“He’s my family’s man-of-all-work. Mr. Thom is a good man. He hopes you are one too.”
Mark put down his papers and offered me his full gaze. “You cannot attest to this? I mean, my willingness to play along with our false relationship should say something.”
“It does. You are kind, but you could also be bored. You might find this a great amusement.”
His brow wrinkled. “Oh, I see.”
“I mean, you’ve told no one, right? You’re waiting for the ball for the big revelation.”
Now his smile returned. “I shared our false love with my closest acquaintance. He completely disapproves and is trying to save me from ruin.”
My eyes popped or exploded or both. “What? He doesn’t want you with the likes of me?”
“It’s not you, per se. Livingston hates the thought of marriage. He thinks it’s an abomination.”
Mark stretched his fingers, then settled his palms on the oak bench where he sat. “If you wish for me or my friends to not want this faux arrangement, say so. Don’t cozy around. You question whether I see you. Yes, I do. You’re a beautiful woman. One of the prettiest of my acquaintance, Blackamoor or White, poor or rich.”
When worked up, this man said exactly what he felt. He held nothing back. I liked that. Offering him my widest, brightest gaze, I said, “Thank you.”
“Why thank me for saying the truth? Even though our arrangement is a fabrication, there’s tension between us—it’s almost like you and I forget that part, that we are playing a game.”
“Does that mean you don’t mean what you’ve said?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean . . .” His lips snapped close. His eyes followed for a moment. Then he whispered, “I meant exactly what I said. I like you. I think you’re gorgeous. So don’t assume something to be negative. I don’t do well under pressure.”
He peered at me fully, like it was the first time seeing me. “You say I want men to approve of me. That is true. I want you to as well.”
His blue eyes captured mine, and I felt that breathing would be a problem whether I sung or not. I clutched at the buttons of my pelisse. I hadn’t taken it off yet, so I could run outside in the cooler weather. Didn’t think I could will myself away.
“Sir, I don’t mean to cause strain. I have questions. I ask them all the time of friends and family. Perhaps, in this room, I feel safe enough to ask you.”
“Georgina, I want you to be able to ask anything.”
“Then it is settled. Outside the music room, let there be decorum and scripted behaviors. Not in here. Within these walls, let there be magic.”
His hand moved along the keys. Then Mark rushed to a side table. I ran and uncorked his bottle of ink as he readied his quill.
“Da da dum. Da da dum. Dum.”
His fingers glided about his paper, making quarter and half notes as easily as they did on the pianoforte.
Mark wrote and wrote. Then he stopped, seized me about the waist, and waltzed me to his hum. “Da da dum. Da da dum. Dum.”
Then he stopped, bowed, and backed away. “A thousand pardons.” His face reddened. “But you did say in here there’s freedom. I paid attention to that part. Actually to all you say.”
“You’re celebrating. Did you finish your sonata?”
He sank onto his seat at the pianoforte. His hands moved quickly across the keys and I heard the tune of “Robin Adair,” a bit of Handel, and something wondrous with lots of chords. His pace slowed. The music lowered to a whisper.
“No. But I’m closer. I’ll have it. And I think that you, you are to blame.”
“For the distraction?”
“No, for the little shifting of my world that’s letting the music seep out. I, for one, will never regret you kissing me. I think I will have a song birthed from it.”
“Pregnant from a kiss. That’s dangerous.”
“It happens, I’ve heard.”
