“Not at all!” Sebastian assured. “Besides, I have yet to cover any gossip or musical philosophy.” He grinned a crooked grin, bowing with a flourish before whisking Adele off to the dance floor, leaving a laughing duo in their wake.
Chapter Two
Harmonics of Compromise
The butler of the Château la Rochebelin was still brushing the raindrops off Mr. Butler’s overcoat and Sebastian wiping the water off his boots when Lord Adrien de Marcov’s voice boomed from the upper landing of the curved staircase.
“There you are, Butler!” The tall Frenchman bounded down the stairs, taking two at a time, greeting his friend in the middle of the vaulted foyer. “You clearly need a drink,” he indicated the water dripping off Butler’s limp curls onto his drooping cravat. “What possessed you to leave the house in this weather, and on horseback no less?”
“I had an engagement I could not break. I was playing with Miss Darcy.”
The marquis lifted a brow. “Oh
really
,” he smirked, drawing out the vowels.
“Poor choice of phrase”—Sebastian cringed—“but you can remove that libidinous grin from your face as you knew what I meant.”
“Butler, I am a week from marrying a woman I love passionately. She may be focused on the wedding day, but I am focused on the wedding night. Libidinous grins are an unconscious, uncontrollable gesture, all things considered.”
“Please do not remind me.” Sebastian stepped past his friend, walking toward the parlor with de Marcov trailing.
“Of course, after the wedding night I am confident the new Lady de Marcov will also be wearing a satisfied smile.”
“Must you?”
De Marcov spread his hands, the innocent expression unconvincing. “Merely wanting to reassure you that your dear sister will not be discontented in any way as my wife. What kind of a husband would I be if my bride was not properly ravished?”
“Thankfully, I shall not be around to witness any indications of my sister having been ‘properly ravished.’” He poured a glass of cognac and drank it in one swallow, ignoring de Marcov’s laughter. “Is torturing me why you were hunting me down?”
“Not entirely, although you must admit you walked right into it this time. Playing with Miss Darcy indeed! How could I resist?” He refreshed Sebastian’s drink and then poured his own glass of cognac. Sebastian shook his head and laughed as they sat onto chairs across from each other.
The two men had met at Oxford five years prior and formed an instant friendship. Sebastian had met few men in his life as witty and entertaining as Adrien de Marcov. Within a month they switched dormitory rooms, bunking together and proceeding to have a marvelous cohabitation while completing their educations. In a host of ways they were very different, yet their bond was as tight as brothers born from the same mother. The teasing was ingrained, but the reality was that nothing delighted Sebastian more than the fact that, thanks to the transforming, deep love between Adrien and Vivienne, two of his favorite people in the entire world were happy and soon to be bonded. And de Marcov would then truly be his brother.
“Very well. I will concede that I opened myself up for a fair dose of mockery. I should have said, ‘I was at the Château Plessis-Rhône calling upon Miss Darcy who then impressed me with her pianoforte playing.’”
“
Oui
, I may have had difficulty twisting that about to benefit my need to needle you,” de Marcov said as he nodded, posing as a man deep in thought. “Of course, I might then point out that this is the third day in a row you have called upon Miss Darcy. Alone. Dare I jump to an intriguing conclusion, Mr. Butler?”
Sebastian grunted. “I have spent far more time than that in the company of your sister, Lord de Marcov.”
“Gabriella is fifteen, so I am not worried. Yet. You do, however, have a tendency to monopolize women. Why is that, do you think?”
“
You
asking
me
about monopolizing women? Now that is rich!” Lord de Marcov laughed aloud and made no attempt to deny the charge. Sebastian continued with a soft smile, “I imagine growing up with five sisters has some bearing on my gravitating toward the company of women. However, in the case of Miss Darcy, it largely is due to our mutual appreciation for music. She is quite talented and hungry to learn.” He paused, staring into the amber liquid for several seconds before resuming in a subdued tone. “It may be wholly selfish but after months, hell, years, of single-minded study to advance my knowledge and expertise, it is refreshing and… rewarding to teach another. Especially someone as eager as Miss Darcy.”
The marquis nodded, all traces of teasing erased from his face. “Indeed, I can sympathize. You wear your typical airy grin and gay attitude, but I know you well, my brother. I am acutely aware how disturbing the atmosphere is under the present circumstances.”
Sebastian’s mouth twisted. “That is an understatement. Perhaps avoiding unpleasantness is a portion of the impetus for deserting the house. With Miss Darcy I have no fear of harsh criticism and verbalized disappointment.”
“Enjoying being worshipped, are you?”
“Spare me some latitude, as being worshipped by a woman who is not my sister is a new phenomenon for me. I know you are familiar with being equated with a deity but not I.”
Now it was de Marcov’s turn to wince at Sebastian’s taunting. “Shall we keep that information amongst ourselves, please? My betrothed may not appreciate every detail of my past indiscretions.” His friend’s grin was devious, Lord de Marcov’s eyes narrowing but voice remaining humorous. “I sense blackmail looming.” Sebastian merely continued to grin, de Marcov chuckling and shaking his head as he continued. “Delighted to know I amuse you. Threats notwithstanding, I am forever your friend and brother, and as such, I know the particulars of your heart and situation. Thus I am not so sure whether you will be pleased or additionally harried by the main reason I was hunting for you all morning. But here it is.”
He pulled a sealed envelope from his inner jacket pocket, handing it to Sebastian. “It arrived three hours ago by express courier. I do not know the contents for certain, but have no doubt the positive response nevertheless. Whether you share the news with Lord Essenton is your decision.”
Sebastian’s hands were visibly trembling, his eyes locked onto the sender’s address for several seconds before turning it over to break the seal. He read the enclosed letter slowly, his face impassive for a long while. Lord de Marcov was about to rip the sheet out of his hands impatiently when Sebastian finally broke into a brilliant smile and looked up.
“I have been accepted.”
“I had no doubts,” de Marcov responded blandly, but his smile was nearly as broad.
“For the fall session. Do you know what this means? How… happy… honored… how… I do not have the words,” he ended simply.
“You have met Herr Beethoven numerous times, taken lessons even, studied with Franz Schubert, and worked with the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, yet
this
overwhelms you?”
“I was overwhelmed by those as well.” He shook his head dazedly. “My good fortune continually staggers me. I keep anticipating the streak to break, yet it only soars higher. A whole year, perhaps more, at the Conservatoire de Musique in Paris is the pinnacle of my dreams, Adrien. Imagine what I shall learn. The talent I will be surrounded by and playing with and learning from.”
“They are the fortunate ones, as far as I am concerned.”
“Your devotion touches my heart, but you know that is not the truth.”
“I beg to differ! You are incredibly talented and will be an asset.”
Sebastian again shook his head, this time in amusement. “Be that as it may, I will persist in lauding my luck and striving to prove my worthiness. I have a great deal to prove, first, as an Englishman admitted into a primarily French school and, second, to my father.”
“How do you imagine he will respond to this development?”
“With his typical scathing remarks at how I belong in England at Whistlenell Hall and not wasting my time on pointless dalliances with ridiculous music. Sometimes I think he would prefer I was philandering with women of ill repute or gambling away my fortune, as if those are legitimate activities for a man my age.” He shrugged and chuckled, eyes bright as he looked at his friend.
“Well,” de Marcov countered, stretching his legs, “I cannot argue with
that
philosophy! I have been encouraging you to do more of that for ages, but you have no respect for your elders’ advice.”
“You are one year my senior, so you do not count.”
“Perhaps chronologically, but in the joys of living, and women, I trump you by decades. So, are you going to share the fabulous news?”
“I may avoid my father from time to time to preserve my sanity and the peace, but I have never cowardly retreated. He knew I applied at the Conservatoire, so it will not be a shock. Even if I had been rejected, as I am sure he was supplementing the saints above to arrange, I would not have returned to England yet. Italy beckons me still, and I would have chosen traveling there as an alternative. No, I will tell him, unless you would rather I delay until after the wedding? I do not wish to distress Vivienne.”
“She supports your study, as does Lady Warrow. Better get it over with while you have all of us here to vocalize our joy and drown Lord Essenton’s anger. In fact, it sounds like the opportunity is upon you.”
They both paused, looking toward the open parlor doors where voices drifted closer. Seconds later they stood, crossing to greet Lord and Lady Essenton, Lady Warrow, Lord de Marcov’s widowed mother, and Vivienne Butler. The latter skipped gracefully over the threshold, her feet seeming to float inches above the floor as she headed directly toward her fiancé. Lord de Marcov instantly grasped her hands, bringing both to his lips for a lingering kiss before tucking Vivienne close to his side, their dotty expressions and smiles identical.
“Nauseating,” Sebastian muttered with a dramatic roll of his eyes, earning a playful kick to his shin from Vivienne. He sidestepped the accompanying punch to his arm, reaching to assist his grandmother into her chair.
“Thank you, my dear boy. What a perfect gentleman you are.” She lifted her cheek for the soft kiss she knew he would bestow, clasping his hand for an affectionate squeeze that crunched the parchment he unconsciously held. “What is this? Oh! From the Conservatoire!” Her gaze flashed from the sender’s address to his face, hopeful joy infusing her ageless eyes as she waited for his affirmative news.
“What is this? You mean the Conservatoire in Paris?” Lord Essenton flared.
A slight tightening at the corner of Lady Warrow’s eyes was the only indication of her annoyance at herself for blurting without thinking, but Sebastian understood and winked before turning to respond to his father. Lady Warrow was his greatest advocate and frequently engaged her son in verbal lashings in defense of her grandson’s chosen course in life. Nevertheless, she knew Sebastian capable of dealing with his father’s stubbornness and that he preferred to confront these discussions independently.
“The letter came today, sir.” He handed the parchment to Lord Essenton, who snatched it out of his fingers and commenced reading with a frown while Sebastian silently waited. Extolling the honor in his acceptance or expressing his happiness was pointless, as he knew from experience.
“So you are obstinately determined to shirk your responsibilities for another year of studying music?” Lord Essenton sneered the last word as if uttering a vile curse, his spine stiff where he stood next to his wife’s chair.
“My wishes have not changed, no. This is a duty I must follow, Father.”
“Duty? How is this nonsense a duty? What possible benefit will it give you, other than to brag of your achievements and entertain guests at Whistlenell?”
“Essenton, please refrain…”
Lord Essenton’s curt hand gesture silenced his wife, Lady Essenton flinching involuntarily and bowing her head.
Sebastian ignored his mother’s humiliation with effort, the commonness of the action not making it easier to disregard. Instead, he kept his voice level, his stare bold upon his father’s face, and his expression calm if firm, as he answered, “The benefit, sir, is in exploring an art necessary to my soul. Ceasing my pursuits would be as accomplishable as ceasing breathing. I apologize for failing in my attempts to convey this necessity adequately.”
“Do not patronize me, boy,” Lord Essenton growled. “I have listened to your preaching on this need of yours for years. I have tolerated your pounding on the pianoforte all hours of the night and day, paid for your lessons, silently heeded endless conversations between you and your mother on the subject, and agreed to this course while at Oxford and abroad, always with the promise that your future at Whistlenell Hall was most important. Yet here you are extending your absence from home for another year. When will it end?”
Sebastian fought the urge to smile at his father’s words, every one of which had not only been spoken a thousand times in the past, but were also grossly inaccurate, as never had Lord Essenton tolerated, been silent, or agreed to his son’s plans. Yet his humor did not displace the rising vexation.
“I intend for it never to end, my lord, at least not in the way you wish. Music will forever be a large aspect of my life. I will not allow my talent to be crushed.”
His eyes flickered to his mother, Lord Essenton noting the miniscule movement and flushing angrily.
“Is that what you think? That I desire to crush you? Is this why you despise me so, Sebastian, and refuse to assume your place at my side or assume the title offered to you?”