The Loves of Leopold Singer by L. K. Rigel

alarmed steady women, despite their better judgment, and he made it a point of honor never to insult any lady who would receive him into her gentle grace.
    The bride was one who had received him with some regularity, and as he sat down beside her she seemed not to have lost the inclination. He didn’t resent his duty to play host with his aunt, and he liked the duke, his benefactor, very much. But after Mrs. Carleson, he found Delia uninteresting.
    “Sir Carey, why so serious a face?” The duchess placed her hand on his thigh. “Don’t worry. I’ll always want you to call me D.”
    “Another man enjoys that honor now, your grace.” He ignored her touch and lifted his glass. “Your happiness.”
    Mrs. Carleson was silent beside her husband. She appeared serene enough beside him, but Sir Carey thought she was not. In fact, he was certain Mrs. Carleson was miserable in her marriage. Why had he gone on so much about the past, about events which only made him unhappy? Even miserable Mrs. Carleson must be happier than he. He made a show of enjoying the wine, though it was a gift from the infernal Singers, while Delia chatted on about people he did not know and had no desire to know.
    Devilliers left the table to speak with the Carlesons, and Mrs. Carleson’s face softened. Several complete and contiguous sentences seemed to come out of her, though Sir Carey could hear none of it. Delia’s hand glided further up his thigh. She would find her way back to his bed once she had spawned an heir for Gohrum, but it didn’t signify. She cared for Sir Carey about as much as he did for her.

Ceremonies of Experience
     
    Leopold didn’t forget Susan Gray. She’d awakened him to love’s sweetness. But his eagerness now was for Marta Schonreden, and as soon as it was proper he went to see her brother. He had to have Marta for his wife, or he would rather follow his parents to his own grave.
    He felt no great longing for Marta. He didn’t swoon or sigh when he thought of her. He fancied himself no Dante amazed by his Beatrice. His need was more profound, like his need for water or air. He didn’t long for water or air. He simply had to have them in order to live.
    She had captured his fancy years ago, one day on the street when he’d stopped some boys fighting. What man could miss such beauty? Then Susan Gray had taught him what a woman was, and he’d known immediately that he must be with Marta Schonreden. She wasn’t to be wished for; she was to live with or to die without.
    He found her in the parlor arranging winter greenery on a table. Their worlds had changed in the same way, the great Rocks of their lives crumbled and gone forever. But his loss had had the opposite effect to hers. He now had autonomy and means, the two necessary underpinnings of real freedom.
    “Miss Schonreden, your brother has given me permission to speak to you.”
    “Yes?” Her throat flushed a deep pink.
    “Is something the matter?”
    “No.” She indicated he should sit. “Just for a moment, you reminded me of von Beethoven.”
    “You have seen the composer?” He ignored the chair she’d gestured toward and sat beside her on the sofa.
    “When I was in Vienna with my aunt and uncle. He is a horrid man.”
    Leopold laughed. “How so?”
    “I was with a group of students at a salon to hear him play. He pinched my chin and stole a kiss in front of everyone.”
    “What insolence. How horrible for you.”
    “Yes, it was.” She lifted her lovely eyelashes and seemed pleased by his understanding. “Later, my teacher commended my tolerance. In truth I felt more violated by that sentiment than I had by the kiss.”
    “Your beauty, I think, stuns a man’s reason.”
    “Mm?” She blushed again.
    He brought her fingers to his lips. “And do you think I am a horrid man, like Beethoven?”
    “Oh.”  
    “Miss Schonreden. Marta. I have thought of you often this last year with much affection. With more than affection. What I mean to say