A final glance at the duke showed Torrance slumping into his chair like a burden lifted. He should rest well. I believed he’d won his wager.
Chapter 35
GEORGINA—PRACTICING WITH ADISTANTCREATOR
Three days before the ball, Mark and I had our final practice. It had been a long practice, but I felt more confident.
Mark rested his hands on the keys.
“Georgie, you sound wonderful. Your exhibition will be phenomenal.”
“Thank you.”
That was one of the only pleasant things he said. My music teacher had been upset throughout our long session. He said nothing out of the ordinary, but his tense brow, his not glancing at me, spoke volumes.
Mark always looked for me. Even in a sea of men in the duke’s study, I saw him turn my way. I liked that he was nervous for me. I like that he cared.
“I suppose this is coming to an end.”
“Yes,” he said. Then he began shuffling through his papers.
The ball was next week. Mark and I would no longer have these moments alone.
The duke would announce my new favorite, Mr. Carew, at the ball. The physician had sounded pleased, saying something about how his aunts loved knowing that a duke favored his expertise and that Carew would be taking time from his busy work to be social.
With the duke conversing with him about my prospects, the single, handsome gentleman would probably propose.
Mr. Carew had known my family for a long time. A man in his thirties who’d never been married was a good candidate. I would be respectably wed and the duke’s bet would assure Scarlett and Lydia would be protected.
“How has your sister taken the news that she is going to lose the bet?” Mark’s voice soared about the scales he played on the pianoforte. “You’ve told her you intend to let Torrance win?”
“Not exactly, but she’s a smart woman, and the duke has more bark than bite. They’ll figure things out. I suspect he’ll release her from the bet.”
Mark rested his hand on the keys. “You think a man in love will give up so easily?” He played a few more notes. “Well, he’s in love . . . and will do what is best for the person he desires.”
Mark wasn’t talking about the duke and a lump appeared in my throat.
“Don’t know if I can sing anymore.”
“That’s all right, Georgie.” The music he now played was something new—lovely and ethereal.
“Is this more Pleyel? Something of his later works? It sounds different.”
He peered up. “How so?”
“It’s haunting and beautiful. Yet, it makes me feel grounded, like I can be confident. The world is ahead.”
“Your world is, Georgie. And this is mine, my finished sonata. It’s what I’ve prepared for the Harlbert’s Prize. You are the first and only one to hear it.”
It was done. I ran around the pianoforte. As though I were Lydia, I wrapped my arms about his neck. “Congratulations.”
Mark embraced me, then kissed me quickly on my lips, then my forehead.
With my pulse racing, I released him.
His arms went away, and he began playing his song. “It’s not perfect. I’m struggling in the final movement. With our practicing done, it will have my full attention. I will submit on time. I can’t keep delaying my future. It’s not the way to live.”
In silence, I watched his tortured soul become a hymn. He poured his heart into each note.
