“No, Georgie, he’ll claim I’m in love with you because I loved the painting of Dido.”
“What? Is this a fetish? You love a painting of a Black woman and now you care for me?”
“Yes. No. Livingston is wrong. Georgie, I wouldn’t do that. You’re not a painting and I’d never blame you for my failings or every time I wasn’t good enough.”
“I can’t take that chance. Make-believe is safer. That’s the world where Lord Mark and Miss Wilcox live happily ever after. Not 1817, Mayfair.”
His cheeks became red; he was speechless.
My heart was safe in my chest. I went back to the dough I’d been making. “I’ve let the eggs sit too long. I hope that doesn’t make my biscuits flat. The duke loves my biscuits.”
Mark folded his arms. “You’ve had a chance to rethink the duke’s offer. You’re looking to be the mistress of this place, the Duchess of Torrance. The duke told me bits of your conversation.”
“Nonsense. His Grace is a friend.” I watched thunderclouds cover Mark’s face. He didn’t believe me, or that a woman would turn down two gentlemen to maintain her peace.
“Is money important to you, Georgie? In a husband, is that a consideration?”
“One of many. Does he have to be as wealthy as the Duke of Torrance? No. But he must have some prospects. Children have to be provided for. And look at you.”
“Yes, I’m quite aware of my circumstances.”
“My brother-in-law was cut off from his family. He relied on my sister’s money. Men look for means as well. His habits almost bankrupted us. If a man can’t stand on his own, no matter what he inherits, he’s not much use to a wife.”
Mark put his hands in his tailcoat pockets. “Well, I suppose that rules my name off your list. I will inherit nothing. I have very little.”
“It should’ve been off the list when you thought I’d marry the duke. Or when, for a moment, you thought Mr. Carew had my eye. You hurriedly wanted to make love to me, merely to claim me. We’ve exchanged no vows, or done anything to make the moment mean something other than my ruin.”
“Is this what you think of me? Georgie, I profess to thinking myself in love. I’m not that experienced with women. Most of you terrify me, but don’t doubt what I feel. You are music.”
“How do you wish me to be your music when you have doubts? You alone have my kisses and you question my fidelity to our false alliance. Shouldn’t I have doubts about you saying anything to bed me?”
“It’s a larder. No bed. Just standing up, holding you, centering you in pleasure, worshiping your body . . .” He covered his mouth. “A thousand pardons. I shouldn’t say—”
“At least you’ve said aloud you want me, but that’s not enough.”
“Georgie, if I tell someone I want to marry them and they don’t believe me, then we have a problem. Perhaps we are of two different worlds.”
“We are. And it’s nice to cross the river, but you have to choose where to live. We can wait until you win a prize to go forward with our life. Anything before will have Livingston and everyone else saying I was your ruin.”
“Iamruined, Georgie. I can’t stop thinking of you. It’s too late to turn away because I am in love with you.”
I moved farther from him. “No. Don’t say any more. I won’t be swayed to a bed or wall.”
“There isn’t a wall between us except the ones you are building to keep us apart. Why are you twisting my words? You know I struggle with them. I don’t want to offend you. I want to love you.”
I started stirring the stiff dough. All the flour was wasted. If I put this on the table, it would stick. None of these biscuits would be any good. Mark and I wouldn’t be any good, not when the passion died.
“Georgie, I know you feel what’s between us. Our struggle is in vain. We should be together.”
“I don’t want struggle, Mark. I don’t want to work so hard at being in love. That’s what the ton wants for couples like us—troubles, humiliation, strife. That’s what Gilroy’s cartoon captured, two fools exhibiting about a pianoforte, being lovey-dovey, while the world plots their doom.” I shook my head, then went to the waste bin and dumped the dough.
I turned and took a long look at the man I loved, dark hair and eyes, and knew what I felt wasn’t enough. “At the duke’s ball, I sing. You play. Then we end our secret affair as we had planned. We stop now, no one is hurt. We can go on as friends. No one’s future is changed.”
He wiped at his mouth and headed toward the door. “I gave my word. I’ll continue our charade. Maybe this heartache will clear enough space for the notes to flow.”
“I want you to win, Mark. But I need to win too.”
With a bow, my music teacher left.
