“Please come in, Morley.”
After another hesitation, she squared her shoulders, crossed the threshold, and closed the door behind herself. She began to cross to her usual chair, but instead Peter patted the cushion next to him on the settee. “Come sit here with me.”
Looking uneasy, she sat on the edge of the settee, as far away from Peter as she possibly could. Peter regarded her for another long moment, wondering how he could have been fooled at all. In the candlelight, her features were delicate, clearly feminine even with her strong nose and determined chin.
“I know,” he finally said.
She gulped, then raised her chin. “Know what?” Her voice was deliberately insouciant, but he knew her well enough by now to detect the underlying thread of nervousness.
“If we owe each other nothing else after our time together, it’s honesty. What’s your real name?”
Peter saw her look from side to side, and realized he needed to be more specific before she told him another lie. “I know you’re a woman.”
A deep red flush spread beneath her skin, darkening it even in the firelight. “You couldn’t.”
“I do.”
“But how?—”
The purloined letter seemed to burn a hole in his pocket. “That doesn’t matter, Mor—what the devil am I to call you?”
She flinched a little. “My name is Georgiana. Papa called me Georgie.”
“Georgie.” He was pleased with the sound of it rolling off his tongue. It felt more like her than the formal version. “It suits you.”
“Thank you.” She sounded more puzzled by the compliment than anything else, and a silence fell.
“How old are you?”
“Three and twenty.”
He silently thanked God that he would not be rushing her to the Scottish border, and then frowned. “Did you not have a season?”
“Not a London season,” Georgie said, a little defensively. “It was only Bath.”
“Only Bath,” Peter said, his voice a little hollow. She clearly was of the gentry, at the very least. Particularly if her father had been receiving gifts from the Prince Regent.
Despite their dilemma, he could sense her beginning to relax and let her guard down as she had not before. Her charade must have been difficult to keep up.
“Papa thought it was best to start small, especially since Grandmama was not well. He and Mama agreed it was best not to go to the expense of a London season when we might be in black gloves at any time, and he was proved right. Grandmamadied when we had only been there a month and we had to leave again.” She shrugged. “It never came up again after Mama and Freddy died, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to leave Papa behind. And we had the otters to care for.”
Peter nodded while he resisted an urge to bury his face in his hands as the full truth became obvious. The more she spoke, the worse it got. A sheltered girl from a good family, her reputation unbesmirched until now—there would be no salvaging his career if word got out, even with the Avondales behind him.
“And your father was… ?”
“Sir George Morland.” Her full lips quirked a little. “You see? I could not even be creative with my own surname.”
“Morland? The zoologist?”
“Of course. Did you know him?”
“I only knew of him. Natural philosophy was never my strong suit.”
This time he did succumb to the urge to rub his forehead. Then he sighed and looked at her. She was looking up at him, her expression bright and innocent. Confession had clearly been good for her soul even if it brought a burden to his.
“Georgie. May I call you Georgie?”
She shrugged, the gesture delightfully feminine even whilst she was in men’s clothing. “I don’t see why not. It seems a bit late for formality.”
