She wanted to argue that surely a special license would have been considered vulgar by the peculiar arithmetic he’d used to assess sin. But each time she’d considered speaking, she tempered herself. She didn’t need to worry about this, surely. She’d done the impossible…found her way to London, and into the Lyon’s Den. And she’d found herself a husband. Certainly not a man to quicken her heart, but someone who would offer his name, and not subject her to a life of dreary stagnation. It might be a loveless marriage, but it would not be this.
He just needed to come.
Quite unbidden, she thought of Tom…the firm line of his jaw, and when he allowed himself, the warm playfulness that danced in his eyes when he smiled. Over the course of the games he’d betrayed himself. The angry boy who’d written that letter was gone. So was his heart that she’d once claimed.
The baron left promptly at eight o’clock, declining any offers of brandy. His strict schedule would not allow it, he said, except in conjugal matters. He pressed the most chaste of kisses on the back of Georgie’s hand, then left. She was grateful for the gloves she was wearing.
By the time Lord Sharpe departed, Georgie was at her wit’s end. Father had disappeared into his study, leaving heralone with Marcus in the drawing room. The evening was gray, bringing darkness much earlier than it might have come, a chill breeze moving through the trees. A fierce pounding at her temples vied with a gnawing ache in her belly. If she didn’t hear from Mr. Osbourne by tomorrow morning, she would steal away to the baroness’s home, certain the lady would shield her until Mr. Osbourne appeared or she could make her escape. If Gabriel could run, so could she.
“You look absolutely blue-deviled,” Marcus said, somehow managing be concerned and callous all at once. “Do you need some headache powder?”
She gave her head a quick shake. What she needed was for Lord Sharpe to disappear from her life.
“I think I just need rest,” she said. “It has been an exhausting evening.”
“I know you’re upset about this marriage business, Georgie. But think of it this way,” Marcus said, sounding practically cheerful, “Lord Sharpe is ancient. It’s possible he’ll be dead in the next few years and you’ll be a free woman. It might be worth the odd peck on the back of your hand for that, don’t you think?”
“Don’t remind me,” she snapped back. “And knowing my luck he’ll live at least another ten.”
“You’ll be saving Whetherby,” he said. “Surely that will be worth any short-term pain.”
“How is my marriage to him saving your estate?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be searching for an heiress, Marcus? After all, it’s yours to inherit.”
A shadow passed over his face.
“Don’t you think I’m trying?” he said, swirling the glass of port in his hand. “You’re lucky to have this marriage business sewn up, Georgie. I would happily bed a dowager as old as Lord Sharpe if it would bring a fortune with it.”
Georgie rubbed her temples, the circular motion providing a temporary relief. Marcus did not have the same favor of looks their father and Gabriel had. There was a perpetual gauntness to him, perhaps owing to his disdain for the out of doors. More unfortunate, however, was his rather pessimistic nature. There was a pettiness to Marcus that seemed to make him unable to feel joy for anyone unless he was the beneficiary of it. If her marriage to Lord Sharpe would somehow benefit Marcus, no wonder that he was so cavalier about it. No wonder he’d interfered in her relationship with Tom.
Before she could press him on the subject, Norton appeared at the door, a silver tray in his hand.
“My lord,” he said, crossing the drawing room and presenting Marcus with the tray. “This just arrived.”
Marcus picked up the envelope, his brow rising in surprise before he broke the seal and pulled out a card. Georgie swallowed, terrified that somehow Mr. Osbourne’s reply might have come directly to one of the two people in this house who would have not only put a stop to their marriage, but quite possibly called him out as well.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to sound as if the very last thing she was worried about was having her brother discover her plans to elope to Scotland.
“An invitation to a ball.” He held up the card as if he were genuinely shocked to receive it, before that familiar Hawthorne pride got the better of him. “It’s about time someone in town acknowledged us.”
“I thought your social calendar was already full,” she said, ready to collapse in relief that her fears about being discovered were unfounded. “Father said as much when I arrived.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “You know how he can be—always putting on a brave front. Aside from his club, we haven’t had time to receive any invitations yet.”
Georgie rose, curiosity overcoming her headache, and picked up the invitation. Her heart flipped in her chest when she read the name.
Worthington. Tom’s engagement ball.
“This is a surprise,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Perhaps the baroness has made your arrival known amongst her circles.”
“Perhaps,” Marcus agreed, then cocked his head to one side. “Do you remember the steward’s son? Of course, you do—I saved you from ruining your life running away with him.”
He had no idea how much he’d ruined. But Georgie held her tongue.
“I learned at the club he’s going to be a viscount,” Marcus continued, using the same gravitas one might use to learn that a particular cut of jacket was to be the latest fashion. “And getting married. Imagine that.”
“Imagine,” she parroted, lost in her own thoughts. Why on earth would the Worthingtons send an invitation to her family for such an occasion? They would not have known her family had arrived, and Tom would not have been so cruel as to force her to endure such an occasion celebrating his engagement.
She flipped on the card, where a single line was written.
