“An unexpected answer. An honest one.”
“Would I—” His hands made a run on the keys. “Would I be anything else?”
“I don’t know, Lord Mark Sebastian. Could you be?”
“I could be Mark. I mean I am Mark. I need you to count and breathe.”
“And be familiar?”
He closed his eyes. “You’re beautiful. I’m attracted. I need you to sing.”
His words rushed out, so honest and free of guile.
Yet, this made me self-conscious. I forced air slowly across my lips. “Fine. I will practice, even if you find my voice surprising.”
This time he stopped. His piercing gaze cut into me. “Uncles, parents, and paramours gush about a young woman’s prospects. They are often wrong and are being generous to solicit my help or to attract my attention. Seems a third son with connections is still a worthy alliance.”
“Thank you, I think.”
His brow rose. He must find my sentiment odd, but I didn’t want to hear how my voice was “good for a woman with my background.” I didn’t care to know how his stumbling upon me, thinking me a courtesan was refreshing.
“You seem annoyed, Miss Wilcox.”
“And you seem too easy with this arrangement.”
“Why should I not be? You sing well when you focus. I get to play upon this extraordinary instrument and listen to how the room I designed captures echoes and elongates notes. Since Torrance is not your uncle or any relation, and he’s not come to see us practice, I suspect he’s not a paramour. This is not some game we are playing for his benefit.”
“Weareplaying a game. We’re trying to survive a few lessons and hope to hear no gossip.”
“It’s early, Miss Wilcox.”
“I choose to believe we’ve not been discovered. I’m not ruined. You are free. Then I don’t have to sing at a ball.”
To celebrate, I spun and watched the brocade fabric of my skirt billow. “You should concentrate on the joy of being out of these circumstances too.”
He bit his lip, then settled again playing the pianoforte. “I don’t claim to understand women and what mortifies you or gives you pause or makes you dance. But you’re a beauty, Miss Wilcox, and you can sing. You’re not taking this lesson seriously. It makes me mad to see talent being wasted.”
I stopped mid-twirl, walked back, and laid my palm flat on the waxed surface of the musical instrument. “I bake too. Does that make me a baker?”
“Wouldn’t know, ma’am. I haven’t had your biscuits. The duke has.”
He sounded jealous, and it made me laugh. “His Grace is like a brother to me. You needn’t be jealous. You’re my fake fiancé. I will not cheat on your sentiments, but if you have a better attitude, I might bake for you.”
When I chuckled this time, he did too. “I’m sorry, Miss Wilcox.”
“Georgina.”
“Georgina, I’m very deliberate when it comes to music, everything about it. And . . .”
“And what, Lord Mark Sebastian?”
“It’s Mark, the composer who can’t finish his sonata. I had it and now the notes have stopped again.”
“I’m sorry, Mark. But that’s no reason to grouse. And grousing doesn’t bode well for our ruse. Remember, we are pretending to be a couple intended for matrimony.”
“How far do we take this, Miss Wilcox? My mother has sent a note requesting to see me. If she’s heard of my secret alliance, she’ll want to meet you prior to the duke’s ball. Would you like to meet her? Are you willing to take this ruse to that extent?”
Looking at his earnest face, charismatic blue eyes, I did wonder what his parents looked like. What traits of theirs did he have? From whom did he get his dimples?
