“Spare me,” Gaston said scathingly. “I have been married for ten years and happen to still love my wife—most of the time. She must be mentally deficient to put up with me, but damned if I can see it. I do, however, frequently need to pull out the romantic nonsense in order to keep her from leaving me for someone handsomer or richer.” He shrugged, sitting back and draining the ale. “It seems to work, though, so that would be my suggestion.”
“As fascinating as your marriage advice is, Gaston, I still have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Balderdash! I prefer a stronger expletive but do not want to upset the delicate ears of yonder fellows.” He pointedly glared at the group sitting closest, the three men ducking their heads for being caught eavesdropping. “The last thing in the world I want to do, Butler, is play matchmaker or give courtship advice. Curls my hair to even think on it.”
“You sure you are French?”
“It’s worse. My mother was Italian. I should be the most sentimental sop in the country instead of the irascible bloke I am.”
“Bloke? Seriously?”
“I have been associating with bloody Englishmen for too long. The colloquialisms are rubbing off. And do not try to change the subject. I am here to beat some sense into you and give advice, since God knows you need it, even coming from me. First answer my question—do you have a plan for wooing Mademoiselle Darcy?”
“How do you…? That is, what gave you that idea?”
“You honestly look surprised.” Gaston laughed aloud, again drawing the attention of the neighboring drinkers, but he ignored them and instead gestured for another ale from the barmaid, who had also turned to stare at his enthusiastic bray. “Ah, you amuse me, Butler, you truly do.” He wiped a tear from his eye, continued to chuckle, and reverted to his typical French slang-laced syntax. “
Merde
, was I ever that innocent? But then I am French and Italian, so no. You, my sad, repressed English friend, are in dire need of a swift kick in the ass. Or several tumbles amid the sheets, but since that is unlikely considering your affection for Mademoiselle Darcy, I will settle for the kick. We can keep it figurative for now, unless you remain denser than a post or in denial.”
Sebastian glanced around but the eavesdropping men had left and the other patrons were paying them no mind. Still, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Very well. No need to threaten me. I just thought I was better at shielding my emotions.” Gaston interrupted with a rude sound and then raised his hand in apology, Sebastian continuing, “Apparently, I am transparent or enough so for you to decipher my thoughts.” He sighed. “It is not as easy as simply wooing her, Gaston. It is… complicated.”
“
Amour
is always complicated. My first point of advice is to forget imagining it ever
will
not
be complicated. Accept that and move forward. You want her, so go and get her.”
“What if she does not want me?”
“
Oui,
that does make it tougher to be sure, but not impossible. That is where romancing comes in. Poems, flowers, sweet treats, flowery words of love! If that fails, take her into your arms, kiss her, and show her what passion really is.”
Sebastian shook his head, hoping his friend was partially jesting, but rather doubting he was. The image of kissing Miss Darcy—one that was easily envisioned—made rational conversation difficult, but he tried. “I would never force my desires upon her, Gaston. Whatever I feel for Miss Darcy, and I am not so sure I even know, I am her friend and want her to be happy. It is complicated and I cannot move past that as easily as you suggest.”
“How so?”
“She is to return to England and I must stay here. I cannot ask her to wait for me to finish my education, but I cannot give up this opportunity.”
“What prevents you from having both? Marry her and study together. Everyone knows Professor Florange endorses her. When you have absorbed all that the Conservatoire has to offer, return to England and your estate. Problem solved!”
“She was fairly adamant that she does not want to accept the professor’s invitation, Gaston. Furthermore, for me, it will never be a matter of finishing my education. Even after I am Lord Essenton, I will pursue my music and compositions. Miss Darcy longs for the stability of a home and family, nothing more.” Sebastian shook his head, gazing at the dry ink lines of text on the table but not seeing the words.
“Yet you take notes and buy compositions for her. Strange habit if you are convinced she is uninterested.” He smirked at Sebastian’s startled expression, drained his tankard, and rose from the bench. Smacking three coins onto the surface of the table he concluded, “Butler, I have a wife, five children, a house to maintain, work at my father’s pâtisserie, perform regularly with the symphony, and teach at the Conservatoire. I do all of this on an income a tenth of yours and only three servants. Excuses are for imbeciles and incompetents. You are neither. I think both of you are making it complicated. I do not know why, other than that you are English. There is no feeling in your country! Your souls scream for freedom! Here is my final advice, my friend. Search your heart without reserve. Then, once you face your truth, confront the fair mademoiselle and search her heart. Complication will vanish in the air and only desire will remain. Trust me.”
Chapter Eleven
Love Is the Refrain
Sebastian was a believer in love. He was a composer living in an age of romance, so a belief in love was somewhat obligatory. This innocent, idealistic exaltation of love’s power conquering the evils of the world and giving birth to every expression of art was ingrained. His mind had rationally yearned for the all-consuming bliss of passionate love to enter his heart, sure that when it did, the beauty of the emotion would open his eyes and unlock his soul. Ah, yes! Then music would have deeper understanding. Poetry would be more poignant. Life would be richer.
Nevertheless, by the time he mounted the steps of the townhouse owned by the Marchioness of Warrow—his home while in Paris—his opinion of love was not as favorable.
Gaston’s words echoed through his head the entire journey from Reims. Gaston said nothing further and gave no indication of having the conversation in the first place. This suited Sebastian just fine, and thankfully none of the other gents brought up Miss Darcy either. In between ribald conversation and crude jokes, there were long periods of silence with only the revolving wheels to listen to. It was then that Sebastian ruminated on the situation.
He relived every moment spent with Miss Darcy, replayed their conversations, and summoned to mind each expression upon her lovely face. He dug into his heart, extracting feelings and attempting to analyze. When the overlapping impressions jumbled in his mind, melding into a solid mess of incoherences, he shoved it aside and decided to formulate a plan as Gaston had suggested.
Nothing.
Sebastian wanted to kick his own rear end—saving Gaston the duty—for having little idea how to proceed in wooing a lady.
Has
my
bragging
of
five
sisters
giving
me
an
advantage
been
a
laughable
boast?
Apparently, the answer was yes. He had never been in love and never gone to any extreme to curry a woman’s favor. Single-mindedly, he had focused on his professional pursuits, pouring his energy into that course alone while fighting his father along the way. He was a believer in love, but the emotion had manifested on the pages of a musical score and flowed from a piano’s keys. Foolishly, he assumed true passion would leave him be until he was prepared to handle it and never imagined that he would encounter any problems when it did!
If he was being honest, he was terrified and hid behind a mask of ineptitude.
When the quiet and rocking carriage lulled him into interludes of slumber, the tumult inside led to bizarre dreams that exhausted instead of refreshed and brought him no closer to a solution. A sudden storm forced them to abandon the plan for a straight ride to Paris, causing them to spend two nights holed up at an inn before the washed-out road was navigable. For Sebastian, it was more time to agonize over the predicament with nothing to occupy his mind but how much he missed her.
The streets of Paris stirred his soul and tendrils of excitement brushed the edges of his heart.
She
is
here
. The thought made him smile despite his weariness.
Tomorrow
I
will
call
upon
her
and
will
trust
my
instincts.
As a plan it was not the best, but it would have to do.
Fatigue of body and mind assailed him. So much so that when the butler informed him that Lady Warrow was away from home Sebastian sent a rapid prayer of thanks heavenward. He felt a bit guilty about it, but talking to his grandmother at that moment was most unappealing. She was far too astute. She would see right through him and probably break her silence on the subject, Sebastian sure she suspected his attachment to Miss Darcy since she missed nothing. In truth, her ideas were undoubtedly superior to his at the moment, although knowing his grandmother, she might suggest a bold attack similar to Gaston’s.
Wasting no time, he headed directly to his bedchamber. Stripping down to shirt and trousers, he poured a glass of whisky and reclined on the bed in relief. A stack of mail sat on the nightstand, Sebastian rifling through them as he sipped and relaxed tense muscles. One from his mother, his sisters Adele and Reine writing together, three from friends back home, one from his father, and the last from de Marcov.
He started to open de Marcov’s, knowing his friend would cheer him with his words, but Sebastian stopped before breaking the seal. “You will also have something to say about my sister’s marital satisfaction and that is not a thought I want spinning in my head before sleep,” he murmured, shuffling de Marcov’s letter to the back of the slack.
His sisters greatly entertained with their letters, a joy he savored so that one would wait. It was similar with his pals from school, each of the three fellows he had known since boarding school.
Start
with
mother,
he thought, yawning and burrowing deeper into the pillow.
Her
letters
are
loving
and
safe.
Indeed, it started out that way. Lady Essenton began with her typical caring salutation and opening paragraphs, expressing how great her affection and pride, and reminding him to be safe and cautious. He smiled at the familiar refrains, but with a flip of the page the smile faded.
Dearest son, I do pray you have chosen to read my missive prior to the one your father is writing as I pen this. Undoubtedly they shall be posted together but one never knows how the whimsies of the mail carriers, especially when traveling across water and vast lands, will affect the delivery of a letter. I hope to warn, although I can do no more than that in this message. Please know, my son, that today we received word that Lord Everest has asked to pay court to Lady Cassandra, the intent clear that he will ask formally for her hand once the necessary arrangements are documented. The reasons for the match are not proper for us to speculate upon within the indelible markings of a letter, however I am sure you can comprehend it is not a match based on affection. Your father is certain of this, not that his reaction to the news would be improved or altered if his Lordship was deeply in the throes of passionate love for Lady Cassandra. Lord Essenton applauds Lord Everest’s good sense in aligning himself with a noble family of great wealth and standing. I fear his wrath is not in any way directed toward any of the persons involved in the situation here but rather firmly directed at you.
Oh, how it pains me to pass on this tragic news! My only consolation is in knowing that I will reveal in a softer tone and choice of phrase than your father shall. His anger is fierce, Sebastian. The only point that prevents him from being utterly incensed is that Lady Cassandra has vocally conveyed her displeasure in Lord Everest’s suit. Of course, Lord Burrow has scant interest in his daughter’s distress or wishes, but enough concern to privately appeal to your father, upon the weeping behest of Lady Cassandra, to counter the advance of Lord Everest with one tendered by Lord Essenton on behalf of Viscount Nell.
My sweet, dear son! How I regret this turn of events and wish I knew how best to advise you! I have no love for Lady Cassandra and fully understand your hesitation, nay distaste, for the lady, however I do appreciate the advantages to a union with her, dowry and estate lands and the rest compensations you are well aware of. Your father is writing this moment with a demand for you to return home and marry Lady Cassandra. One word from you will halt the process with Lord Everest. I cannot offer advice on your response, Sebastian, other than to try to repress your own temper and consider this with cool rationale.
“Like hell!” he shouted—not the first outburst flung into the air as he read his mother’s letter. He scanned through the remainder, but other than a handful of lines relating mundane local matters toward the end, it was about the pending engagement of Lady Cassandra. “He can have her,” Sebastian muttered, even as he reread the letter to make sure he missed nothing, “although I pity him marrying that dreadful harpy.”
He shuddered then inhaled deeply before opening his father’s letter. No warm greeting here, not that there ever was. Lord Essenton wrote his son rarely—wrote anyone rarely for that matter—and in most instances it was to scold. Fatherly affection was not expected.
The entire message was written on one side of the page, his father’s script tidy and compact. His fury was evinced by more exclamation marks than usual and the choice of numerous colorful words and phrases. Lady Essenton’s warning helped soften the blow, but Sebastian winced nevertheless. No restraint was shown, Lord Essenton blunt and brutal in his angry accusations and demands, and throughout the first reading, Sebastian was a child again, enduring another lengthy harangue while tears stung the insides of his eyes. Now, as then, he weathered the storm, eventually passed through it, and after cooling down, recognized that he was stronger and had tolerated this tirade better than the one before.
He read the letter two more times before refolding carefully, placing it onto the table with the others, and focusing on unwinding every tight muscle from head to toe. Closing his eyes, he willed his wild emotions to calm. It was a chore, but eventually he reached a place of quiescence.
Nothing had changed from his perspective. He never would have agreed to marry Lady Cassandra, and once she was married to Lord Everest, the subject would be closed. Yes, Lord Essenton would stew and rage, probably send two or three verbally abusive letters and give him hell when he did return home—no matter if it was three years hence—but one thing he could not do was force Sebastian into anything.
Our compromise is voided as it relates to your marital status. Fritter away your life abroad forever if that is your desire. I shall not argue the matter further as long as you come home, marry, and go about the business of getting her pregnant!
These sentences written by his father struck a chord. “Very well, Father,” he slurred in the final moments before he fell asleep, “I will do my best to marry and happily do what it takes to conceive a child.”
Assuming
Miss
Darcy
wants
to
marry
me…
***
“But the weather is glorious and perfect for shopping! How can you even
think
about staying home?”
“Staying inside, even on this glorious day, my dear Yvette, is a delightful thought. Yes, above shopping.”
Yvette and Zoë stared at Georgiana as if she had just proposed flying to the moon. “This is three days in a row,” Zoë declared. “Are you ill?”
“Have you and the baron suffered a spat? Is your heart now broken by him so soon after being broken by Monsieur Butler?” Yvette mourned, her frown of concern as overblown as Zoë’s.
“My heart has been broken by no one,” Georgiana assured for the umpteenth time, sighing and walking toward the piano.
“But the baron has not called upon you for days and days!”
“It has been all of two days, Yvette, and he warned me that he needed to attend to Conservatoire duties. He will be here this afternoon for tea, if that information comforts and allays speculation.”
“And Monsieur Butler? Surely he must be home by now and yet he does not visit. The tragedy increases! We shall inquire as to his whereabouts while socializing today, my dearest Georgiana
.
Surely someone will have news.”
“You will do no such thing! Mr. Butler’s business is none of mine unless he chooses to enlighten me!” Georgiana smiled at her two friends, softening her face and tone after the sharp retort. “Truly, dearest Yvette and Zoë, all is well. I am merely tired and desirous of solitude. I have missed playing. I know you do not understand, but trust me that my opting to remain home is not a reflection of internal sadness or because I do not enjoy shopping and your company. Now, hasten on your way before the best ribbons are gone.”
The twins did not look convinced but they argued no further. Minutes later Georgiana was alone. Blessedly alone. Everyone in the house was gone except for the servants, who wandered about quietly attending to their tasks. Even Mrs. Annesley had gone for an afternoon by herself in the city. Lord Caxton promised to join her for tea later in the day, as soon as it was possible to break away from practice for an upcoming symphony performance, but that gave Georgiana upwards of three hours of freedom.
“Freedom,” she mumbled as she spread the sheets along the piano rest.
An
odd
word
choice
, she thought, pausing to reflect.
Am
I
not
happily
anticipating
the
baron’s visit?
She nodded as an answer and it was true that she enjoyed his company.