Chapter 17
“Champagne?” Georgia asked, and Keaton felt a cold, perspiring glass against his fingers.
He took the offered drink, sipping from it and appreciating the flavor.
“A good year,” he murmured.
“I have never tried champagne before. It is quite delicious,” she nodded, sounding as effervescent as the drinks they both held.
“Your Graces! Welcome to my little gathering!” Lady Gertrude’s shrill voice ran out over the babble of voices that filled the warm air.
“Lady Gertrude,” Georgia smiled, redundantly identifying the voice.
“I remember her. One does not forget such a voice,” Keaton muttered.
Georgia giggled, and he heard her take a long sip from her glass. Was that the second she had taken since they had arrived ten minutes ago?
“Be careful,” he warned gently, “champagne is a trick of the French intended to make the English appear foolish. Too much when you’re not used to it will have you on your back.”
“I shall remember that. I am just so in love with this taste. It goes perfectly with such a hot day, don't you think?”
“I have always thought so.”
Keaton was trying to keep his suspicions from his face. He could not keep them from his mind. But he had to trust that Thorne would untangle the dilemma. Though he was yet to untangle the dilemma of Keaton’s ‘accident’.
Perhaps something more in his sphere, such as following a woman suspected of an affair, will yield better results.
They were moving through Vauxhall Gardens under what felt like an unadulterated, blazing sun.
The air was redolent with the aroma of flowers, and Keaton imagined the gardens were a riot of color.
He could hear the lazy, contented buzzing of pollinating insects underlying the chink of cutlery, glasses, and the steady drone of conversation.
“How nice to see you both again and how privileged I am to be in your company so soon after that fine evening at Lord Swinthorpe’s house,” Lady Gertrude declared, intruding into Keaton’s thoughts.
They had moved much closer to her, and Keaton quickly oriented himself to face her.
“The pleasure is all ours, Lady Gertrude. And what a lovely day you have chosen for it. Or so I am told,” Keaton tilted his head with a pout.
Lady Gertrude laughed nervously, unsure how to take the self-deprecation, and Keaton grinned wolfishly. Georgia pinched his arm.
“Oh, you have finished your champagne, Your Grace. It is rather special. Let me get you another,” Lady Getrude started with a smile in her voice.
Keaton turned his head to Georgia, raising an eyebrow.
“A third? I think we should make that the last, don’t you?”
“It makes me feel at ease. And in turn, that helps me enjoy the occasion,” Georgia whispered testily.
“Alcohol will tend to have that effect. It is the enjoyment of those around that might be affected adversely,” Keaton retorted.
“Then they should join me, and we can be disruptive together,” Georgia finished.
“Whatever has gotten into you?” he whispered, plastering a smile over his words for the benefit of any observers.
But Lady Gertrude had returned, and Keaton heard liquid being poured.
The sudden loudness of fresh fizzing told him his own glass had also been added to.
They stood for a few moments making small talk with Lady Gertrude before releasing her to mingle.
They walked on, Keaton allowing Georgia to steer him and now beginning to question if she was actually competent to do so.
“Just do not guide us into a fountain,” he muttered.
Georgia laughed. Keaton found himself smiling at the image and looked away, hoping she had not seen it. Maintaining a distance from another person was far harder when sharing humor with them. Almost impossible when sharing a drink.
“Incidentally, I re-examined the clay template I was working from. You are right, it does bear a marked similarity to you,” he said, trying to sound casual, as though this were of no consequence.
“It was almost like a mirror. Quite eerie. But very flattering. You had flattered me almost to excess, I think,” she murmured.
“I did not seek to flatter at all,” he replied, “the image came without conscious thought.”
“Shall we all promenade along the elm walk?” Lady Gertrude called out to her gathering, “I have arranged for a private seating area at the far end where tea and cakes shall be served.
Keaton waited for Georgia’s guidance, unfamiliar with the layout of the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. She steered him and then stepped forward. He followed a heartbeat behind.
“Your Grace,” a man’s voice sounded from Keaton’s left.
Keaton turned in that direction.
“It is Lord Anthony Cockburn of Chelmsford,” said the voice, “I knew your father. I am glad to see you rejoining society after your long exile.”
“Thank my wife for persuading me out of my estates,” Keaton replied with a gracious smile.
“A rare woman,” Chelmsford affirmed.
“A man of taste,” Georgia murmured after Keaton assumed the Lord had moved from earshot.
“Indeed. I remember the conversations he and my father had on the subject of art.”
He knew when they had stepped onto the Elm Walk for the subtle coolness he suddenly felt on his face, caused by the shade cast by the trees. The soft susurration of the summer’s breeze through the canopy also sounded more immediate.
“I do love the scent of elm trees,” he began, feeling Georgia shift her position beside him as though looking at him.
“A friend of mine said that elms were the most ancient of English trees and most befitting shade for a gentleman,” she commented absently. “He was not a gentleman, but I think would have given anything to be one.”
“He was a rogue?” Keaton asked, curious despite himself.
Georgia laughed. “No. He was a footman and one who revered the aristocracy. He worked for the Marquess of Doncaster before taking the position at Silverton and bitterly regretting it.”
“Your Aunt and Uncle are that bad?”
“Worse.”
“I understand.”
If she took that to mean he understood her background and sympathized, he was prepared to let her be wrong. What he did understand was why she had chosen to trap a blind man with a kiss and a scandal.
She sought to escape a desperate life at Silverton. I cannot say that I blame her. Desperation can breed dishonor.
“May I have the clay model you made?” Georgia asked suddenly.
Keaton stopped, looking at her sharply.
“Why? It is a rough thing. The equivalent of a writer’s first draft.”
“It is beautiful, and I do not care if it is a first draft. May I?”
“No. I did not know what I was making. It is not a thing of consequence to be admired,” he shook his head, feeling uncomfortable at the notion that she would take it as an example of his regard.
To make matters worse, he knew its quality.
When he had re-examined it, he had been impressed with his own work.
The creation of the clay model had seemed a purely pragmatic exercise to facilitate the piece of art.
But he had imbued the clay with personality and must have labored over it far longer than he realized.
What does that say about my thoughts and feelings towards this woman if such inspiration is within me?
“Surely beauty is in the eye of the beholder. To you, it is of no consequence. To me, it is,” Georgia persisted.
Keaton gritted his teeth. The subject was becoming a sore one, heading in a direction in which he did not wish to go.
“Let it go,” he muttered, “I do not wish another social occasion ruined by an argument. It seems that we are accepted by this company, let us simply fit in with their…”
He stopped himself from using the first word that had formed in his mind. The word was banality.
“Expectations,” Georgia put in diplomatically.
“Precisely,” he agreed.
He turned his head as a particularly strong fragrance reached him. He paused, breathing deeply in through his nose.
“I believe that is a rose. Is there a rose bush nearby?” he asked.
“Why yes, with beautiful yellow flowers. It is climbing the tree,” she answered.
“I do believe this particular rose made a contribution to your perfume. The one your brother gifted to you,” he remarked.
He breathed deeply again, sampling the wonderful fragrance and analyzing its component parts.
“Really?” Georgia stepped closer, inhaling.
“Indubitably,” he replied, lost in his bouquet sampling.
He had forgotten the conversation, forgotten his fear of the attraction he felt for Georgia, and the prospect of that deepening. It threatened to undermine the walls he had built and carefully maintained. But for now, that was lost to a world of sensation.
Georgia leaned close to him, taking significant sniffs to capture the scent of the rose.
“I think I know what you mean? It is very… faint.”
“Not to me. Pick one.”
Georgia bent and then gently placed a soft-petalled rose in Keaton’s waiting hands. He cupped it delicately and raised it to his face, breathing in and smiling.
“Put it in my pocket. I do not want to risk crushing it. My gardener will know the variety.”
Taking it from him, Georgia opened his coat pocket as wide as she could and then gently inserted her hand, the rose flower cupped within the protective curve of her fingers. At the last moment, just as she was about to remove her hand, Keaton felt it close convulsively.
“Oh, no! Not here!” she whispered.
There was fear in her voice, and Keaton forgot the crushed flower.
“Who?” he asked, assuming it was someone she had seen.
“Lady Georgia, you are here too,” was the greeting.
Keaton recognized the voice instantly. He had heard that man threatening to thrash Georgia. To treat her like an animal. It was Lord Emsworth, her former fiancé.
“Your Grace is the proper term of address for a Duchess, Emsworth,” Keaton declared, flatly.
“Of course. I was forgetting. Your Grace!” Emsworth said expansively.
The next time he spoke, his voice was much closer. Brandy fumes wafted from his mouth.
“Though I believe we all three know that she is not a Duchess, is she?”