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 We shall be the laughingstocks of Paris wearing these woefully outdated dresses.”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 Lo
rd 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.
As a dancer, he was superb, possessing the fluid rhythm she recognized as unique amongst those who were gifted musicians. Waltz, quadrille, allemande—all were performed with skill and verve. On the ballroom floor, his restraint vanished and this was both exhilarating and overwhelming. Dancing, forever that one activity where close proximity and touching were allowed, provided a convenient, proper place for Lord Caxton to unleash his sensual magnetism.
“Tonight, Miss Darcy, I intend to teach you the steps of the mazurka,” he said as they entered the mansion where the Russian ambassador to France dwelt and where a ball was about to begin.
“The Russian dance? Oh my, I am not sure I am capable if the steps are as complicated and fast as the rumors say.”
“The mazurka is actually a Polish dance brought to Russia as a sort of souvenir of their conquests. Your history lesson for the day,” he added with a soft laugh, steering her cleverly through the throng crowding the foyer. “And indeed, it is a fast, powerful dance, yet not unlike a quadrille as far as the steps themselves. It is beautiful and graceful when performed correctly.”
“You are well versed in the dance, I suppose?”
“Fair enough. I am also a good teacher. I am confident you shall master it and know I will enjoy instructing you.”
The penetrating look as he spoke the last, along with the subtle squeeze of her arm against his side caused her cheeks to flush. Was there an insinuation in his words and tone of more than just the dance? There was scant time to reason it out, Georgiana tucking it away along with everything else he said and did for a future period of inspection.
And as she suspected, dancing with Lord Caxton was as breathless this time around as it was when they first danced together at the gala. Neither time was the rapid rhythm of the dance, even one as extreme as the mazurka, the primary cause for her accelerated body functions or scattered wits.
Georgiana knew most ladies would decide she was crazy, but distance was necessary, and she was relieved that rules of decorum dictated only two dances per gentleman. On the dance floor Lord Caxton stretched the limits of propriety. It was never to the point of rudeness, severe invasion to her space, or gross misconduct, but he did grasp onto the opportunity as a way to express his innermost desires.
Conversation was safer to Georgiana’s way of thinking, and for that reason, she preferred casual activities rater than dancing. A stroll along a sunlit garden promenade offered that.
“When did you begin playing the violin?” Georgiana halted beside one of the Corinthian columns placed around the exterior of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel in Tuileries Garden, shielding her eyes from the sun and squinting up at the baron.
He wrinkled his brow in thought. “I am not sure I remember precisely. We had tutors frequently over the years when I was young, who exposed us to music of some sort. Along the way, I learned to play several instruments, but the violin appealed to me most. Yet it would not be until my stay at Harrow that I felt a true affinity and thus focused on it above all else.”
“Your parents obviously encouraged your musical education.”
He shrugged at her statement, resuming their stroll down the concourse toward the palace. “Not particularly, no. We merely happened to have tutors who possessed skills to varying degrees. My mother can play the pianoforte and the harp well enough to entertain on special occasions, and my sisters are accomplished to the same degree. Few women can boast of more than that.”
“Few women have the chance to practice or receive higher learning to improve what talent they may be gifted with, unlike men.”
He glanced at her face, noted the color infusing her cheeks, and frowned. “True, I suppose. Yet what would be the point, Miss Darcy?”
“Why… to learn, of course, to discover what is hidden inside and enhance their capabilities and express the joy of music that is within their heart!”
“Nothing prohibits a lady from doing any of those things if she wishes it,” he responded calmly. “The females of my family have no desire to learn more nor do they have the aptitude. Obviously, this is not the case of all females, such as you, Miss Darcy. I have no doubt at all that you shall always play, much to the delight of any who are fortunate enough to listen, and will challenge yourself to master new pieces, even those written by German composers.”
She smiled at his tease but stopped walking once again. “Do you disagree with ladies enrolling at the Conservatoire?”
“I neither agree nor disagree. What an individual, male or female, chooses to do with their lives is not for me to decide, as long as they are harming no one. I have seen men waste years in study that will never serve them in a fruitful manner due to lack of proficiency. That is tragic. I see the same with the women who enroll. Even those with genius eventually leave it behind for a husband and children. I often wonder if they are happier for the time they spent or unhappy when it must be lef
t behind. I do not know.”
“Do you feel as if you have wasted your years here, Baron?”
“Not at all. I came to share what expertise I had with others, and to enjoy France while I was at it. Teaching was always something I knew to be a temporary profession. I am content and quite ready to move on. And, of course, I can certainly not regret my time here since it has ended with my introduction to you.”
He accented his praise with a sprig of yew torn from the hedge. “Alas, flowers are not close by, so this must suffice.” He handed the fragrant branch to her with a smile and bow of his head, Georgiana dipping her head and bringing the greenery to her nose. “Now,” he said, once again resuming their walk, “while at Oxford, I played in the orchestra, as a student and a teacher…”
Georgiana listened to his remembrances while mulling over his statements. It was irrational, she knew, to feel irked by his opinion when he had said nothing she had not thought herself and said to Mr. Butler.
So why the sense of sadness? Perhaps it was his detached attitude that struck her as strange. There was little in the way of passion when he spoke of his talent, as if he took it for granted and felt no sorrow over leaving it all behind. Yet had she not calmly claimed the same contentment with her pathway? It is admirable, she decided, ignoring the twinge of annoyance and twirling the yew sprig in her hand while listening to him talk, and means we have even more in common.
Equally outstanding were Lord Caxton’s skills on horseback. In this he supplanted her abilities and rivaled those of her brother, whose horsemanship surpassed anyone she had ever encountered. Twice during those weeks, they met at the estates of friends living on the outskirts of Paris, grasping on to days of sunshine to join others for fresh air and exercise.