“Well, you succeeded. And as a man who battles to be articulate around the fairer sex, your laughter does nothing for my confidence.”
One glance at the duke’s window, I saw the curtains move. “They aren’t giving us privacy.” I groaned and walked to the opening of the maze. “Be a dear and tell me how to get to the mews.”
“Can’t tell you, Miss Wilcox, not till we know what our plan is. We are in this together.”
“Why, sir? Can you tell me that?”
He rubbed at his throat and his breathing became heavier. Then he settled and stared at my face. “Scandals are difficult. My father, the Marquis of Prahmn, he’s taken great pleasure in embarrassing people he’s had difficulties with or whom he judges as not being worthy. I’ve seen how their pain is exploited. Once the newspapers are alerted to the slightest innuendo, your good name will be ruined. I saw two young ladies on the stairs. I’m assuming those are your sisters.”
“They are Wilcoxes. Scarlett and Lydia Wilcox.”
His hand fluttered near mine, but then fell away to his side. “They will pay, you know. My mother’s sisters . . . I don’t want your sisters to pay for what we’ve done.”
Magnanimous, he was. But this was purely my fault. Sticking my palms into the pockets of my emerald coat, I needed to own the truth alone. “You shall be fine. Why lie about being engaged?”
“We don’t have a choice, Miss Wilcox.”
“There’s always a choice.”
He looked away to a white-and-blue bird that sat at the top of the high shrub wall. It screeched something awful. “The magpie has an odd song and terrible reputation, but they are gentle.”
“You do love birds. That’s not a lie, Lord Mark Sebastian.”
“No, Miss Wilcox. And though I made a terrible mistake of assuming you were something . . . someone else, I want you to know that I am sincere. I am gentle. I will not have you hurt in this.”
“But you won’t be hurt. Men always get away with everything.”
“Who will take my music seriously if my personal life is terrible?”
“Lord Byron is scandalous. His poems are adored.”
“Miss Wilcox, there’s a difference between being a dashing rebel and a laughingstock. I will be a buffoon. And you will be ruined. We can’t have that.”
This man, this stranger who held me and kissed me back with passion and abandon, wanted my trust. I wasn’t sure why, other than maybe he was the rarest of souls, one with a strong sense of decency.
“Believe it or not, Miss Wilcox, I don’t want your name in the rubbish papers or any gossip’s mouth.”
“I don’t know you.”
“You knew me enough to kiss me.” He reached again as if to touch my coat sleeve. “That was a small joke.” Standing tall, he lifted his chin. “I’m Mark Sebastian, the son of the Marquess of Prahmn. I’m a composer. I want to write of love and throwing caution to the wind. Our moment in the garden was the closest I’ve ever come to being bold.”
“I’m Georgina Wilcox. I bake a little. I like music. I sing too. Are you any good at creating songs?”
“Very good. Well, sort of good. But lately, I can’t concentrate.” He tapped his temple again. “My next sonata is lodged in here. I can see it, the beginning notes on paper. There’s a crescendo. Then nothing. Livingston says I’m too tense. He says my muse is blocked.”
“Muse,” I sighed. “Is that a scientific thing? Is it an appendage or something?”
He nodded. “Every creator must have one. I chose mine to be you.”
“Sir, if you expect me to be the courtesan your friend wanted, I am not her.”
His head dipped. I could see his lips moving.
“Are you praying, sir? Prayer does help.”
“No. Yes, it does. And maybe I should be praying for you to agree. I’m not Byron. I don’t dare walk on the wild streets. My friend Livingston had to procure a courtesan because I couldn’t . . . This isn’t helping. Honesty is overrated, but it’s all I have.”
I reached for him, his coat sleeve of fine blue wool. “Honesty is the best start.”
