Free Miss Darcy Falls in Love by Sharon Lathan Page B

laughing and gazing at her with respect. “Chinese opera. Who would have thought? Is there anything you do not know, Miss Darcy?”
    “Very little,” she declared, hiding her smile, “and what I do not yet know I shall extract from your brain. I did warn you, Mr. Butler.”
    “Yes, you did. Extract as you wish and then use that knowledge to compose your own Chinese-German opera. I am beginning to believe you may be wrong in which of us should move about the world.”
    He wagged his finger at her, Georgiana batting it playfully away and shaking her head. “I confess that I imagine watching a Chinese opera would be a spectacular experience, but the lengthy journey there is utterly unappealing. The green fields of Derbyshire are calling to me. I shall leave the traveling to those better suited for the lifestyle—after I monopolize their precious time, that is.”
    He opened his mouth to assert that he considered spending time with her as precious, but the parlor door opened, revealing a footman.
    “Sir, the carriage is prepared and awaiting your pleasure.”
    The foul weather of the week before had left behind air that was crisp and replete with the fresh aromas of damp soil and washed foliage. It remained cold, but the sky was an endless blue, free of any clouds to obscure the sun’s warming rays, making the short ride a very pleasant one. The whitewashed, brick church was larger than either had expected based on de Marcov’s description. It was undoubtedly very old, the paint chipped in numerous places and gaps present in the mortar, but the garden was well tended and the pathways clear. Located on the northern edge of the small village of Issoire, on the outskirts of Lyon, it was surrounded by homes and businesses. The dirt and cobbled streets were far from busy, but enough people roamed about to indicate a thriving community.
    The musée de la musique was housed in a long, two-story building that had once been a convent, but new quarters for the resident nuns had been built some fifty years ago. The vacated rooms began as storage, the priests and nuns finally realizing that the accumulation of old instruments, sheet music, and other relics could be arranged into a semblance of order. The modest museum that began as a simple way to increase the church’s revenue, rapidly evolved into a full-scale museum, as local residents, many who were exceedingly wealthy, donated to the collection.
    Georgiana and Mr. Butler were immediately impressed. “It will never compete with the Louvre, but it is nice,” Mr. Butler noted with wry humor and a grin.
    They wandered together, Mrs. Annesley allowing them the space to talk without fear of eavesdropping, although neither paid the companion much mind, their attention drawn to the displays and the conversation evoked.
    “Can you play the harpsichord, Miss Darcy?” he asked, as they stood before a seventeenth-century Blanchet.
    “Yes. We have one at Pemberley. My mother was quite adept, so I am told. I only vaguely remember her playing it. More of a sense, actually, most likely fabricated in my mind due to stories I have heard.”
    “Perhaps, although I believe music is a strong stimulus to memory. Meaning that, if your mother did play the harpsichord frequently when you were young, your memory is sparked when you hear the unique tones produced by the instrument.”
    “Yes, I can see the logic in that. Same with smells. I have always envisioned her when I smell roses, yet I was not told until years later that rose water was her favored perfume.”
    “Is that why you favor the fragrance of roses?”
    She blushed, surprised that he had noticed, and nodded.
    “I am sorry you lost your mother so young,” he said softly, his gaze tender. “I cannot imagine. Do you have vivid memories of her?”
    Georgiana shook her head. “Nothing vivid, sadly. Or at least I am unsure if what I recall are true remembrances or images conjured. There are several portraits within the house.” She