“It shouldn’t be,” he said. “But he was only widowed last year.”
“How do you know this?”
“I made some discreet inquiries.”
She threw up her hands, her anger clearly getting the better of her.
“For a man who claims to disdain society, you are fitting in quite well,” she said. “How dare you poke around my personal business without my permission.”
“I am only trying to protect you, Georgie.”
“I am not yours to protect,” she said. “I never was.”
The sting of her retort cut into him with the precision of a stiletto.
“Your father and Marcus certainly have not,” he countered.
“No, they haven’t,” she said, quietly, more to herself than to him. She looked past him, to a small writing desk, as if her mind was elsewhere in that moment. “Nor Gabriel, much as I care for him. None of them have.”
The resignation in her voice unsettled him. Gabriel had left, and Marcus, self-absorbed cretin that he was, would have gladly sacrificed Georgie’s happiness for his own. Tom remembered Gabriel, once deep in his cups after an officer’s dinner, complaining about some Ashcombe curse, and how glad he was to escape.
But Georgie could not, he realized. Instead, she’d done what she’d always done—tried to be one less worry on a man who was slowly being driven mad by them. But she’d done it alone…thanks to his wounded pride.
“Georgie—”
“Out of necessity I have had to fend for myself. To protect myself,” she continued, pacing with all of that aristocratic breeding, regarding with him a cool resolve. “And that is what I am doing now. Pray leave me to do it.”
“I’m sorry I left you,” he said, trying to be calm while his insides were flailing like a man trying to save himself from drowning. “And I’m sorry I was so angry when I left.”
“If living at Whetherby taught us anything,” she said, a lone shaky breath betraying her practiced reserve, “it is that sometimes broken things cannot be fixed.”
“You cannot believe that.”
“If you will excuse me,” she said, walking past him to the door and opening it. “I have some urgent correspondence I must attend to. Until tomorrow, Mr. Worthington.”
Chapter Thirteen
If pressed torecount how she spent the night after Tom left, she would have found it difficult to decide if it had been one of tears, interrupted by fleeting moments of restless sleep, or the opposite. All she did know was that her final night at the Baroness D’Anville’s home—which had provided her a much-needed oasis from the oppressive life under her father’s roof—felt the way one might imagine one of Henry’s wives, locked in the Tower, awaiting the inevitable.
Well, perhaps that was a little melodramatic.
Both the baroness and Lily had been with her half the night. They helped her pack, attempted to cheer her by reminding her that by this time tomorrow, she would have someone to marry who wasn’t closer in age to the baroness than Georgie. The comfort was cold, but she clung to it nonetheless. With her father and Marcus demanding her return to Ashcombe House, there was only one conclusion to be had—her marriage plans to Lord Sharpe were being put into place. If Tom was right—if somehow Lord Sharpe had only been widowed last year, then it wasn’t any doing of Georgie’s that kept the wedding postponed. The baroness, upon hearing this news, vowed to make some subtle inquiries in the morning.
Why Tom had sought out this knowledge—indeed, why he had come to see her at all—remained a mystery. Did he delight in reminding her why she still loved him, even as he was intent on marrying someone else? Someone who would not love him, and he would not love in return? It hardly seemed fair. Georgie would have loved him. She loved him still. But to admit that to him was foolish. Despite his promises, he had no real way to offer his protection unless he intended to marry her, which he clearly did not. And with her father and Marcus in town, she no longer had the luxury of relying on anyone but herself. She’d plainly hurt Tom’s feelings when she reminded him of that. Was it merely guilt that had evoked his reaction? Or was it something deeper? She was too heartsick to unravel it anymore.
It was only after a cup of a special tea Lily had brewed—an old family recipe, she said—that had allowed Georgie to sleep. In the morning, she dragged herself from her bed and prepared herself for her final trip to the Lyon’s Den. Lily accompanied her, and it occurred to Georgie as they climbed into the carriage that would take them to the Lyon’s Den that after today, the likelihood she would see her new friend again was low indeed. Perhaps, if she did succeed in marrying Mr. Osbourne, or even Mr. Crowley, then she would invite Miss Duigood to come and visit her.
When the carriage arrived at the Lyon’s Den, Georgie pulled up the hood on the blue silk cape she’d chosen to wear. The sun was blazing overhead, but with her family back in town, the relative ease with which she traveled through London evaporated. Marcus had ruined her happiness once. Whatever his misguided aims might be, he would do it again in the name of protecting the family. Not until the door closed behind her did she dare let go a breath.
“Come now, my lady,” Lily said, removing Georgiana’s cape and handing it to a nearby servant. “Do you think for a momentthe baroness would not use every connection she has to hide your true motives here? And Mrs. Dove-Lyon would never have made such a lucrative business for herself if she didn’t take the protection of her female clients very seriously.”
“Rationally, yes, it makes perfect sense,” she said. “But nothing about my family has been rational for a very long time.”
Lily gave her an encouraging smile. “Before the afternoon is finished you will have a new fiancé, and those troubles will be behind you.”
Georgie wanted to give in to the optimism, but she was not so foolhardy. There was no way her father would approve her marriage to anyone other than Lord Sharpe, and if he’d discovered what she’d been up to, she dared not imagine the consequences. She would have to be married—and bedded. A trip to Scotland should be enough to do the trick.
As they walked down the ladies’ entrance to the parlor, they were greeted by one of the Lyon’s Den’s major-domos.
