The Rogue of Her Heart: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 2)
Page 6
“Oh, please, Lieutenant,” Miss Raynalds said excitedly. “Do sing for us. For you have not delighted us with a song in far too long.”
“I did not know you sang, Lieutenant,” Georgie remarked with a sideways glance in his direction. Yes, Louisa had mentioned he sang, but she wished to hear it from his own lips. “Do you play as well?”
“Only a little and very ill.”
“I am sure you are being far too modest,” Louisa said with a mollifying smile.
“I am not, I assure you,” the Lieutenant told her. “Though I will consent to singing this evening, if one of the young ladies will accompany me. Do either of you know Non lo dirò col labbro?”
“I do,” Georgie volunteered before Miss Raynalds could answer. “Perhaps we might practice it together this afternoon—to ensure we are ready for this evening’s performance.”
“That is an excellent notion, Miss Bennet,” he said. “Shall I meet you in the music room at say … two o’clock, or thereabouts?”
“Two o’clock would be perfect.”
That way, she’d have plenty of time to hang some mistletoe in the music room doorway … and could just happen to be standing under it when he came thither to keep their appointment.
Six
After excusing himself from the breakfast table, Christian retreated to his bedchamber, where he’d been pacing before the fire for the past half-hour. The letter from Miss Stubbs was dated the day after he left Portsmouth for Much Wenlock, its delivery no doubt postponed by the winter weather. He must, therefore, write without delay to discourage her from coming.
Raking his fingers through his hair, he could not decide which would be worse: having her show up on the Captain’s doorstep, being forced to endure her company over the holidays, or knowing how mystified—and utterly appalled—Miss Georgianna would be by his choice of Miss Stubbs as his future bride.
But how to explain the circumstances of the engagement without losing the lady’s good opinion forever?
Oh, if only he had not been so foolish! But he had been, damn his black heart, and now he must pay the price for his roguery. Unless, of course, he could break his promise without bringing scandal and dishonor down upon himself and his family.
But, alas, he could see no way to bring it about.
Inhaling deeply, he crossed to the writing desk at the foot of the bed, and seated himself in the accompanying chair. With a sigh, he picked up the letter from Miss Stubbs and ran his eyes over the mortifying message it contained:
How surprised you will be, my dear Churchill, on receiving this note; and I think you will be more than surprised to learn I am coming to Much Wenlock to spend Christmas with you. An opportunity of coming hither, with a relation with connections in Shrewsbury, was a temptation I could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to accommodate me at the house of your friend, Capt. Raynalds, but I will not depend on it. For my Aunt and Uncle tell me there are several suitable inns in the nearby village. At any rate, you should expect me within a fortnight.
For the present, adieu.
J.S.
With a sizeable knot in his gut, Christian set aside the letter and withdrew from the center desk drawer a sheet of foolscap, a goose-feather quill, a pen knife, a pounce pot, and a stick of sealing wax. As he arranged the objects on the desk’s green leather blotter, he meditated upon what he might write to achieve his purposes. Then, an idea came to him—a harmless white lie certain to stop her from coming. With renewed hope, he began to write,
My Dear Miss Stubbs,
I am in receipt of your letter and feel duty-bound to warn you that coming to Greystone Hall at this time would put your health, if not your very life, in peril. For not only are we snow-bound here, we also have disease in our midst. Tragically, the Captain’s infant son has taken ill with a highly contagious fever. I must, therefore, insist upon you remaining in Portsmouth until I return there the first week in February. Until then, I am,
Your obedient servant,
C. Churchill
There. That should do the trick. Unless, perish the thought, Miss Stubbs was already on her way. To be safe, he should probably prepare Miss Georgianna for the possibility of his betrothed’s arrival.
On second thought, why confess the truth until absolutely necessary? For there was every chance his letter would reach Miss Stubbs before she set out for Much Wenlock—and still some chance of his breaking the engagement before Miss Bennet ever learned of his folly.
After pouncing, folding, and sealing the letter, Christian took it downstairs to Mr. Murphy. “Would you be good enough to post this for me?”
“I certainly shall,” the butler said with an obliging nod.
“Excellent. Now, where might I find the Captain at this hour?”
“He is in the nursery, sir … with his wife and sisters.”
Ha. So much for the segregation of the sexes. Well, he would observe the genteel traditions even if no one else took the trouble. For he had no desire to intrude upon the family—or to find himself under the mistletoe Miss Bennet was hanging throughout the house this morning. He wondered at her purpose for a moment, as he imagined himself locked in a passionate kiss with her.
Blinking the dangerous fantasy away, he said to the manservant, “In that case, I shall wait upon him in the library. Do be good enough to tell your master where I can be found if he should inquire after my whereabouts.”
“I shall, sir,” said the butler with an obsequious bow.
For the next half hour, Christian occupied himself by reading, beside the fire to ward off the old manor’s chill, the freshly ironed copy of The Shrewsbury Chronicle he found upon the Captain’s desk. As there was little to hold his interest in the newspaper, his thoughts traveled back to his days in the navy, when the men put on theatricals—farces, usually, lampooning the officers—to celebrate Christmas Eve.
It was all great fun and kept the crew warm as well as amused while at sea in the dead of winter.
Perhaps he should suggest the undertaking of an amateur theatrical to his friends? Yes, that was a splendid idea, for it would fill the long days of being trapped indoors while distracting him from his troubles. For what better way to take one out of oneself than to assume another identity altogether?
Besides, playacting was a favorite pastime of his at the house parties he’d attended in his pre-Navy days and, when in London for the season, he vastly preferred the theatre to dull evenings playing cards.
His father had private boxes at all the best playhouses on Drury Lane, so he could take his pick of theatrical fare depending upon his mood or companions of an evening.
Admittedly, though, the performances on stage often took a backseat to the dramas playing out in the stalls and private boxes. Seductions were as common as pantomimes—or prostitutes, for that matter, who cavorted openly with the rowdy young men in the pit. Those with more discerning tastes could choose from the notorious courtesans who used their boxes to flaunt their “attractions” … or the actresses on stage, who could be set up as mistresses by the well-heeled gentlemen in the audience.
Oh, yes. A night at the theatre was never dull, and there were an endless variety of options to choose from. Shakespearean tragedies, farcical comedies, pantomimes, operas, operettas, and ballets, many times interspersed with circus acts like tumbling, tight-rope walking, and strong-man demonstrations.
He’d seen them all, often on the same stage in a single evening!
Yes, yes. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of staging an amateur theatrical while they were snowed in. The question was: which play to choose for the company?
Shakespeare’s tragedies were all the rage at present in London, but which could they pull off with only five actors? Romeo and Juliet might work, provided he and Miss Bennet were cast in the lead roles. The Captain could play multiple minor parts—Mercutio, Paris, and the heads of the warring households, among others—while his wife might act the part of Juliet’s nurse. That
would leave Winnifred to cover the lesser male roles of Benvolio, Tybalt, Friar Laurence, and the Apothecary—provided, of course, her brother approved of her donning breeches for the performance.
On second thought, no. There would be too many lines to learn and too many characters on stage at the same time.
A better choice, particularly in light of the season, would be Twelfth Night. He could play Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, to Miss Bennet’s Lady Olivia and Miss Raynalds’s Viola. Pulling on his chin, he stopped to think a moment, wondering if the roles ought to be switched. Another way to go would be to cast Louisa as Lady Olivia, her sister as Viola, and Captain and Miss Raynalds in all the lesser roles.
But alas, that presented the same difficulties as Romeo and Juliet: too many lines and characters to juggle to make the undertaking enjoyable.
Something simpler then—and more modern. But what?
The Gamester? The Rivals? School for Scandal? Wheel of Fortune? Heir at Law?
To be fair to all, the chosen play should have two lead male roles and three significant female parts. When nothing immediately came to mind, he racked his brain, trying to remember anything he’d seen that might fit the bill.
Oh, no. This will never do! Even if he did come up with a viable candidate, someone was bound to object. Perhaps he ought to put it to a vote rather than choose the play himself. Doing so would certainly be more democratic, even if it robbed him of control.
Yes, that is what he would do. Tonight, after dinner, he would propose the idea to the group—gentlemen and ladies together—and see if they could reach a consensus on which play to undertake. At the very least, he might discuss the idea with Miss Bennet when they met this afternoon to practice for this evening’s performance of Non lo dirò col labbro.
He shook his head. What mental lapse had possessed him to choose such a romantic aria? He just hoped Miss Bennet would not read too much into the lyrics. Never mind that every word expressed the deepest truth of his heart where that dear lady was concerned.
* * * *
At precisely ten minutes to two, Georgie positioned herself under the cluster of mistletoe she’d hung in the doorway of the music room. The Lieutenant’s kiss, she was convinced, would tell her everything she needed to know.
Well, everything her heart needed to know, that was to say.
As to the rest, she still had innumerous questions, not the least of which was why he’d chosen, of all the songs in the world, an aria articulating silent worship for someone deeply loved, but unattainable.
The piece, from George Frideric Handel’s opera Tolomeo, was a favorite of hers. Composed in Italian, the aria contained two parts. The first translated to English as,
I will not say it with my lips
They do not have the courage.
This stanza was repeated several times, to emphasize the character’s inability to find the courage to speak what he felt in his heart. Then, the second part was sung only once:
Perhaps, with sparks from yearning eyes,
My gaze will speak to reveal,
How I am consumed by flames.
Might the song be meant as a message to her? Did he, in fact, lack the courage to confess the violence of his affections for her? She would have her answer in a few minutes, if and when he dared to steal a kiss.
She looked up at the sprig with its flat green leaves and wax white berries. It was a parasite that fed off of trees. And yet, it had been a sacred thing once, cut by white-robed priests with a golden knife—druidic priests possessing ancient knowledge and wisdom. Mistletoe had been sacred to them. Did it in fact have magical powers?
Georgie’s pulse quickened when footfalls sounded in the hall. Was it he? She was all aflutter as she waited for him to appear. Then, he did, out of the shadows. His face was so handsome, his eyes so alive, and his clothes as beautifully tailored and fashionable as ever.
Their eyes met as he approached. There was no mistaking the passion in his glance. A flush climbed up her throat to her face as he stopped before her, still holding her gaze.
Then, he looked up, showing her the intricate knot and diamond stickpin in his cravat. “You are standing under the mistletoe, Miss Bennet.”
She looked up, too, as if unaware of her position. “So I am.”
Would he take advantage of the old tradition?—or dismiss the lore as blasphemous pagan superstition? For a few moments, he did nothing, but everything he felt was palpable to her: the hope, the fear, the hesitation, and, finally, the melting of his resolve.
He bent toward her. She closed her eyes, trembling with excitement and nerves. She felt his hand close around her waist, felt his warm breath fan her cheek, felt the heat of desire rise from her core.
His lips met hers, lightly at first, and then with more pressure, more feeling, more passion. Thrilling tingles swam through her nether-region when he parted her lips with his tongue. When it plunged into the depths of her mouth, she put her arms around his neck, abandoning herself to the deliciously wicked sensations his fervid explorations stirred within her womb.
Kissing him like this was so intimate. So scandalous. So wanton. So wrong. And yet, nothing had ever felt so right to her before. One of his hands gained her bosom, and she felt the flesh there tingle and swell as the nipple grew as hard as the coral necklace she wore round her throat.
She came alive under his caresses, as if she’d been born anew from the ashes of her previous dull existence. Then, his strong arms went around her, pulling her against him. The feel of their bodies so intimately locked together activated heavenly pulsations between her legs.
The Lieutenant must have realized he’d taken things too far, because he suddenly withdrew. Stepping back, he stared at her for several agonizing moments as if they were strangers.
“Forgive me, Miss Bennet,” he said at last, red-faced and breathless. “I do not know what came over me.”
“Something more than friendship, I daresay,” she said with a nervous smile. “And, I’m certainly no expert in such matters, but surely having had your tongue in my mouth puts us on intimate enough terms to begin calling each other by our given names. Do you not agree, Christian?”
“Erm … yes, I suppose it does, Miss … Georgianna.”
“Call me Georgie. I vastly prefer it to Georgianna.”
He cleared his throat. “Should we get down to business now?”
Not wanting the moment to end so soon, she stepped up to him and set her hands on his waistcoat. “I rather liked the business in which we were previously engaged.”
“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat again. “For both our sakes, we should take care not to let it happen again.”
She was not about to be so easily put off. “That might be difficult, given how much mistletoe I’ve hung around the manor.”
He scoffed and moved away from her, into the music room. “In that case, I shall take greater care to avoid doorways … and innocent young ladies standing within them.”
“Dear me. You needn’t be such a prig about it,” she asserted with indignation. “It was only a kiss under the mistletoe, for heaven’s sake.”
Unsettled by all that had taken place, she took her seat at the pianoforte and waited for him to prepare. When he gave her the nod, she played the several bars of the aria’s introduction until he began to sing in a clear baritone voice:
Non lo diro col labbro
Che tanto ardir non ha-a.
Non lo diro col labbro
Non lo diro col labbro
Che tanto ardir non ha.
Che tanto ardir non ha.
Non lo diro col labbro
Che tanto ardir non ha.
Forse con le faville
Dell’avide pupille,
Per dir come tutt’ardo,
LO SGUARDO PARLE-RA
Non lo diro col labbro
Che tanto ardir non ha-a
Non lo diro col labbro
Non lo diro col labbro
Che tanto ardir non ha-a
Che tanto ardir non ha
Non lo diro col labbro
Che tanto ardir non ha.
Georgie was deeply moved by the majesty of his voice—and the sentiments it expressed so feelingly. Were the words he sang truly from the heart or was he merely acting? The only way to know for sure, of course, was to ask him outright. But that would be exceedingly bold of her. Not to mention, dangerous to her heart.
For had he not made it clear he regretted their kiss? Yes, he had, destructive as it was to her hopes where he was concerned. Was she mad to imagine he cared more for her than he was letting on? She did not think so. But neither could she fathom what reason he might have to deny his feelings.
Especially when she returned them.
She cleared her throat and forced herself to be cheerful. “Lieutenant Churchill, what a lovely voice you have. Why did I not know you sang until now?”
“There is much you do not know about me, Miss Bennet.”
Saying no more, he made a bow and left the room without so much as a backward glance. Bewildered by his abrupt departure, Georgie stared at the doorway through which he’d gone, painfully aware of two things: the first was that it was the same doorway in which he’d kissed her with passion a few minutes earlier; and the second was that, much to her dismay, he’d returned to the formality of calling her Miss Bennet.
Seven
Christian spent the remainder of the afternoon in the billiards room with Capt. Raynalds but, fearing his friend’s condemnation, said nothing about the play or what lately transpired between himself and Georgianna.
On the first point, he feared the Captain might shoot the idea down before the others had their say. Acting was, after all, a disreputable profession, and he had the reputations of his female relations to think about. Not that anyone need know about the play beyond their small circle, but the Captain could be extremely fastidious when it came to observing the proprieties of so-called polite society.