“While I agree ‘poverty’ is probably too strong a word,” his father said, “are you certain you wish to forfeit the conditions of your grandfather’s will? Those lands and fortune are substantial, and my cousin Charles, who has a penchant for winning and losing fortunes, will gamble that away before your twenty-seventh birthday.”
“Miss Morehouse and I discussed it yesterday, and we are in agreement.” He’d spoken with Miss Morehouse even before Miss Duigood’s message. After subjecting the woman to multiplequestions related to the engagement, and the planning of a very public wedding, she’d confessed that the very public life of a peer was not the life she’d imagined for herself. Her support had given him the confidence to move forward. “What she desires is a way to live her life and find happiness on her own terms. Having to endure the very public duties of a viscountess, she realized, is not what she wants. I was aware of a gentleman who might better suit her temperament and needs.”
The enormity of that burden had become clear even as they’d strolled the garden at the Lyon’s Den after she’d been victorious in the treasure hunt. Even before Miss Duigood had arrived in a panic at his door, Tom understood that the life Miss Morehouse wanted—and indeed was risking everything for—was not entirely what he could provide. But what if he could help her find the security she needed, perhaps as a gentlewoman married to a man who would spend all of his time and energy between his stables and Tattersall’s? A man of a gentle nature, consumed with a singular passion that excluded her? A life that would provide what she needed most—the companionship of the woman she loved, away from the prying eyes of society?
“And you have managed this bit of matchmaking?”
“I have,” he said, forcing a smile, then taking a sip of wine to hide whatever anxiousness his features might betray. With Miss Morehouse’s permission, he’d invited John Osbourne to discuss the plan at his club just this morning. While the change initially surprised the gentleman, he found the situation suited him perfectly well. With both Miss Morehouse and Mr. Osbourne in agreement, he had only to break the news to his grandmother that indeed, his cousin may well be the beneficiary of this plan. It was nearly complete.
But like all battle plans—including the fight for Georgie’s hand—his success relied on factors he could not control. It was in the end Georgie’s decision.
As if the very thought had summoned her, Tom’s gaze strayed across the ballroom to the entrance where a stunning figure in a pink gown commanded his attention. Of course, her radiant smile and gentle curves always had…even when they’d been separated by thousands of miles, he’d never been able to put her out his mind. He just hoped by the end of tonight he could convince her that he’d never have to. That he would do whatever it took to earn her trust. Her love.
Under that ever-present polite smile she wore, one he recognized as the practiced politeness of a gentlewoman trained to hide her emotions, was a heaviness he couldn’t miss. No doubt her family’s plan to wed her to that unscrupulous Lord Sharpe was lurking behind that serene facade. She was on the arm of her brother, Marcus Hawthorne, heir to the Ashcombe title, and the future master of Whetherby. Tom soured at the sight of him.
“Well, well,” his father said, barely able to contain the contempt in his voice as he spied Marcus. “The heir makes an appearance. I thought he never came to London.”
“He needs a bride,” Tom replied, watching Marcus as he swallowed down his distaste for the man with another sip of wine. “That Hawthorne pride would make it impossible for him to miss being seen at an event such as this.”
While Marcus was only a few years older than Tom, the permanent veneer of superiority and disdain he’d somehow perfected as a young boy had seemed to age him. Despite his wealth and status, he’d always regarded others with suspicion, as if their presence alone was to deprive him of what he felt was rightfully his. He was elegantly dressed, yet there was a hardness to him that made marble seem soft in comparison.
“Go see to your guests,” his father said, clasping his hand to Tom’s shoulder, regarding him with such encouragement Tomdared to believe that he might have a hope. “I see your Lady Georgiana has arrived.”
“She isn’t my Lady Georgiana—not yet.”
The viscount squeezed Tom’s shoulder and gave him a quick wink. “I have every confidence she will be.”
His father’s casual confidence was infectious, and Tom’s chest filled with affection for the elder Worthington. He’d been lucky in more ways than he’d cared to count. He’d loved the Blakeys with all his heart. He still did. They had raised him as their own, instilling him with a sense of pride for the work they did, even when Lord Ashcombe did little to return it. And now he had a second family who seemed invested in his happiness. A happiness he wanted to share with Georgie. And if he had to give up a larger fortune to do it, so be it. With her by his side, he couldn’t imagine anything more he could ever need.
He headed down the grand staircase, stopping only to leave his half-empty wine glass on a nearby servant’s tray. As he landed on the main floor, he was assailed on every side by guests who took every opportunity to assess everything from the cut of his jacket to his potential as marriage material. But there was only one woman he wanted, and she’d disappeared amongst the crowd.
He spied Marcus directly, his light-blond hair, gaunt features, and a stare that would make Medusa herself blink, standing solitary amongst the crowd. If he weren’t such an insufferable bastard, Tom might almost have taken pity on the man. They locked gazes, and Tom, remembering his manners, approached him.
“Lord Hawthorne.”
At one time, Tom would have applied the appropriate tone of deference in his voice, or added “sir.” There was no deference in his voice this time. If Marcus noticed, he said nothing. LikeGeorgie, he was a Hawthorne. Unlike Georgie or even Gabriel, he reveled in that pride.
Marcus nodded in acknowledgment, putting a quizzing glass of all things to his eye, no doubt to somehow look down on Tom even though they were the same height.
“I had to look twice to see it was you. So you are Mr. Worthington now. That must have been a shock,” Marcus said, offering a mirthless smile. “Who knew we had a viscount playing at steward?”
“Certainly I did not. If so, I might have been more forceful in my retaliation for all your pranks,” Tom said. Not that Marcus’s pranks were funny…many of them bordered on cruelty. Gabriel was the primary object of them, but as his friend, Tom was often caught up in them, and if Marcus was in a particularly petulant mood, Tom bore the full brunt of his pettiness. “And the Blakeys may have been a little less insistent on me completing my chores.”
Though Tom very much doubted it. Robert and Mary Blakey were good, earnest people. Robert Blakey himself came from gentry class, and while hardly of humble stock, he had instilled in Tom a sense of obligation to his work and the wellbeing of others. Marcus could have well used their tutelage.
Marcus’s mouth twisted at the mention of his adopted parents, and Tom had no doubt as to the reason.
“Has the bride hunt begun for you?” Tom asked, needing to redirect the conversation.
“I am not engaged yet,” Marcus answered, sounding somewhat needled by the question. “I have yet to find the lady who Father feels is the right person to be the countess.”
Tom had heard more than a few stories from Gabe about his parents’ marriage, and by all accounts it was not a happy one. And given the naturally proud nature of the Hawthorne family, and the earl’s noted eccentricities, Tom could hardly imaginea woman with the elusive qualities that would have met the approval of the Earl of Ashcombe.
“And your sister?” he said. “Having only entered society of late, I can only assume this is not Georg—” he caught himself, then continued, “Lady Georgiana’s first season.”
“Georgiana has never required a season,” Marcus said, turning his attention back to Tom. “She has long been promised to our neighbor, Lord Sharpe. Father rightly felt that given the strain on the estate, it would not be prudent to waste funds on gowns and balls and chaperones when the marriage had all but happened.”
But it would never happen…if Tom could show Georgie how much he loved her.
