Miss Darcy Falls in Love

by Sharon Lathan

  “I have been invited and would not miss it for the world.”

  “Stupendous! Forgive my continued boldness upon such short acquaintance, but it would be my greatest honor to secure a dance, or possibly two, Miss Darcy? I posit that I must secure your favor now, prior to other gentlemen dominating your attention ere I locate you amid the crowds.”

  “You are far too generous, Baron.”

  “Not at all. I shall anticipate the delight of your company both evenings. Unless”—he looked suddenly to a forgotten Sebastian—“I beg your forgiveness. Is there an understanding?” He gestured between the two.

  “No! Not at all,” Georgiana blurted, shaking her head emphatically. “Mr. Butler and I are friends, nothing more. I would be pleased to dance with you tomorrow Lord Caxton.”

  “Wonderful. Well then, until tonight Mademoiselle Darcy. I will be counting the hours, I assure you. Now, I fear I must be on my way. I am already late for class and hopefully my students have decided to devote their free time to practice.”

  He bowed deeply, eyes caressing her face before tearing away to address Sebastian. “Butler, will you be at the gala tomorrow? Fabulous. We can reminisce then. Adieu, Miss Darcy.”

  He inclined his head again, this time drawing in the hand he still clasped to his lips for a glancing kiss.

  Georgiana followed his progress down the hall, entranced and unaware of peripheral stimulants. At the corner Lord Caxton turned his head, smiled broadly as he waved to her, and then disappeared from view.

  Chapter Nine

  Opera: A Dramatic Song

  No! Not at all!… friends, nothing more!”

  She had practically shouted it and the words continued to pound inside his brain. The music rising from the orchestra pit and booming voices from the stage were insufficient in drowning the harsh exclamation.

  Sebastian stole a glance to the box four to the right of his. Miss Darcy’s profile was softly outlined in the muted light of the opera house, her eyes gazing out and down. Was it just his imagination that she was peering into the recessed pit where the musicians played? Probably, he thought sourly, not that it matters to me.

  A nudge into his ribs interrupted the musings, Sebastian turning toward his grandmother. Lady Warrow fluttered her fan daintily, her eyes also staring fixedly at the stage. She was smiling, her face gay and relaxed, yet he knew she was displeased. How could she not be? Her escort had been surly and distracted since meeting her in the foyer before leaving for the opera. In truth, he had been battling a host of negative emotions all afternoon.

  Sebastian had stood in the hallway outside Professor Florange’s office observing the interplay between Lord Caxton and Miss Darcy while his insides churned savagely.

  Seconds before Caxton’s interruption he had been a hairbreadth away from kissing her. In a public passageway! He could almost taste the pleasure of her lips. The warmth of her breath caressed his face with each rapid exhale, utterly intoxicating him and wreaking havoc on his reason. The yearning had been so overwhelming that he did not know what had shaken him more—his raging lust for her kiss or his raging lust to murder Lord Caxton for stopping him! Nothing remotely similar had ever happened to him, and to say he had been unnerved would be the understatement of the century.

  His composure had taken a serious hit from their heated encounter. His choler seethed alongside the wild rush of ardor, neither noticeably diminishing in the minutes after Lord Caxton’s intrusion.

  Then, to stand there forgotten while Caxton and Miss Darcy flirted was agonizing. He recognized the searing pain that flooded his body as uncontainable jealousy, the additional emotion compounding his distress. He was used to women responding to Lord Caxton, the man’s allure a well-known fact even if other men did not comprehend it; however, watching Miss Darcy’s pronounced reaction was something else entirely.

  The cumulative assault rendered him physically ill.

  Georgiana had remained silent throughout the ride to the de Valday townhouse on Île Saint-Louis. Whether that was from anger toward him or some other emotion he refused to name he could not begin to discover, the lump in his throat and churning bile in his stomach preventing conversation.

  He had stewed all afternoon, arriving at the Théâtre National in a foul mood that did not improve when the brief encounter with Miss Darcy in the crowded salon gave him little to grasp on to. Was she remote in her welcome? Or was his imagination heightened? He could not decide which was the case, but to his mystification he seemed painfully aware of her tiniest nuance as never before.

  Attending to the performance was impossible, as his grandmother’s frequent subtle prods into his side proved. For the first time in his life, music did not calm him and for that alone his irritation grew. As the baron had promised, this rendition of The Barber of Seville was excellent—or rather those short portions he did manage to focus upon were beautifully done. Maddeningly, he discovered the words of their argument ringing through his brain with strength and clarity sufficient to drown the heavy coloratura contralto of Rosina and lush baritone of Figaro!

  He pointedly avoided encountering her in the salon during intermission, that a feat easy to accomplish as the attendance for the gala performance was sold out. The recent stabbing of the Duc de Berri, nephew of Louis XVIII, on the steps of the Rue de Richelieu Opera House, had greatly upset the standard schedule of musical entertainments in Paris. While the antics of Polichinelle continued upon the stage, the heir to France’s throne suffered for hours in one of the salons ere his death before dawn. None in the audience or upon the stage were aware that the tragedy had occurred, but all in Paris grieved and felt the consequences when the Emperor closed the Rue de Richelieu permanently.

  The Académie de Musique floundered without a permanent home—and would for months to come—the hastily organized two-night gala to benefit opera and honor Duc de Berri becoming a special event for Parisians.

  For Sebastian, the advantage of the evening laid in the crowds of people separating him from Miss Darcy, his emotions yet too raw to trust. He vacillated between wanting to seek her out and apologize to irritation for feeling he needed to apologize. His assurance that ignoring her was best warred with his dismay that she did not appear to be looking for him. Moments of mature reasoning that said their friendship was valuable and worth salvaging were smothered by the childish impulse to run away from an emotional situation he was not prepared to cope with.

  A long night of sleeplessness and an endless day of pretending he was not dwelling upon the situation with Miss Darcy—when his thoughts rarely strayed elsewhere—had sapped his strength. He felt older than his grandmother when he finally entered the glittering ballroom where the gala was in full swing. Lady Warrow had chosen another escort for the evening, rightfully assuming the Marquis de Dumet significantly more charming than her grandson would be. Cheery he may not be, but Sebastian had managed to reach a measure of emotional stability by the time he crossed the threshold to be immediately greeted by friends from the Conservatoire. Within minutes of jovial converse, his mood improved. So did his confidence in restoring his friendship with Miss Darcy.

  For a time, that is.

  “Have you and Mademoiselle Darcy suffered a misunderstanding of some nature?”

  Sebastian’s hand jerked at the question but resumed its path toward his mouth, the sip of wine taken before he answered Monsieur Laroche. “Not at all,” he lied. “Why do you ask?”

  “You have not danced with the lady yet tonight, nor spoken one word to her, both an oddity striking in their irregularity. We have grown accustomed to the two of you in constant companionship.”

  “We? Who is this we encompassing?”

  “Everyone,” Laroche responded.

  “Everyone is a great number indeed. I was unaware my actions were scrutinized by the entire population of Paris.”

  “No need to bristle, my friend. We Frenchman are notorious gossips, especially when it pertains to matters involving love.”

&n
bsp; “Therefore it may please you to learn that love has nothing to do with my attachment to Miss Darcy. We are friends, nothing more.”

  Laroche’s brows lifted at the subtle churlish emphasis on the last two words. “As you wish. Thanks for the clarification to what we were speculating was an extremely poor judgment call on your part.”

  “There is that we again. How pleased I am to have provided a wealth of amused conversation to so many people. And do, pray tell, enlighten me as to my poor judgment?”

  Laroche bobbed his head toward the punch bowl where Georgiana stood engaged in conversation with Lord Caxton. Sebastian winced at the sight of her beautiful face lifted toward the baron, their mutual admiration visible from across the room.

  “Leaving a prospective amour in the custody of Lord Caxton is unwise, or incredibly foolish. Women are drawn to him as a magnet, as are a few men I could name but shall not. Personally, I am blinded to his allure but not heedless of the reality. Nor am I so moronic as to allow my sweet Flavie to be in the same building the baron is in let alone talk to him!”

  “Your mistrust of Mademoiselle Flavie’s devotion to you, Laroche, strikes me as a personal character flaw or failing in your relationship. And this after you boast incessantly of your lady’s infatuation and crazed hunger for you,” Sebastian countered, hoping to ruffle the ofttimes volatile musician and thus divert the topic away from Baron Caxton’s attentiveness to Miss Darcy, a fact surely as obvious to everyone in the room as it painfully was to him. Alas, Laroche did not react as desired.

  “I am merely presenting the truth of it. You have known the baron longer than anyone here so must have seen hundreds of women fall at his feet, oui?”

  “Lord Caxton is an upstanding gentleman of London Society. His manners are impeccable with no hint of scandal or impropriety ever.”

  Laroche grunted. “Pathetic. What man would not sell his soul to be that handsome and to possess his power over the opposite sex? God knows I would, and then revel in the joy of endless pleasure and adoration every day until the devil takes me. Yet, he behaves as a gentleman! Unnatural, I maintain.”

  “With that attitude, I suspect Mademoiselle Flavie has the greater reason to distrust.”

  “Laugh all you want, Butler, and go on living with your delusions. It is true that he is a fine gentleman and respected teacher. We have yet to see him tumble a single maid or hear a whisper of an indiscretion with a female student…”

  “I doubt you will.”

  “…but we are waiting.”

  “We again? How is it that I am not including in this infamous we?”

  “You will be, once you are a true student… and after the initiation!”

  “Initiation?”

  “Never mind that”—Laroche waved Sebastian’s concerned scowl away—“you will pass the test and then can partake of the betting. Yes, the betting”—he hastily nodded at the question etched upon Sebastian’s face—“such as when will Lord Caxton weary of his costly visits to Madame Roux’s establishment and succumb to one of the determined ladies who dog his every step, with heaving bosoms and bold solicitations freely advanced. The man is only human, is he not?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “I believe you and your cronies are doomed to failure on this wager. I have known Caxton for years, and he simply is not a rogue. I venture your wager will remain uncollected.”

  “Ah, but if he were to set his gaze upon a woman? That, my friend, would be a different story altogether.” Again he nodded his head toward Lord Caxton and Miss Darcy—the two now on the dance floor for the second set—leaned close to Sebastian, and whispered, “Is there a female alive who could resist such masculine handsomeness and charisma?”

  The swallow of wine lodged in his throat, Sebastian gulping past the spasm that threatened to spew the liquid out of his mouth. Laroche pounded him on the back, his laughter preventing further references to Lord Caxton’s mystique and Miss Darcy. Sebastian decided his burning throat, red face, and coughing fit were worth the disruption in that undesirable topic. Thankfully, before Laroche revisited the subject, they were joined by a group of fellow musicians from the Conservatoire, the lanky man in the front sweeping his eyes amusedly over Sebastian and then quirking a brow at Laroche.

  “You must have told Butler about Reims. I knew he would be thrilled but did not anticipate choking to death over the news.”

  “We were discussing the mystery of the baron freely wooing Miss Darcy, Gaston. I had yet to mention Ambroise Guilmant-Deffayet’s symposium on Guillaume de Machaut.”

  “Most unwise of you, Laroche, pointing out Butler’s glaring error when we need him along on our excursion.”

  “What,” Sebastian rasped, adding another cough, “the bloody hell are you babbling about?”

  “The symposium. In Reims. Taught by Guilmant-Deffayet. On Machaut. Pay attention, Butler!”

  “Ease up on the poor man, Gaston,” piped up the man to Gaston’s left. “He has lost his lady and ruined a perfectly fine swallow of Cinsaut on the same night. Let me rescue this before you spill it—adding to the tragedy—while Gaston cheers you with details on the symposium.”

  The speaker grabbed the wine glass from Sebastian’s slack grip and proceeded to drain half the contents before Sebastian could formulate a response. Not that there was an opening to argue, since Gaston instantly did as suggested.

  “It is as Anjou and Laroche have said. Guilmant-Deffayet is hosting a two-week lecture series on the poetry and compositions of Machaut. In Reims. We heard of it today and it begins in four days so, well, you can do the math.”

  “We know your penchant for medieval poetry and motets, religious compositions and music history,” Laroche explained. “You have quoted Machaut numerous times and played portions of Le Remède de Fortune for Madame de la Croix’s soiree so assumed this was a opportunity you would not miss.”

  “Besides,” Anjou interjected, “you have more money than all of us combined and we are not above begging if necessary.”

  Gaston shook his head even while laughing. “No need to beg. Look at Butler’s face! Prepare your travel bags, gentlemen. We are leaving for Reims two days hence.”

  ***

  Georgiana was bemused. Yes, she thought, that is the word for it: bemused. Or maybe bedazzled was an apt description for how she felt. The lights seemed brighter, the music especially melodious, the dancing more enjoyable, and the food ambrosial. Everything was exquisite as never before. The air surrounding her sparkled magically and tingles bounced over her skin.

  Yet there was an unreal quality to the sensations within and perceptions without. It was not disturbing exactly. It was merely strange. Strange and wonderful, she amended as her silk-clad hands brushed over the baron’s gloved palms, his thumb miraculously managing to squeeze and caress her knuckles in the seconds before the steps of the quadrille pulled them apart. Flawlessly, he sidestepped to engage the lady next in line, executing a fluid chassé while never looking away from Georgiana. She could not claim to be an adept judge of a man’s behavior nor did she possess the vanity to assume men were instantly attracted to her; nevertheless, if asked, she would be forced to blushingly agree that Lord Caxton appeared to be as bemused as she.

  This was their second dance together since arriving at the ball. The first, a waltz, had left her breathless and dazed. A portion of that response may have been a result of lively dancing on a crowded floor with lights blazing overhead. Undoubtedly the steady stream of conversation and questions while twirling at a fast pace augmented the breathlessness. Lord Caxton appeared relentless in his pursuit to learn as much about her as possible. This was quite flattering, of course, as was the intensity of the dark eyes that rarely left her face unless it was to scan over her figure—a fact she pretended not to notice even as heat flooded her skin—and the way he drew her closer to his body than was strictly necessary for a proper waltz. The latter greatly shattered her typical composure, and it was with some relief that she greeted the dance’s conclusi
on.

  The following hours continued to be a heady assault upon her senses. Lord Caxton was attentive and practically glued to her side for the entire evening. He filled her glass before it was half empty, secured an empty chair before she expressed a need to sit and rest, and procured sustaining treats with continual frequency. Much to her surprise, considering how flustered she felt around him, conversation flowed easily as the baron boasted a gift for drawing information in a carefree manner. Never domineering or overtly possessive, his demeanor and proximity to her spoke of his intent ere he formally expressed his wishes.

  “Miss Darcy,” he began, leaning closer to ensure she could hear him.

  “Yes, Baron?” she responded, automatically lifting her eyes to his face. Fresh waves of warmth spread through her limbs, her mouth drying instantly at the effect of his presence so near. How is it possible for one man to be so handsome?

  “I apologize for intruding upon your space, but even with the crowds thinning as the evening draws to a close, I fear the music and chatter combine to prevent easy discourse.” He smiled, the perfection of white teeth behind strong lips and tiny crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes increasing his attractiveness and thus her enchantment. “Alas, whisking you away to a secluded alcove is not a proper option, so I must therefore latch upon this relative privacy to ask a question of you before another group of friends descend upon us.”

  “Private conversation in a ballroom is nigh on impossible, I would agree. I shall do my best to ignore extraneous noises, Baron.”

  “Superb. And I shall do my best to be swift and pointed. If it is feasible in regards to your schedule and appealing to you, I would be honored to call upon you tomorrow afternoon. My only lecture for the day is completed at three o’clock. May I join you for tea shortly thereafter?”

  “You are more than welcome, my lord.”

  He bowed and stepped back a pace. “I will await the hour with high anticipation, Miss Darcy. Now I see Lady Matlock approaching and since the music and dance are finished, I believe it is time to bid you a good night.”