“Good. Sebastian, meet her in—”
Applause erupted. I pointed to my ear and shrugged.
Livingston waited for everything to settle. “. . . Garden. I see you suffering. This is the solution. You meet her there. As soon as you feel comfortable, reach for and kiss her. Actually, do it as soon as you can string a cohesive sentence together.”
“What of her comfort? Am I to assume that she has feelings for me?”
“I’ve paid for her to be enthusiastic about you. For once, man, this is about you. Unless, you are . . . You’ve been with a woman, right?”
“Lower your voice. I don’t need the science community to look back at me as if I am strange.”
“Sebastian?”
“I’m not new. My brothers and I have been on excursions in the parts of town you frequent.”
Livingston sat back. “Good. You’ve been deflowered. However, if that’s not quite the truth, the courtesan I’ve picked especially for you will take care of that. Your creative stresses will be released. I cannot wait to hear about—”
“A gentleman does not talk about such things. Livingston, you are crude.”
He chuckled. “I meant tell me about the composition you will finally finish. You don’t have to mention anything about the woman or the pleasures you two enjoy. I want to know I was right. That sexual frustration or the fantasy you have with a painting is stopping your art.”
Maybe my philandering friend was right. Nothing I’d done worked. “I’ll have to keep designing music rooms to afford this mistress. You know I have a tendency to become attached to beauty.”
Livingston chuckled, then clapped like the others who’d been listening to Carew’s lecture. “You, my shy friend, will become a new man. And the Dowager Livingston’s music room needs to be refreshed. I’ll pay well, and my mother who loves music will enjoy the surprise.”
I sank into the stiles of my chair feeling uneasy and unprincipled. Nonetheless, if allowing myself to be compromised by a courtesan led to a finished sonata and changed my dull existence, so be it.
Chapter 8
GEORGINA—A TZAR INMAYFAIR
Twenty-one James Street was idyllically situated in Mayfair, near green parks and the gold coins of old money on Grosvenor Street. Windows on every level of its facade, the house had three visible stories and an attic. My mouth hung open as I took it all in, down to the thick, gold fencing that framed the pavement surrounding this residence.
I climbed out, tempted to stick my hands into my empty pockets, and I remembered the tipsy friend that first came with the duke. His Grace had mentioned him a few weeks ago. Something about him helping with music.
“Gorgeous.” That’s what he called me. I still remembered.
“Yes, it is,” Lydia said and tugged on her gloves. “So, so pretty.”
Katherine, who hadn’t stepped out the carriage, pushed the child’s bonnet higher on her sleek chignon. I waited for her to bring Lydia but my elder sister hadn’t budged.
Scarlett shrugged, got out, dragging her heavy book.
I fingered a bit of worn gilt on the pages. “Where did you get that?”
“Never you mind, sis.” She strutted away. The thing was large enough to tip her over.
But if it had what was needed to make our friend well . . . that is, if he was sick. I wasn’t sure why that explanation stuck in my head more than others.
Four footmen in blue livery descended upon us like royal guards suspecting terrorists.
I threw up my hands. “We come in peace. We’re here to see the duke, the Duke of Torrance.”
Katherine handed the reins to one, then climbed out with Lydia. As if she was here of her own volition and wasn’t carrying a squirming child, my sister looked calm. “His Grace will see us. Tell him Lady Hampton is here with the Wilcox sisters.”
One fellow with smoky silver hair looked at the other, then clapped his hands. “Go inside, ladies. His Grace has given us strict orders to admit you, Lady Hampton, at any hour.”
Her? I looked stunned.
