“Perhaps we should leave you to your news, Lady Georgiana,” Miss Morehouse said, breaking through the cloud of panic that had made Georgie momentarily forget she had guests for tea. “We do appreciate you welcoming us into your home.”
Georgie quickly folded up the letter and refocused on her guests. Miss Morehouse was regarding her with quiet compassion.
After making their goodbyes, the baroness and Lily retired to their rooms, both understanding Georgie needed some privacy. She would write Marcus and tell him she would be at Ashcombe House tomorrow—after tea. By then, she would have a new fiancé, and it would be too late for them to do anything about it.
Georgie sat at the writing desk, madly scribbling her reply, when a servant entered the room.
“Excuse me, my lady,” she said. “There is a gentleman here to see you.”
Georgie pursed her lips and glanced out the window, where an impressive carriage stood. While Mr. Osbourne had sent many flowers, he had not yet called himself, and taking this further step, one day before the final event, felt like a bold one.
“You may show Mr. Osbourne in,” she said.
“I do not believe it is Mr. Osbourne, my lady,” the servant replied. “He said his name was Worthington.”
It took all of Georgie’s self-possession not to want to bolt from the room, claim a headache, and send him away. How could she face him after yesterday? She’d practically begged him for a kiss after that clumsy apology. So much for her Hawthorne pride.
But under all that was this aching truth that after tomorrow, she might never see him again. And she found that somehow far more horrible to bear.
“Show him in.”
An afternoon spententertaining his stepmother’s questions about the upcoming ball had been perhaps the longest in Tom’s memory. And this from a man who’d spent more than a few afternoons on long marches across the searing Spanish landscape, or dodging lead balls courtesy of the French. With every question about guests and menu choices, the pit forming in his stomach grew larger and larger. What was Mariah Morehouse’s favorite food? Any particular music that delighted her?
Tom had no answer to these queries. He might have felt badly about this gap in knowledge, except that Mariah Morehouse would be similarly lacking about Tom’s preferences for Mrs. Blakey’s roast chicken and Spanishtonadillas.
What did it say about him that he knew Georgie favored custard tarts and liked to singGood Morning Pretty Maidwhen she thought no one was close enough to hear? Of course, that was years ago. Maybe she didn’t love those things anymore. But he was coming to appreciate that, perhaps, GeorgianaHawthorne didn’t turn her back on things she loved as easily as he had once let himself to believe.
After an hour of questions from his stepmother about music and flowers and availability of suitable partners for all the ladies on the list, none of whom he knew, he’d had enough. Tom made his excuses, asked Benedict to ready his carriage, and somehow landed on Georgie’s doorstep, waiting to be let into her parlor.
“Mr. Worthington, my lady,” the servant announced, stepping aside as Tom walked into the room. His attention snapped immediately to Georgie, who stood near the fire. While she wore that serene guise that all ladies of good breeding seemed to practice, the line across her brow and the clenched hands at her side betrayed her.
“Thank you, Rebecca,” she said, her gaze straying to him but a moment before returning her attention back to the servant, who nodded and left the two alone.
“I hope I am not intruding,” he said.
She smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes.
“You just missed Miss Morehouse.”
“Miss Morehouse?” he parroted, unable to contain his surprise. “I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”
“We are but acquaintances, but I wanted the opportunity to know her better,” she said, her half-hearted attempt at a smile not fooling him for a moment. “I think she will make you a very fine wife.”
“Do you?”
He hoped to hell that didn’t sound as cutting as it felt. Because the very last thing on his mind was how Georgiana felt about his compatibility with another woman.
“She seems like a sensible woman, and you both seem to want the same thing from the marriage.” She pressed her lips together, then appeared about to speak again before she stopped, as if thinking the better of what she wanted to say.
“I suppose we do,” he said, even though every time he said it, it felt more and more like a lie.
Georgie seated herself in the middle of an elegant settee, the creaking furniture filling the silence. She seemed very much alone, and something deep inside him ached to be closer to her. He found himself fixated on the subtle heave of her chest. She was ill at ease, and he had no idea if he was the cause.
“The baroness has a taste for flowers,” he said, noting the three rather large bouquets placed artfully around the room as he sat down on a nearby chair. He needed to change the subject from that of prospective marriage partners.
“They were gifts,” she said, unwilling to meet his eye, “from Mr. Osbourne.”
Well, damn.That should not have surprised him. And it most definitely should not have made him envious. And yet, a prick of envy twisted even as he tried to paste a smile on his face.
