“I do not owe you an answer,” he said, slamming his hand on the desk. It made her jump. “Osbourne is a third son, more interested in horseflesh than being a husband. You will marry Sharpe and that is that.”
“What does he have over you?” she pressed. “What does a baron hold over an earl that you would sell me to him? Surely mother didn’t agree to this?”
At the mention of her mother, he became resolute.
“Your mother is looking down on us from heaven, God rest her soul,” he said. “And she would agree with me. You have the opportunity to do your family a great favor.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “I have never understood this.”
“You don’t need to understand, Georgiana,” he said. “You just need to obey. Tomorrow Lord Sharpe will seek a special license, and you will be married before the end of the week.”
Georgiana was not given to swooning, but in that moment, she felt herself grow lightheaded. This was not possible. She had done everything she could to escape this marriage. She would not let Baron Sharpe claim her.
She closed her eyes and blew out a silent breath, giving herself a moment to be calm. She needed to send word to Mr. Osbourne. There was no time for a special license. They had to make for Scotland.
It occurred to her, at that moment, that she had no idea of where Mr. Osbourne’s residence was in London. Even if she were to write a note, where would she send it?
Lily Duigood’s concerned face flashed in her memory. She would help Georgie, and so would the baroness. If nothing else, she might be able to entreat Mrs. Dove-Lyon for the information.
“Very well, Father,” she said, getting to her feet, pasting the same placid smile on her face she’d used to placate her father for years. “With your permission I would like to make my apologies to the baroness for tomorrow evening.”
Her expression seemed to mollify him. “Of course. Go write your letter and have Norton send it.”
She forced herself to walk out of the room. When the door closed behind her, she tore up the stairs and into her bedchamber. It had been years since she’d visited this house, and she rummaged through her small writing desk, where she found a tightly capped bottle of ink and some paper. She wrote out a note, barely waiting for the ink to dry before folding it up and sealing it shut. She delivered it to a footman, then watched from the front parlor as he left on foot for Grosvenor Square.
Chapter Sixteen
Grasping a glassof brandy, Tom stood on the grand staircase in Worthington House in the presence of his grandfather. Or, at least, the image of him. And it was an imposing one, from the impossibly large wig, one hand at his chest, his fingers adorned with the ring that marked him as the Viscount of Worthington. It was the same ring his father wore. A ring that would one day be his.
“I hope you’re happy,” he muttered under his breath, before bitterness sliced through him, allowing some of the anger to rise to the surface.
He took a generous sip of the brandy. He’d been tempted to drown himself in the entire bottle, but thought the better of it. Tonight’s outcome had nothing to do with John Osbourne, Mariah Moorhouse, or even Georgie. He’d made this fucking mess for himself. The very least he could do was bear the sting of it.
The look on Georgie’s face when she’d learned she’d lost had torn into him. She’d avoided his gaze, but he’d caught the way her throat worked as she swallowed what he could only surmise was disappointment. Maybe even more than that. For Tom, it had been devastation.
Georgiana Hawthorne loved him. She’d always loved him. And when she’d needed him, he’d left.
And somehow, he’d done it again. It was not the same, of course. He wasn’t leaving her. She was running to escape something on her own, and like him, blinded by pain, stumbling toward something that felt safe.
He took another sip of brandy, looking up at his grandfather. He would have thought Georgiana Hawthorne perfect. Perfectly bred, with impeccable connections.
John Osbourne was a good choice. She would be safe with him. Though the thought of her with him, sharing a bed, made Tom twist inside with jealousy.
She should have been his. And he, goddamn it, should have been hers.
“You look like a man ready for the gallows, not the altar.”
The sound of Viscount Worthington pulled Tom out of his woolgathering. He turned toward the bottom of the staircase where his father gazed up at him with very similar eyes to those of his grandfather, though far more patient.
“Good evening,” he said, turning away from the portrait.
“I have escaped your stepmother for the moment,” he said, “who will assault you very shortly with questions about courses, choices of soup, and your favorite dessert.”
Tom held up his glass in salute, then made his way down the stairs. “I appreciate the warning.”
“Your grandfather was a good man, but a demanding one,” his father said, gesturing to the portrait of the previous viscount. Regret pulled at the edge of the viscount’s mouth, his normally bright disposition falling into a frown. “I am sorry you are bearing the brunt of my mistake.”
Tom shook his head. “I would not be here if not for your insistence on claiming me. Do not apologize for providing me this privilege.”
