“Lady Georgiana,” he said. “If I may, your companion can help herself to refreshments in the servants’ room or observe from the ladies’ gallery. You will come with me to the private dining room.”
Lily nodded, then turned quickly to Georgie.
“Good luck,” she said. “It will be over soon.”
Georgie watched Lily depart, never so eager to have an afternoon over in her entire life. Letting go a low breath, she followed the major-domo to a well-appointed parlor. There sat Miss Morehouse and Miss Fairfax, talking amongst themselves, enjoying tea, sherry, and exquisite pastries.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon will join you shortly,” he said, before closing the doors behind him.
“Here we all are at last,” Miss Fairfax said, waving Georgie over. She was singular amongst the ladies for her unabashedexcitement for the entire affair. “You must try the canelé. They are exquisite.”
Georgie walked toward them, a sudden bout of nerves robbing her of what little appetite she had.
“No, thank you,” she replied, smoothing her skirts and trying desperately not to fidget. “Do we know what the next game is?”
“Not yet,” Miss Morehouse said. “Nor do I know where the gentlemen are. No doubt sequestered as we are, awaiting instructions.”
“I think it will be some time before I wish to play another game,” Georgie said. “I shall stick to hosting balls and salons where all we speak of is society gossip and bad poetry.” And if she did marry John Osbourne, in all likelihood half the gossip would be about horseraces.
“Have a biscuit,” Miss Fairfax said, presenting her with a plate of delicate sweets artfully presented. “I find a little sugar to be soothing in moments of stress.”
Giving in to temptation, Georgie pulled a small biscuit from the plate and took a bite. The mix of sweetness, tempered with the bite of ginger and other spices was, if not an antidote to all her problems, a temporary salve for the worst of them.
Just as she took her last bite, the door opened and the familiar figure of Mrs. Dove-Lyon entered the room. Behind her were the three remaining gentlemen in the matchmaking game—Mr. Osbourne, Mr. Crowley, and, of course, Tom Worthington. The sight of him instantly drove away whatever momentary bliss the biscuit had offered. He was elegantly dressed, his shoulders framed by a perfectly cut dark-green coat. His gaze skittered over her, the briefest acknowledgment.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, pulling Georgie’s attention away from him. “The final game is upon us.”
A movement of the widow’s hand, so subtle Georgie might have missed it if she wasn’t intentionally trying to avoid Tom’sgaze, produced a servant from the back of the room. The gentleman came forward, bearing an elegantly folded piece of paper, each bearing the name of one of the ladies. Georgie picked up hers from the pile and unfolded it.
A green button.
A handkerchief embroidered with the letters R.G.
A book containing a reference to a rose in the first ten pages.
A favor from a favorite lady
Georgie rushed through the rest of the list of seemingly random, and in some cases extraordinarily specific items with no known association to each other. She cast a glance over at her female counterparts, who judging by the contemplative frowns were just as confused as she was.
“I don’t understand,” Miss Fairfax said.
Miss Morehouse lowered her sheet of paper and turned toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Is this by chance a treasure hunt?”
“You are correct,” their hostess answered.
“I suppose it’s better than the musical chairs,” Miss Morehouse mumbled, mostly to herself, as she returned her attention to her list.
“Each of you have been provided a list with an identical number of items,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon began. “It is also equal in terms of difficulty as well. You will work in teams, to collect as many items from the list as possible before the bell strikes three. Those who collect the most points wins. The lady with the most points will have first choice of husband.”
Before the Black Widow of Whitehall stopped speaking, Georgie’s gaze snapped to Tom. They locked eyes for just a moment before he looked away. Why did her own body betray her so? Georgie’s heart went from a steady, respectable rhythm to a full gallop worthy of one of Mr. Osbourne’s beloved thoroughbreds.
First choice. An intangible possibility opened up before her. A possibility for happiness. Or heartbreak.
The uncomfortable truth pressed upon her like a corset laced by an overzealous lady’s maid. She wanted him. Wanted to believe he still loved her. Needed to know he would always be there for her.
Because she still loved him. The thought that Georgie might get to choose was unbearable. She tried to steal another glance at Tom without his notice. She did not succeed. His gaze met hers, as if he’d anticipated her attention. Would he desire a marriage in name only from Georgie? How could she bear it?
Beside her, Miss Morehouse studied the list in the same way a starving man might examine the menu for a grand buffet. Her choice had always been clear, and she intended to win. But what if she didn’t?
