she would be pickled by midnight.
Evigny butted his shoulder to oust Ramsgate, and Leduc looped his arm across the back of her waist, trying to turn her attention. She scanned the room for Geordy, her poet friend and perhaps the only sane man in the room. Both Mme. Desmarais and Lady Chauncey met her gaze, observing her.
Finally, she spied Geordy and caught his eye. She twirled her fan with her left hand: We are being watched. Then she touched one finger to the edge of the fan: I need to speak with you. She closed the fan and tapped it against her shoulder: Now, please! He understood, nodding once. He set his glass down and excused himself from his own court of ladies.
Geordy bowed in mock-formal greeting as he approached, his chestnut curls bobbing across his forehead. “ Voulez-vous danser, Mademoiselle Villier?” He held one hand out for her while he plucked away the glasses with the other, leaving the competing men at her sides holding them.
“Geordy, you are a hero,” she murmured as he turned them on the dance floor. He only smiled. “I am glad you are here. It has been too long since I last saw you.”
“ Oui, ma Lise.” She smiled at his pet name for her. “You are too busy for me,” he complained with a pout.
“Don’t blame me, Geordy. I only take orders.” She lifted their joined hands. “ Tiens! And I see you put down your pen just in time to attend the soirée ,” she teased, indicating the smudged ink on the side of his hand.
He shrugged in assent.
“Any progress with our project? I was looking forward to seeing how you would render my paintings to verse.”
Geordy made a low snorting sound in the back of his throat Alysia could only define as a French noise; it was equivalent to the English non-committal “Hmm.” Andrew used it when he was distracted or wished to delay a confession.
Andrew!
Her heart sank with a sharp pang at the mere thought of him. She imagined she could hear his luxurious bass voice, sending a shudder along her spine… but then it was Geordy’s French tenor voice which brought her back to the present.
She caught the middle of his apologetic speech, “ Alors , it is not that I do not want to finish them, but it is, en toute honnêteté , that they are effecting me, gravement . When I am writing on your Le Coût Élevé, it renders me… quel est le mot? Mélancolique. Qu’il est ça . I am sad, you know. I do not like it.”
Oh. She shook off the memory and processed that Geordy was making his excuses on the grounds of her work being too depressing. That a poet thought so didn’t bode well for her career. “I thought you adore tragedy and suffering.”
“ Oui , I do, for a subject. Mais, il y a… there is something personal in your paintings, and it affects me so. Do you understand? It is, euh, that I feel I am intruding on, privé , euh, your private grief?”
It was the most she had ever heard Geordy speak at once. The French phrased in questions when they felt apologetic or timid. He was clearly uncomfortable.
He added, “You have, euh, perdu — lost something? You are grieving? En effet , just a moment ago I see your face, you remembered something douloureaux , painful?”
“Everyone suffers, Geordy,” she dismissed. “You should turn your pen to Moreau’s Orpheus. A guaranteed publishing contract, there.”
Another French noise, the snort. “I do not treat beheadings, Lise. Non, merci .”
At that she had to laugh, and he broke into an easy smile and twirled her around. He drew her a little nearer and gently kissed her head, in her hair by her temple. Geordy stood only an inch or so taller than she, so she saw his fond smile for her.
“Thank you, Geordy, for rescuing me so quickly.”
Apparently Geordy was finished pontificating. He nodded and winked.
“I am sorry I deprived your court of your company.” A few of the ladies he had left were still shooting her looks of displeasure.
“Euh. They will still be there later, or
Evigny butted his shoulder to oust Ramsgate, and Leduc looped his arm across the back of her waist, trying to turn her attention. She scanned the room for Geordy, her poet friend and perhaps the only sane man in the room. Both Mme. Desmarais and Lady Chauncey met her gaze, observing her.
Finally, she spied Geordy and caught his eye. She twirled her fan with her left hand: We are being watched. Then she touched one finger to the edge of the fan: I need to speak with you. She closed the fan and tapped it against her shoulder: Now, please! He understood, nodding once. He set his glass down and excused himself from his own court of ladies.
Geordy bowed in mock-formal greeting as he approached, his chestnut curls bobbing across his forehead. “ Voulez-vous danser, Mademoiselle Villier?” He held one hand out for her while he plucked away the glasses with the other, leaving the competing men at her sides holding them.
“Geordy, you are a hero,” she murmured as he turned them on the dance floor. He only smiled. “I am glad you are here. It has been too long since I last saw you.”
“ Oui, ma Lise.” She smiled at his pet name for her. “You are too busy for me,” he complained with a pout.
“Don’t blame me, Geordy. I only take orders.” She lifted their joined hands. “ Tiens! And I see you put down your pen just in time to attend the soirée ,” she teased, indicating the smudged ink on the side of his hand.
He shrugged in assent.
“Any progress with our project? I was looking forward to seeing how you would render my paintings to verse.”
Geordy made a low snorting sound in the back of his throat Alysia could only define as a French noise; it was equivalent to the English non-committal “Hmm.” Andrew used it when he was distracted or wished to delay a confession.
Andrew!
Her heart sank with a sharp pang at the mere thought of him. She imagined she could hear his luxurious bass voice, sending a shudder along her spine… but then it was Geordy’s French tenor voice which brought her back to the present.
She caught the middle of his apologetic speech, “ Alors , it is not that I do not want to finish them, but it is, en toute honnêteté , that they are effecting me, gravement . When I am writing on your Le Coût Élevé, it renders me… quel est le mot? Mélancolique. Qu’il est ça . I am sad, you know. I do not like it.”
Oh. She shook off the memory and processed that Geordy was making his excuses on the grounds of her work being too depressing. That a poet thought so didn’t bode well for her career. “I thought you adore tragedy and suffering.”
“ Oui , I do, for a subject. Mais, il y a… there is something personal in your paintings, and it affects me so. Do you understand? It is, euh, that I feel I am intruding on, privé , euh, your private grief?”
It was the most she had ever heard Geordy speak at once. The French phrased in questions when they felt apologetic or timid. He was clearly uncomfortable.
He added, “You have, euh, perdu — lost something? You are grieving? En effet , just a moment ago I see your face, you remembered something douloureaux , painful?”
“Everyone suffers, Geordy,” she dismissed. “You should turn your pen to Moreau’s Orpheus. A guaranteed publishing contract, there.”
Another French noise, the snort. “I do not treat beheadings, Lise. Non, merci .”
At that she had to laugh, and he broke into an easy smile and twirled her around. He drew her a little nearer and gently kissed her head, in her hair by her temple. Geordy stood only an inch or so taller than she, so she saw his fond smile for her.
“Thank you, Geordy, for rescuing me so quickly.”
Apparently Geordy was finished pontificating. He nodded and winked.
“I am sorry I deprived your court of your company.” A few of the ladies he had left were still shooting her looks of displeasure.
“Euh. They will still be there later, or
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