Miss Darcy Falls in Love (15 page)

“More of a hobby. My serious compositions are not primarily choral. Rather, they tend to run in the direction of operatic or chamber music.”

“As do most these days. Originality is sorely lacking in this generation, so it seems to me.”

“Perhaps, Baron, you are looking in the wrong direction. Certainly Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, and Czerny, to name but a few, offer the world unique styles.”

“I shall take your word for it, Butler. I am unfamiliar with German composers, preferring French and Italian creations. I have heard few of Beethoven’s compositions but admit to being uninterested. ‘Far too German’ is what the critics say with abrupt changes, barbaric dissonances, and excessive calculation. Not of my taste at all.”

“I suggest you speak with Professor Reicha. Were you aware that our esteemed master of fugue studied with Beethoven?”

Caxton quirked his brow in surprise. “No, I was not.”

“I daresay he might alter your opinions.”

“Perhaps. This is a fascinating topic that I would very much like to pursue, Butler. I imagine your travels have given you an insight those of us mired here in France do not have. Our prejudices cloud our evaluations and stifle our acceptance. However, I am sure we are boring Miss Darcy profoundly. See, she is flushed and glassy-eyed! Please, sit, and we stuffy musicians shall talk of pleasanter matters while we refresh ourselves with tea and cakes.”

“Thank you, but I am quite fine, truly. I do not find the discussion boring in the least.”

“No?” the baron asked with genuine surprise. “How extraordinary. Ladies typically do. Tea?”

The baron sat at Sebastian’s abandoned place and began to casually pour tea as if the activity were one he normally performed.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied absently, sitting on the edge of the recently deserted sofa. She still held the leather portfolio, her grip on the edges tight to prevent the trembling that had invaded her body from betraying her discomposure and causing her hands to shake.

What
is
wrong
with
me? Why does he agitate me so?

Which
“he” are you referring to?

“Miss Darcy?”

“What?” She jerked to the present, eyes lifting to Lord Caxton who was gazing at her questioningly.

“Are you well? Do you require rest? Perhaps we have strained your delicacy?”

Sebastian laughed, drawing both sets of eyes to where he yet stood next to the sofa’s armrest. “Miss Darcy is far from fragile. She has outplayed me on the pianoforte numerous times, walked my feet to a state of blistered toes in the quest to see all in a museum, and I would not suggest daring her to a horse race.”

Georgiana blushed but met his teasing gaze boldly. “I have never outplayed you, do not believe for a second you suffered blisters to your toes, but will boast that I beat you soundly every time we race. Forgive me, my lord”—she turned to the older man—“I was momentarily lost to daydreams of comparative analysis between German and French composers. What did you ask?”

“Only how you take your tea.”

“One spoon of sugar and a fair dose of cream.”

Again both sets of eyes lifted to Sebastian, who shrugged. “Sometimes two spoons if the tea is strong.”

“I see,” Caxton muttered. “Thank you, Butler. You have provided another answer to the mysteries surrounding Miss Darcy.” He handed the cup to her but did not relinquish his hold on the saucer immediately, instead capturing her gaze and speaking with warmth, “Mysteries that I intend to devote myself to discovering, if this pleases you, madam?”

Georgiana’s answer was a deep blush and duck of her head.

Caxton smiled in satisfaction, releasing the saucer and reaching for another. “How do you take your tea, Butler?”

“I”—he cleared his throat, looking away from Georgiana’s rosy cheeks—“I am afraid I must return to the chateau to prepare for my departure tomorrow. I came by primarily to deliver the psalms into Miss Darcy’s safekeeping for her to tinker with while I am in Reims.”

“Reims?”

“Ah, you must be attending the symposium on de Machaut by Guilmant-Deffayet,” Caxton guessed, ignoring Georgiana’s expression of surprise and faint sadness.

“Guillaume de Machaut? Taught by Guilmant-Deffayet? Truly?”

Sebastian inclined his head toward Georgiana, smiling at the fascination and curiosity infusing her face. “Truly. And it should surprise me that you know who these men are but it does not.”

“How long will you be away, Mr. Butler?”

“Long enough for you to memorize each psalm and for my brain to be filled with new facts for you to cull. Or, to put it into practical terms, two weeks and a bit.”

“And you are leaving on the morrow?”

He nodded. “It is a rough road to Reims and the symposium starts in two days. We are taking a chance that accommodations can be procured”—he paused to chuckle and shrug his shoulders—“not that the gents are worried over it, since any inn with a pub will do as far as they are concerned. Fortunately, I know of several finer establishments near the university.”

“Well, I am admittedly terribly envious. I have no doubt it will be enlightening and I will most certainly ask a million questions. Be sure to take notes!”

“As you command, madam.”

Caxton rose at that point, blocking Sebastian’s respectful bow from Georgiana’s view, and extended his hand to Sebastian. “Travel safe, Butler. It is a long road, and rough as you said, so I am sure preparations are needed.”

“Yes indeed,” Sebastian agreed, noting the edge to the baron’s voice. “I do have packing to do. I will leave you to your amusement. Miss Darcy, a pleasure as always.” He bowed again, this time within Georgiana’s sight, and stepped toward the door.

Georgiana stood, following after with quick paces and impulsively reaching out to touch his sleeve.

“Mr. Butler!” He halted and turned, Georgiana so close she could see the flecks of green in his otherwise gray eyes. “Please do be careful.”

“I will, have no fear. And please extend my regrets to the Mademoiselles de Valday.”

“Oh! Of course! You will miss the dinner party we are hosting to honor the de Valdays arrival in Paris. Mademoiselles Yvette and Zoë will be devastated.”

“I promise to make it up to them with the anticipated amount of flirting and attention as soon as I return. Be sure to tell them so.”

Georgiana laughed. “That will please them to be sure. And I will keep these safe.” She clutched the music portfolio against her chest and patted it with her other hand.

“I know you will.” He took the hand spread on the smooth leather and brought it to his lips. “Adieu, Mademoiselle Darcy.”

With a dozen or so steps he was out the door, the click as it closed was strangely loud, adding fresh shivers to the ones already racing up her spine.

“Come, Miss Darcy, your tea is growing cold.”

“Of course,” she murmured, lifting a smiling face to Lord Caxton, who had moved to stand by her side. She walked back to the sofa, sat, and picked up the lukewarm tea.

“I am anxious to hear of Pemberley from your lips, Miss Darcy. My uncle, the Duke of Grafton, speaks highly of the stables and estate lands, but I have a feeling you will share a more personal perspective.”

And from there, the afternoon passed in easy discourse of English countryside and horses and home. Georgiana greatly enjoyed herself even while ignoring the hazy sensation of melancholy and annoying tingles that spun across her knuckles and danced up her arm.

Chapter Ten

Arias of Revelation

The de Valday carriages rolled up the drive to their Paris townhouse at a slow and stately pace. The clomp of horses’ hooves and the crunch of gravel warned the butler, Monsieur Vigneux, of their arrival and he, in turn, alerted the waiting inhabitants. However, all of this warning still did not provide time enough for Georgiana to reach the stoop before Yvette and Zoë. They embraced her as if years separated their prior visitation, enthusiasm so intense that English was not even attempted!

Frédéric approached the clot of skirts and fur and ruffles, his natural stride lazy and sensuous. He snared Georgiana’s hand effortlessly from amid the chaos, bowed low while managing to maintain eye contact, and bestowed a precise kiss to the bare skin of her wrist.

“Mademoiselle Darcy, enchantress and love, my heart is whole once again in your presence.”

The little speech was delivered with exaggerated emotion and facial expressions, Frédéric’s sisters quickly shoving him aside and waving off his overblown dramatics with their typical teasingly deprecating remarks. Frédéric grinned and winked at Georgiana before fluidly clasping her to his side—her arm somehow linked around his—and escorting her into the house, Zoë and Yvette on each side, chattering a French tirade all the way to the sunny salon facing the rear garden.

Georgiana smiled as she listened, responding mostly in nods and holding the laughter in check. She had missed them, sorely, and within five minutes felt exhilarated. The vague sadness that had invaded her heart since the departure of Mr. Butler three days ago vanished.

Almost.

Additionally, Frédéric’s bearing and magniloquence had clarified a mystery within her mind. The seventeen-year-old youth delighted her and she truly adored him, but his age and immaturity made stronger feelings impossible. Yet, from the moment she had met him in Lyon, she recognized his innate sensuality. Frédéric oozed magnetism and charisma, his aura intensely masculine if yet unseasoned. Suddenly, Georgiana imagined him as a fully-grown man, one no longer innocent of the world and the effect of his allure, and as an epiphany, she realized it was what Lord Caxton possessed.

The thought was rather disturbing. Frédéric was a tease, a naïve tease who meant no harm with his playful declarations of undying love. Someday he would comprehend his intrinsic charm, then choose how he would use this power. Would he harness it? Or would he utilize it for selfish whims?

How
has
Lord
Caxton
chosen
to
use
his
native
seductiveness?

Georgiana was not sure she wished to face the answer to that question. Luckily, there was little opportunity.

“Dearest Georgiana!” Yvette gushed, enfolding her into another warm embrace. “We have been utterly desolate without you!”

“Dreary Lyon was positively lifeless when you departed,” Zoë added with feeling.

“It is true,” Yvette agreed, curls bobbing with each emphatic nod. “Even our charming chateau was gloomy without your presence to light the atmosphere. And not a single ball or soiree to entertain since the de Marcov wedding reception!”

“Shocking,” Georgiana gasped.

“Indeed! I do believe I have forgotten how to dance!”

“Fret not, my dear Zoë. I am confident the skill will reassert itself once the music starts.”

“Ooh! Are you announcing a ball?”

“Yes, please say yes!”

Both girls dropped onto the settee beside Georgiana, pleading faces on either side of her. “I am”—she paused for the squeals of glee—“but not for two days”—another pause for the groans of dismay—“and first you must suffer through a sedate dinner party tomorrow night. It is, however, thrown to honor the de Valday relocation to Paris and the guest list numbers nearly sixty souls.”

This news was greeted with identical happy smiles and bobs of ebony ringlets.

“Quite perfect,” Frédéric noted from his casual repose on the chaise, “as that allots us tomorrow and Wednesday to shop. I am in dire need of new cravats and a fob for my pocket watch.” He pulled the glittering timepiece out of his waistcoat pocket, frowning as he polished the diamond-adorned fob on his sleeve. “And you, my lovely Yvette, have worn each of the hairpieces you own at least twice.”

Yvette’s hand flashed to the emerald comb embedded in her lush hair.

Zoë nodded in agreement, her face as mournful as her twin’s. “Alas, it will not allot us the time necessary to acquire new gowns. We shall be the laughingstocks of Paris wearing these woefully outdated dresses.”

“Ridiculous, all of you,” Georgiana laughed. “Zoë, your gown was brought to you while I was in Lyon—”

“Yes, but Parisian fashion changes daily!”

“Hardly! And the style is very similar to what I am wearing. I have no doubt you possess
something
adequate for the next few engagements until your modiste sews a new wardrobe.”

“The divine Mademoiselle Darcy is correct,” Frédéric declared, stuffing the shining watch back into his pocket. “The important part is that we are finally in Paris and parties await! Tell us, sweet Georgiana, who has been invited to our
dîner de gala
? Luminaries galore? A host of beautiful women?”

“The delicious Monsieur Butler,
oui
? To delight us with his stunning handsomeness and skilled hands upon the pianoforte,
oui
?”

“Sorry to disappoint, Yvette, but Mr. Butler is away from Paris at the moment.”

The twins gasped, Yvette pressing her hand against her heart and Zoë covering her mouth with the back of her hand, four wide eyes staring at Georgiana as if she had just announced the end of the world.

“The tragedy! To be separated from your heart and soul when your love is blossoming and at its most passionate!”

“Oh, you brave, brave girl, to be so cheery for us when your heart is breaking!”

Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Heavens, you two are the most dramatic females I have ever encountered! Mr. Butler is a friend, Yvette, not my ‘heart and soul’ so there is nothing tragic about our separation. You are very silly indeed.”

“Well, I am devastated beyond repair,” Zoë moaned.

“I as well,” Yvette concurred, although her eyes were not as doleful. “He will return soon,
oui
?”

“In two weeks. And he wanted me to tell you both that he shall atone for missing your dinner by flirting outrageously and fawning extensively once he returns.”

They brightened at that news and immediately launched into an animated discussion of attractive Parisian men. Strategies for coquettish behavior, charming repartee, and properly alluring clothing dominated the next half hour, Georgiana laughing and blushing at the same time.

Frédéric—who had remained silent—suddenly leaned forward, gazed intently at Georgiana’s face, and whispered, “Mr. Butler is merely a friend you say? Hmm… I sense a different emotion lurking under your skin.”

“You are as ridiculous as your sisters, Frédéric,” she whispered back, the twins busily adjusting décolletages for improved bosom display and not aware of the quiet exchange.

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are.”

“You deny your heart is captured? Ah”—he sighed—“you blush and divert your eyes. Telltale signs. Who is the fortunate man, my sweet? Is it the worthy Monsieur Butler or another dashing gentleman who has wrest away your heart?”

“No one has wrest my heart, Frédéric—”

“Your voice wavers,” he interrupted. His tone was compassionate and eyes tender, drawing Georgiana in. “You struggle with your emotions. Unsure, you are. Why does love confuse you so? Is your heart torn between several lovers?”

“There are no lovers but—” She paused, contemplating how best to put her tumultuous thoughts into words. The urge to share was suddenly so strong, overriding her natural reticence and the dim voice questioning why she would divulge her innermost feelings to Frédéric. “Mr. Butler is my friend and can be no more, this I know. Yet, it is true that I feel… something more. Then there is the Baron Caxton who stirs me and is suitable in many respects. I…”

“This baron,” Frédéric encouraged when she halted, “he is courting you?”

“No, not officially, no. We barely met. Baron Caxton—”

“Baron? What baron? Will there be a baron at our party tomorrow?”

Georgiana jerked at Yvette’s interruption, her cheeks instantly scarlet, but Frédéric answered with aplomb, “Barons, comtes, seigneurs, perhaps even a marquis or duc—the possibilities for conquests will be endless, my dearest sisters. I can only pray to be as fortunate, although with Mademoiselle Darcy as the owner of my heart, I doubt if I will even notice.”

***

Shopping, dinner engagements, dancing, symphonies, horseback rides, a promenade through Tuileries Gardens, a boat ride down the Seine, carriage tours of the city, appointments with the modiste, afternoon teas with ladies of Society—the subsequent days were a whirlwind of activity that made the prior weeks boring by comparison. Daily the entertainments changed, as did the persons accompanying her on an outing or encountered at a particular venue. Faces and names grew more familiar to Georgiana, and a few true friends were made to join the de Valdays as her closest associates while in Paris.

Another who was quickly instilled on the list of her constant companions was Lord Caxton. She was unsure how he managed it, but suddenly he was free from his teaching duties at the Conservatoire all hours of the day and night. When not joining her for whatever group venture was devised to pass the daylight hours or an evening appointment he finagled an invitation to, he requested the honor of her exclusive company.

Through it all, whether surrounded by large numbers or merely a handful of others, his concentration was clearly on Miss Darcy. This undisputable conclusion was highly flattering to the innocent Georgiana but also astonishing.

Whenever he walked into her sight after being apart, she was struck anew by his overt masculinity and pronounced attractiveness. He exuded power and confidence with every step or gesture or flicker of his eyes. The aura of perfection so overwhelmed her that every time she was again bemused and bedazzled.

She had not forgotten her revelation of Lord Caxton’s potency and apprehension over whether he used his gift of captivation avariciously. He wielded his charm masterfully and with purpose, of that she could tell, but was polite and solicitous and genuine. Nothing ungentlemanly occurred to give her reason to doubt his intentions and her heart felt his sincerity. Furthermore, as the days passed, the instant reaction of scattered wits and fluttering heartbeat waned at a speedier pace.

His captivating persona did not change, but rather it was the sense of ease and familiarity that grew stronger. With each conversation and enjoyable hour, Georgiana’s fondness for the baron multiplied.

“Tell me of Pemberley and your childhood there,” he requested on the day they rowed and drifted down the Seine.

“But you have heard my stories! Why, I do believe you could navigate the entire park at Pemberley blindfolded!”

The baron smiled at her tease but shook his head. “I rather doubt that. Should I apologize for never tiring of hearing of your youth, Miss Darcy?”

“No,” she answered with a flush, “however, I do believe it is past time for you to tell me of your childhood, Baron. I shall row while you talk.”

He held the oars away from her hands. “I can row and talk at the same time, or we can drift on the current. No need to exert yourself. Now, where to start…”

“The beginning is usually best,” she interjected, Caxton again smiling at her humor.

“Indeed. Well, it may surprise you, Miss Darcy, to learn that I was not the firstborn son.”

He went on to talk of his siblings, the eldest and heir to the Caxton estate dying when four years of age, his parents, and the modest estate in Surrey where he had lived all his life until boarding school.

“You miss your home, I can tell.”

“I do. Now, that is. Oh, I missed home before, but not to the degree I now do. Two years in France without a return visit or more than correspondences from my steward and my family is too long.”

“You said when we met you at the Conservatoire, that you would be returning home soon.”

“I leave in June,” he replied, scrutinizing her expression as he continued. “My teaching term will be over, I have learned all the musical lessons I need for my simple desires, and the estate needs me. My steward has managed capably in my absence, since my father’s death four years ago actually, and he has the assistance of Baroness Caxton—my mother,” he hastened to add, quite pleased that his ambiguous word choice seemed to startle Georgiana. “She is competent and has some authority, but she is a woman, so her knowledge is limited.”

For some reason, the last sentence and the tone it was delivered in disturbed Georgiana. But the conversation moved on and her worries fled. Listening to the baron talk was pleasurable. His voice was pitched higher than one might expect in one so manly and brawny, but mellow and light. He chose his words carefully, she could tell, speaking with economy and precision. In character, he was serious and constrained, short on humor, and bordered slightly on austere. Yet he was considerate and kind, very intelligent, and devoted to his homeland and family—traits that Georgiana appreciated.