the pianoforte and the harp well enough to entertain on special occasions, and my sisters are accomplished to the same degree. Few women can boast of more than that.”
“Few women have the chance to practice or receive higher learning to improve what talent they may be gifted with, unlike men.”
He glanced at her face, noted the color infusing her cheeks, and frowned. “True, I suppose. Yet what would be the point, Miss Darcy?”
“Why… to learn, of course, to discover what is hidden inside and enhance their capabilities and express the joy of music that is within their heart!”
“Nothing prohibits a lady from doing any of those things if she wishes it,” he responded calmly. “The females of my family have no desire to learn more nor do they have the aptitude. Obviously, this is not the case of all females, such as you, Miss Darcy. I have no doubt at all that you shall always play, much to the delight of any who are fortunate enough to listen, and will challenge yourself to master new pieces, even those written by German composers.”
She smiled at his tease but stopped walking once again. “Do you disagree with ladies enrolling at the Conservatoire?”
“I neither agree nor disagree. What an individual, male or female, chooses to do with their lives is not for me to decide, as long as they are harming no one. I have seen men waste years in study that will never serve them in a fruitful manner due to lack of proficiency. That is tragic. I see the same with the women who enroll. Even those with genius eventually leave it behind for a husband and children. I often wonder if they are happier for the time they spent or unhappy when it must be left behind. I do not know.”
“Do you feel as if you have wasted your years here, Baron?”
“Not at all. I came to share what expertise I had with others, and to enjoy France while I was at it. Teaching was always something I knew to be a temporary profession. I am content and quite ready to move on. And, of course, I can certainly not regret my time here since it has ended with my introduction to you.”
He accented his praise with a sprig of yew torn from the hedge. “Alas, flowers are not close by, so this must suffice.” He handed the fragrant branch to her with a smile and bow of his head, Georgiana dipping her head and bringing the greenery to her nose. “Now,” he said, once again resuming their walk, “while at Oxford, I played in the orchestra, as a student and a teacher…”
Georgiana listened to his remembrances while mulling over his statements. It was irrational, she knew, to feel irked by his opinion when he had said nothing she had not thought herself and said to Mr. Butler.
So
why
the
sense
of
sadness?
Perhaps it was his detached attitude that struck her as strange. There was little in the way of passion when he spoke of his talent, as if he took it for granted and felt no sorrow over leaving it all behind. Yet had she not calmly claimed the same contentment with her pathway?
It
is
admirable
, she decided, ignoring the twinge of annoyance and twirling the yew sprig in her hand while listening to him talk,
and
means
we
have
even
more
in
common.
Equally outstanding were Lord Caxton’s skills on horseback. In this he supplanted her abilities and rivaled those of her brother, whose horsemanship surpassed anyone she had ever encountered. Twice during those weeks, they met at the estates of friends living on the outskirts of Paris, grasping on to days of sunshine to join others for fresh air and exercise.
The horses and their riders walked, trotted, and cantered over the damp green fields in various sized clusters. Lord Caxton utilized the opportunity to converse with Georgiana in a one-on-one scenario, the open pasture providing nearly complete privacy while never being out of sight of at least a few of their companions.
“Are you a man unafraid of a challenge, my lord?”
“Not typically, no, but how do you mean?”
“See that cracked boulder yonder?” She indicated a massive rock jutting from the earth a good one hundred yards away, the jagged edge on one side resembling the tooth filled maw of a beast. Caxton nodded. “I challenge you to a race, the winner naming her, or his, prize.”
She was already tightening her hands about the reins, the rush of adrenaline making her heart beat faster and breath hitch. Her eyes assessed the uneven turf and obstacles ahead, projecting the images onto a canvas in her mind not only for the purpose of winning but to displace the visions of Mr. Butler and her on similar races across grassy plains.
“Interesting idea,” Lord Caxton responded, “however I do not think this would be proper, Miss Darcy.”
She looked at him then, her brows lifted in surprise. The baron was frowning, his expression faintly disapproving.
“Ladies should not gallop, nor, I must add, participate in wagers, although I understand you meant nothing of a serious nature.” He smiled and leaned across the space separating their mounts to lightly clasp her gloved hand, his voice soothing. “I would be crushed if you were to lose control of your horse, who is unfamiliar to you and much stronger, or misjudge the terrain and suffer an accident, Miss Darcy. Furthermore, those rocks are quite far and not easily seen. As greatly as I desire it, it is highly improper to be secluded with a gentleman, no matter how innocent.”
He patted her hand, smiled again, and resumed their casual walking gait and conversation as if the subject had never occurred. Georgiana said no more and managed to push the matter aside and enjoy her afternoon. Yet she could not shake the feeling that Lord Caxton’s remarks about being alone with a gentleman were not general or regarding him, but were a reference to her and Mr. Butler being chaperone-less and very close to each other both times he had encountered them together. Oddly, instead of feeling ashamed by his reproach and being reminded of what she could not argue was improper behavior, the incident brought Mr. Butler into clearer focus.
And that thought lay heavy upon her heart no matter how she tried to ignore it.
The days turned into weeks, the two since Mr. Butler departed and Lord Caxton initiated what could only be viewed as a serious address flowing into a third week. Each day was packed with adventure and entertainment, and in most of them the baron played a part. If Georgiana had expended what residual energy she had on contemplating the situation she discovered herself in, she would have logically deduced that separation from Mr. Butler—who attracted her but was on a different path—and constant togetherness with Lord Caxton—who offered everything any woman could possibly want—were positive developments.
However, Georgiana had limited time alone and fell into her bed each night—or in the hours immediately before dawn—utterly exhausted. Mr. Butler’s portfolio of psalms lay on her nightstand forlorn and untouched, a consequence she was aware of but too weary to lament. Yet each night her eyes rested upon the brown leather, and in those seconds before sleep claimed her, she felt a sense of peace. And when she did remember her dreams, he was always there.
***
Sebastian Butler sat in the pub at the inn where he and his friends had dwelt for the past two weeks. It was noisy, as most pubs were in the late afternoon, but spacious enough that he managed to claim a secluded booth near the back. It was his favorite spot, mainly for the relative solitude but also because the wide window provided light. Here he could drink a pint or two of ale after the day’s lecture ended while rewriting the hasty notes taken during the session.
No one needed to point out that seldom had he taken notes during a lecture, infrequently were they more than a few jotted lines of major significance, and rarer still had he recopied them! He knew it was an oddity, and he knew very well that he was doing it for Miss Darcy. The pouch of parchment sheets sitting on the table beside him was thick, would be thicker when he finished the pages he was working on, and if luck held would be even thicker if the ordered music compositions arrived before they were set to leave tomorrow. The shop owner promised they would be in by today.
He paused to flip open his pocket watch—nearly three o’clock—take a gulp from his mug, and stretch his aching neck before dipping the quill and getting back to work.
He was exhausted. The symposium had been as fascinating and educational as he had hoped, more so, in fact, because through it all, he had imagined Miss Darcy sitting next to him. Well, not literally. But in the figurative sense, he had listened to every word while imagining how he would share the knowledge with her. Better yet, he could vividly envision her face, knowing precisely how she would feel. He would enjoy the entire lecture all over again with her.
“Why are you smiling as an imbecile while sitting alone in a pub? Most unusual.”
Sebastian looked up at Gaston, continued to smile, and waved at the bench across from him. Not that Gaston was waiting for an invitation, with his hat already tossed onto the seat and his bottom halfway there. He plopped a large envelope onto the table while simultaneously gesturing the barman for ale.
“I was passing by Mollet’s so stopped in to check. There is your package. So now we can head home without you crying all the way.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said simply, slipping the tied bundle under the pouch without opening it and resuming his task without further comment.
Gaston waited until his tankard was brought and drained a third of the way before interrupting the silence. “So, do you have a strategy or prepared speech? Something insipidly mawkish and riddled with purple prose?”
“What are you talking about?”
Gaston’s initial response was a derogatory phrase that turned the heads of several near neighbors. Sebastian received the full impact of Gaston’s condescending expression, flinching involuntarily at the combination.