“Be happy?”
“That’s not an answer.” I climbed back on the ladder. “We should try some of these spices. I’m looking for the right thing to add to my biscuits.”
Before he could respond, I handed him one. The label was in Russian. “Wonder whatspetsiyais?”
Mark took the jar and popped open the top. “Shall we?”
He whipped a finger in and I did too. At the same time, like we were performing a ritual, we stuck the samplings into our mouths.
And began coughing.
“Pepper. Strong pepper,” I said when I could swallow without tasting fire.
“Let’s stick to the containers in English.” He cleared his throat. “There must be a pump and water in the larder. Let’s find it.”
We went to the closet-sized room and began to roam about in the dark.
Mark was behind me. Then his arms were about me.
He spun me and kissed me with his fiery mouth.
With hands at my hips, I found him rushing, lifting my hem, touching my bodice, making me feel like liquid, like a rolling boil, like I’d soon be nothing but steam.
I didn’t want a moment or a memory in the dark. “No. No. Mark.”
He backed into the light.
I smoothed my bodice of wrinkles and picked up my apron, which had fallen. I wanted to wear it like a shawl to cover the swells of my bosom that his hands had lovingly caressed.
My cheeks had to be flame for I wanted more of his touch. It might be wonderful to be free like vapor.
“Georgie, marry me.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped at his brow. His waistcoat had wrinkled, his shirt too. “I’ve not wanted a woman so much, not like this. You’re in my head.”
“Am I crowding out the notes?”
“Yes. No. Of course not.” He stuck his hand in his straight dark brown, almost black hair. “Everything is a torment. If I could have you, have your love, I might be free.”
“But then, what would I be? A wife? A mistress of a third son? I have no fortune. I don’t think the Marchioness of Prahmn would be pleased with such a bride.”
“She’ll come around. She always has.”
“And your father? Will he come around?”
He rubbed his brow. “He . . . they don’t matter. This is about us.”
“I saw my brother-in-law be rejected. It was painful for Tavis. Do you want to go live across the river and use your scope to view Mayfair, the world where you used to belong?”
He put his hands to my shoulders. “Georgie, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“I’m not running right now. But I’m heading to the truth. You’ve said you want my love, that you want to marry me. Shall I be the excuse for no sonata? No Harlbert’s Prize?”
“What?” Mark pulled away. “Georgie?”
“I know your parents will blame me for ruining you. But will you blame me too?”
“Georgie, no. How can I convince you?”
“Every naysayer will claim I distracted your genius. Your very smart friend Livingston will state I’m the cause of your misery. He’ll crow that I stole the notes to your music. That my problems or concerns overshadowed yours.”
