Miss Darcy Falls in Love (18 page)

But…

She ran the tip of her index finger over the symbols inked on the staff, following the lines across to the brace and then down to the lower staff. Without lifting from the parchment, she completed the circuit, tracing each clef and note sign until reaching the bottom of the page. There she paused, staring at the signature scrawled in the margin for a minute before brushing her fingertip over it.

Sebastian
Cedric
Frasier
Albert
Butler.

It amused her that he used his full name on some of his compositions while on others he only wrote
Sebastian
Butler.
After a comparative study, she deduced that those psalms placed to music when he was younger bore all five, the habit disappearing with more recent pages. Why? She could not hazard a guess, but she preferred the complete attribution and if the subject presented, she planned to tell him so. She had never asked his full name. Knowing it, even with the mystery of what each name meant or why it was chosen, felt intimate somehow, as if they were connected by a secret few knew. It was comforting.

Two days before she had risen from bed determined to spend more than fleeting minutes glancing at Mr. Butler’s psalms. The honor bestowed upon her when he entrusted his compositions to her was not taken lightly, and guilt consumed her that he would be back in Paris with her not having played a single note. Guilt, however, was not the driving force.

She missed him.

For three weeks he had been gone. Admittedly, during the first week she barely thought of him, her days and nights bursting with activity and the magnetic presence of Lord Caxton sparing her scant time to breathe. By the second week the vague melancholy and emptiness that had persisted since his departure surfaced from where it had been buried beneath the frivolity. Incrementally, the hole expanded until it became an ache and invaded her dreams.

Losing herself within the music brought him closer and eased her heart. The psalms were beautiful, even those written when young, thus it was a joy to play and sing. She did not mark on his paper but jotted suggestions, musings, and alternative refrains onto separate blank sheets. She played the pieces over and over, practicing her variations in places, until many of them were memorized. Then she allowed her eyes to close and fingers to automatically press the correct keys to create a swell of harmony in song.

Time passed swiftly. To Georgiana it felt as if she had barely sat down when she heard the door chime. Her eyes flew open and the music halted with a discordant peal joining her gasp of shock upon noting it was half past four! She lurched from the bench, realizing how long she had been at the activity when her legs protested and she nearly collapsed to her knees. Ignoring the intense tingles and spasms attacking blood starved muscles, she hastily stuffed the music sheets into Mr. Butler’s leather portfolio and shoved it into the bench’s hidden recess, turning just as Lord Caxton entered the salon on the heels of Monsieur Vigneux, the butler.

“Miss Darcy,” he began, bowing deeply, “I apologize for arriving much later than I anticipated. I do pray you are not vexed with me?”

“Not at all, Baron. I was delighting in my solitude.”

“Oh. Have I intruded upon you then?”

“Please, no, I did not mean to imply not wishing to see you!” she stammered to a halt, blushing at his penetrating gaze and feeling utterly foolish. Her muscles continued to ache, her neck especially in need of a rub and stretch—neither of which she could do with him in the room—and her wits remained scattered from the abrupt shift in the atmosphere.

“I heard you playing when I entered the foyer. Quite a lovely composition it was but one I am unfamiliar with. Who is the composer?”

“An obscure English composer, I do not even recall the name. Here, let me pour you some tea. How was the practice? Will Paris society once again be astounded by another Académie Royale masterpiece?”

If he noticed her evasiveness and rushed sentences he was too polite to comment. Instead, he answered her question and the conversation moved forward into common areas, allotting Georgiana the time to regain her composure. She was not sure why she avoided mentioning Mr. Butler. There was no shame in their friendship or the compositions he lent to her or the fact that she wrote music herself. Yet none of these were topics she wished to discuss with Lord Caxton. Mr. Butler and the feelings he stirred within her were private and too confusing to discuss with anyone, especially the baron.

Twenty minutes passed. Georgiana was relaxed and over her upset, engaged in the pleasantries as they sipped their tea, with no premonition that a momentous turning point in her life was about to happen. One minute they were chatting about the planned horseback ride for tomorrow, weather permitting, when in the next breath Lord Caxton placed his cup onto the low table between their seats and moved to sit beside her on the settee.

“Miss Darcy,” he began, his tone grave and face serious, “it has increasingly weighed upon my heart the need to express, in a direct manner, how thankful I am to have met you and to verbalize—so as to have no misunderstanding—that these past weeks have not only been the happiest of my life but are a fulfillment of a long held hope. That is, of course, to find the woman I could spend my life with.”

Georgiana was unable to avert her gaze from his handsome, mesmerizing face. His dark eyes scanned across her features like a caress, causing her heart to pound painfully inside her chest. Suddenly she could not breathe and felt drenched in a fog as the impact of his words pierced through her.
Oh
God! Please do not propose!

He relaxed his face and smiled. “Now, I see that my vehemence is startling to you. Please, do not be alarmed, Miss Darcy.”

He took hold of her hands where they lay slack in her lap, pressing firmly between his warm palms—Georgiana too dumbfounded to notice—and went on, “I appreciate that you are young and perhaps not as assured of your feelings. I am not, at this juncture, asking for anything other than the honor of proceeding as we have thus far.”

“I will be leaving for home in less than three weeks,” she forced between wooden lips.

“Yes, I am aware of this fact, and the thought has brought me an extensive measure of distress. Part of the reason I was later than I anticipated for our tea today, Miss Darcy, was due to a meeting with the Conservatoire director to discuss my resignation date effective in April rather than late June.”

“I see. Your family will be thrilled to have you home.”

“Yes,” he laughed, “I am sure they will, however I admit I was not thinking of my family. I was only thinking of you, or us, I should say. Miss Darcy, I have no wish to trifle with you or walk away today without my intentions unmistakable. There is not a shred of doubt in my mind that you would be a remarkable Baroness Caxton. This is my ultimate desire; however, for now I will be content to court you as is proper until formal permission can be granted by Mr. Darcy. Some say we are already entered into a courtship—”

“They do? Who is saying that? Why?”

He cocked his head and frowned while also smiling in such a way that Georgiana instantly felt the fool.
Of
course
it
would
appear
as
if
they
were
courting!
She had heard the whispers, seen the jealous stares, and even been bluntly asked a handful of times. Yet, fool or not, she sensed a river of irritation rising from her belly. Was she to receive the brunt of gossip every time she danced with a man, or tied together for eternity after a few days of harmless entertainments? She withdrew her hands from his—only in that instant aware that he held them—and struggled to make sense of her churning emotions.

“It is not surprising that the assumption is being leapt to, Miss Darcy,” Lord Caxton soothed. “I have been conspicuous in my interest in you and have never done so with another woman. Playing games is not in my nature. I see what I want and am determined in my pursuit. In this instance, it is you that I want.”

“My Lord Baron, I am… at a loss for words. Naturally, I am flattered and not adverse to, to… you and… I…”

“And that is sufficient for the time being, Miss Darcy. All I ask, if you can see to answer one question for me honestly and from your heart, thus giving me hope for more, is this: Can you imagine yourself as a baroness? My baroness?”

Georgiana hesitated, searching his face as she searched her heart. Could she be his baroness? Did she feel affection for him strong enough for marriage? Was she in love with him?

Far inside, buried under the emotional turmoil, a rational voice proffered that if she had to ask the questions, the answer should probably be
no
. The fact that the voice possessed a musical quality in a deep baritone lent credence to the logic. Yet, the baron had asked for honesty.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I can imagine this, but…”

“Thank you, Miss Darcy!” he interrupted, springing from the seat and bowing. “With that, I am content. Now, I have taken up far too much of your time. Until tomorrow then.” And with minimal fuss, he was gone, leaving Georgiana standing in the familiar foyer yet feeling lost.

Chapter Twelve

Psalms on the Pianoforte

Mr. Butler arrived at the grand townhouse on the Quai d’Orléans on the following day with the thick pouch of copied lecture notes and purchased music sheets tucked under his arm. It was nearly three in the afternoon, two days after his return to Paris, the delay in seeking out a visit with Miss Darcy not a purposeful one.

He had fallen asleep after reading the letters from his parents with every intention of waking to visit with his grandmother before she left for whatever evening engagement he was sure she had scheduled. Instead, it was his grandmother who bullied his valet into rousing him for a late midday meal and tea in her salon—the next day! He had slept for over eighteen hours. A hasty bath and shave was adequate to join Lady Warrow in her sunny, femininely decorated parlor, Sebastian so ravenous that the cold sandwiches, meats, cakes, and fruit were replenished twice.

They talked about his expedition to Reims and what he learned there. She talked about her exploits and some of the juicer gossip bandied about. Neither brought up the topic of Lady Cassandra and his father’s wrath. Sebastian assumed she knew—his grandmother always knew everything—but he certainly did not want to talk about it. Nor did she mention Miss Darcy, a point he thought odd but could not very well broach himself.

He ached to see her. Literally ached. Eighteen hours of heavy sleep with pleasant dreams of her by his side, belonging to him, had eased his heart and cemented his purpose.

I
love
her.

There was no longer any doubt in that reality. It did not mean he had an agenda or prepared speech for how to go about expressing his love. He was unsure how their future together would mesh with his study at the Conservatoire or plans to pursue his music. Worst of all, he had no clue as to whether she felt anything for him greater than friendship. Yet none of this changed the simple fact that he was utterly, passionately, and with every fiber of his soul in love with her.

What did change his plan was a closer inspection of his reflection in the mirror of his dressing room later that night.

“Good God! I look ghastly! Why did you not say something?” He turned an accusatory glare on his valet.

Hendricks continued to iron the trousers laid on the table and did not bother to glance up from his important task. He shrugged one shoulder, drily responding, “I figured you could ascertain the obvious without me having to point it out. Besides, you needed to eat, since the last thing I want is you grumpy when I am trying to cut your hair.” He glanced up then, putting the iron aside and picking up the trousers to fold. “You should know by now that your unruly hair cannot go three weeks without a trim, let alone five.”

Sebastian grunted, but he did not argue. Hendricks was a childhood friend—a servant’s son who he called “Jimmy” in those days—before becoming his valet when he left for Oxford. Lord Essenton had not approved of a close companion being one’s manservant, no matter how qualified, but Sebastian insisted, another fight ensuing, and had never regretted his choice. Well, maybe at times like this when Hendricks’s flippancy grated on his frayed nerves. Still, the valet was correct. Sebastian’s hair needed a trim before he left for Reims, a suggestion from Hendricks that he had ignored.

“Very well,” he grumbled, sitting on the stool, “do your worst.”

“Not now. Tomorrow, after I wash it thoroughly. You have a pound of road dust in there,” he explained when Sebastian opened his mouth to protest. “Cutting it like that is unwise. Besides, I have all this to attend to,” he said as he swept a hand over the pile of clothes lying on the floor beside the partially unpacked portmanteau.

“What have you been doing while I slept a whole day away?”

“Do you really want to hear a dreary detailed report of my hours? I did not think so. Mostly I was preparing this.” He picked up a jar sitting on the table and opened it to reveal a pasty cream. “This will reduce the dark circles under your eyes and remove the chafed areas of your skin. You do look ghastly after all.”

“You sure you are not a girl? I could arrange a nice post as a ladies’ maid for you to practice your feminine techniques.”

“Thanks all the same, chuckles, but I will stick with you. I am satisfied to practice techniques
on
the maids, after which I glean tricks of the trade to keep your ugly face respectable enough to appear in public.”

Hendricks was correct, again. Sebastian gave in to the inevitable, which meant a day of rest, a thorough washing, a haircut, several treatments to his face, alterations to some of his clothes, and so on. The delay in confronting Miss Darcy worried him and increased his anxiety, but by the time he announced himself to Monsieur Vigneux at the de Valday townhouse, he did feel much better physically. And since women are not the only creatures on the planet who believe appearance makes for a nicer impression, Sebastian was vastly more confident knowing he was exceptionally dapper after a day in the hands of his valet.

Monsieur Vigneux pleasantly welcomed the frequent visitor of Miss Darcy’s without frowning, as he had on that first introduction, and seemed genuinely sad to inform him that Miss Darcy was not currently at home. Momentarily at a loss—not that it had not crossed his mind that she may be out—Sebastian stammered a bit, finally deciding he would leave the pouch and a note of friendly greeting.

“Poor timing on my part,” he said and grimaced. “If I may request, will you see she gets these as soon as she returns? And inform her I called?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Monsieur Butler! How delightful!”

He pivoted toward the voice, already registering the owner and thus not surprised to see the de Valday twins bouncing toward him down the staircase. “Mademoiselle Zoë, Mademoiselle Yvette”—he bowed deeply—“what a lovely surprise. When Monsieur Vigneux informed me that Miss Darcy was away, I presumed you were with her. My happy mistake since I am now able to welcome you to Paris as I was not able to do when you arrived.”

Yvette and Zoë curtsied before him, two pairs of matching bold eyes raking over his figure before meeting his amused gaze. It was Zoë who spoke, her voice gay. “Indeed, we were heartbroken, Monsieur Butler. Of all in Paris, it was you we most desired to meet again, is that not so, Yvette?”

“It is true! Devastated we were! Then our dear Georgiana relayed your dismay…”

“And promise to flirt and fawn!”

“
Oui
, that too,” Yvette agreed with her sister. “Thus our hearts were placated.”

“And now you are here to fulfill your promise!”

“I shall, if you feel it is still necessary. Nearly three weeks in Paris, so you two must be weary of the constant flirting, parades of gentlemen vying for your attention, and endless streams of flattering admiration.”

They both laughed and shook their heads, each grasping onto an arm and steering him into the salon.

“Is it possible to weary of such activity, monsieur? I think not!”

“After rotting away in Lyon forever we shall require years of excitement to erase the scars! Lyon is frightfully dull. Did you not find it so, monsieur?”

“Indeed. Frightful. I barely survived.”

“Besides,” Yvette said, her face innocent but eyes peeking sidelong at Sebastian, “we had to rescue poor Georgiana from rattling about this old house all alone, day after day.
Tragique!
”

Zoë took the clue. “Oh yes! We worried about her day and night, the poor lamb without us! Fortunately, you were here to amuse her, Monsieur Butler, and then the Lord Caxton as well.”

Sebastian recoiled as if slapped, hard. “What?” he blurted, noting the shrillness of his voice but too distraught to control the tone. “How do you mean?”

Zoë shrugged, sitting on the sofa next to Yvette. “He has been most attentive. But then Mademoiselle Darcy is never lacking for companions and entertainments to choose from.”

“Indeed, she has worn herself to a frazzle from continual engagements and hours of dancing. You have missed much, Monsieur Butler. The Duchesse de Saint-Aignan hosted a magnificent gala last week with all of Parisian Society invited. It was stupendous!”

“I danced until dawn,” Zoë dreamily recalled, “and so did lovely Georgiana, with dozens of men.”

“But only the handsome Lord Caxton was honored with two dances. She has missed you, however, Monsieur.”

Sebastian searched Yvette’s eyes for a clue as to her meaning, praying for anything, even the tiniest glimmer to restore his shattered hope. “Has she?”

“Of course! Why, these past three days she has shockingly refused every invitation in lieu of staying home to play your compositions on the piano. Even shopping!”

Yvette said the last with a tone and expression that left no doubt as to how incredible that decision was to her. Zoë nodded, her face wearing an identical expression.

“So I know she will be pleased to welcome you home, Monsieur Butler. She should be returning any second from her horseback ride with Frédéric, the Limoges and Tonnerres, and Lord Caxton.”

“
Oui,
any moment now,” Yvette agreed. “So sit, monsieur, and have some refreshments. We will divert with humorous anecdotes until the sweethearts return.”

Sebastian paled further, sank into the chair, and sucked his breath through a narrowed airway. “Sweethearts? Surely you jest, Mademoiselle Yvette. They have barely met.”

She shrugged, leaning to pour hot tea just brought in by the maid. “All it often takes is one look. Who can understand the ways of
amour
? Such a mystery.” She handed him the delicate china cup, Sebastian taking it automatically and staring sightlessly into the steaming liquid.

The de Valday twins rambled on, Sebastian drinking tea that had no flavor while fighting to pay attention enough to offer feeble responses. They dropped the baron’s name from time to time—Sebastian wincing and trying to ignore a pounding headache—but primarily related gossip in a steady stream. The clock on the mantel ticked bolts of pain into his temples for the subsequent half hour until the sound of laughter and voices from the foyer superimposed.

Sebastian jerked up from his perch and swung his eyes toward the door. Georgiana and the baron entered first with Frédéric de Valday a step behind. In an instant, Sebastian assessed the picture presented and the image increased his agony.

Georgiana wore a fine riding outfit of pale gray that accented her perfect womanly curves, and a fashionable hat perched atop the piled mass of her golden hair. Her cheeks were rosy with a light sheen of dew across her brow, ruby lips moist and smiling, and sky-blue eyes gazing upward into the face of Lord Caxton, who walked at her side holding tightly to her hand where it rested in the bend of his arm. The baron was beaming, his smile gay and eyes fixed on Georgiana.

“Monsieur Butler, welcome back to Paris.” Frédéric’s enthusiastic greeting rang out and alerted the enthralled pair. Lord Caxton’s smile held as he added his welcome, but Sebastian only saw Georgiana.

“Mr. Butler! I am so pleased you are safe. I feared a mishap upon the road when no word of your return reached us.”

She dropped the baron’s arm and hastened across the space, bobbing a quick curtsy before Sebastian. Happiness infused her voice and her radiant smile was trained upon his face, Sebastian sensing a slight lessening of the band constricting his chest and becoming unable to resist smiling in return.

“I am quite well, Miss Darcy. No mishaps other than a washed out road that delayed us and then orders from my valet to rest and spruce up before appearing in public. I apologize for causing you any concern.”

“All is forgiven, sir, now that you are here. We are very relieved.”

“Yes, quite a relief,” Lord Caxton drawled. He had trailed behind Georgiana, assuming a possessive stance, with his body as close to her as possible but a half step nearer to Sebastian. The subtle blocking between the two was not subtle to Sebastian. “Good to have you back, Butler.”

Sebastian nodded and shook the hand offered. “Thank you. It is good to be back, my lord.”

“We have been entertaining your guest in your absence and filling him in on the excitement he has missed.”

“Thank you, Yvette, but nothing that has occurred here could possibly be as thrilling or illuminating as the lecture on Machaut. I am aflutter with anticipation, Mr. Butler.”

“I have scrupulous notes for your perusal as well as some new compositions I am confident you will enjoy.”

“More of your compositions? I would not have thought your schedule allotted the luxury of time to write, but of course, I will delight in hearing them.”

“These are not mine. You are correct that scant time was available and the pianoforte available at the inn was a sad instrument indeed. Plus, I rather doubt the patrons would have tolerated less than a lively dance tune.”

Georgiana laughed. “No, I do not image they would.”

“More musical topics to discuss? I would think the subject exhausted by now.” Caxton’s countenance was friendly but the muscles were sight and eyes hard.

“There is no way to exhaust a topic fascinating and evolving. What I brought are pieces written by various composers but are for a six octave pianoforte such as yours at Pemberley, Miss Darcy. You will learn techniques that may inspire your compositions.” He smiled with genuine warmth toward Georgiana, who blushed but darted an uneasy glance toward Lord Caxton.