Page 8 of The Songbird of Wychwood

PERCY

I cannot recall ever feeling quite so tongue tied and nervous, which was ridiculous for a man of my age and status. But I remembered my manners and asked the songbird if she would join me for a drink. She agreed and so I rushed to pour a glass of brandy for her, desperately hoping that she would still be seated when I returned, and her attention had not been stolen away by another hopeful fellow. To my relief she’d waited for me and accepted the drink. I sat nervously with my body angled towards her. I couldn’t stop staring at this comely vision. Close up, I was even more attracted, my gaze tracing the shape of those painted soft red lips, and lower to the sharp, angular boyish shoulders, firm masculine chest, and then the erect brown penny nipples that had me salivating. I looked up fixing on autumnal eyes with flecks of whisky, amber, and gold. Those eyes returned my interest. I had never been so sure in all my days that my attraction was mirrored. I wanted throw my misgivings aside and taste those pretty lips.

“I know we’re not to give names, but you’re not a member, so may I ask?” I ventured. She smiled warmly and in a cockney flavored accent said, “You, sir, may call me Miss Georgette.”

Miss Georgette, goodness, how utterly delightful. Miss Georgette would be my new muse, and I’d write poems to rival the likes of Byron and Shelley and express how my heart longs for her touch.

“I’m… number 36,” I said meekly. She offered her hand and surprising even myself, I turned her hand over, noting the long delicate fingers of a musician, and then I laid a kiss on her palm. I’d never done such a bold thing before, and if I’d tried this audacious move on one of the fairer sex I would have been slapped across the face. But with Miss Georgette it felt right, and I was sure she groaned as my lips skimmed her skin, but when I looked up she was sipping brandy quite innocently. It was an unconvincing ruse to cover how flustered my action had made her. I watched the black lace choker around her throat bob as she gulped, and then realized I was still holding her fingers. I didn’t want to let go.

“It does seem terribly odd to have a number, not a name—” Gods, I was rambling now. I looked away and took a swig of claret to cover my embarrassment. I knew I should be conversing with her. This is what people did in polite society. They began a back and forth game of comments and slivers of personal information. I knew this, and considered myself a learned conversationalist, but my brain was befuddled by Georgette’s beauty, rendering me wide eyed and tongue tied. Miss Georgette stepped in to fill the awkward silence and congratulated me on my win at poker. In these few brief minutes in Miss Georgette’s company I’d quite forgotten about the stack of money I’d won; such was her effect on me.

“Thank you, Miss. I guess you must be my lucky charm.” Silence fell between us again and then I was sure my brain had turned to mush, for I could not think of a damn thing to say. She smelled of a floral scent mixed with masculine musk and I just wanted to look my fill, and sniff her, but then I thought myself an imbecile as it was a strange thing to do to someone I’d just met. I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. Was I making her uncomfortable?

“The musical entertainment has been such an unexpected treat. I must say, you have an exceptional voice; such a range, and your pianist is wonderful. Has anyone told you, you should be on the stage?” I rambled out those ridiculous words and then I heard myself. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me. Of all the clichéd things to say, ‘you should be on the stage’ really takes the biscuit!

“You’re very kind. Thank you. I am on the stage,” she revealed, and oh, this rare snippet of information intrigued me. I was a regular of theatres and music halls and I wondered if I had seen her perform before. I couldn’t have, for I surely would have recognized her mercurial voice anywhere.

Not knowing why I was being so candid with a stranger, I explained of my discomfiture with socializing openly in the company of fellows who had the same preference. But Miss Georgette was thoughtful and kind in her response, and that put me at ease.

“There’s no need to be nervous, sir. These gents are just the same as you.” I’m sure she was correct, but out of the choice gents attending tonight not one had caught my eye. I was a desperate romantic. Maybe I was unrealistic or na?ve, but I wanted a transformational love, the kind of soul connection the great poets wrote about, and not a tumble to slake my lust.

“You make it sound so easy,” I said, feeling dejected. I’m sure it was easy when you found a fellow you liked who returned your interest. But that was not my experience before coming to Wychwood and I was worried that my lack of experience would show me to be a poor choice.

“If you tell Mr. Joshua what your particular pleasure is he can match you up with an agreeable partner,” Miss Georgette explained.

That sounded so…transactional, and not at all what I was looking for. I watched her pretty painted mouth as she spoke, and then observed her eyes and thought Enough moping! Carpe Diem Percy, seize the day! I was confident she liked me too, so hopefully, I asked, “I don’t suppose I could be matched with you?”

Miss Georgette appeared apologetic as she explained that there were rules, even here! “We can have a dance, but that’s it.”

I had not expected the refusal. Damn and blast, shot down on my first foray!

“We have a request, mein liebling .” the pianist called. Miss Georgette stood, she hitched up her bodice and straightened her skirts and then pulled her shawl up to cover the lovely flesh of her shoulders. Then she apologized and walked away. No, this would not do. I wanted, needed more of her time.

“A dance…Miss, can we share a dance…after your song?” I cringed inside as I heard the desperation in my voice. I was a damnable fool to favour one of the few at Wychwood I was not permitted to tryst with! She paused, then turned and nodded shyly.

My heart took flight.

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