“I don’t understand.” Georgie swallowed, trying to calm a sudden rush of butterflies in her belly. “Are you not engaged to him?”
“It depends on you.”
Georgie blinked. “Me?”
She nodded. “If you are not determined to have Mr. Osbourne, he would suit my situation perfectly.”
“Mr. Osbourne?” It made sense. Miss Morehouse had a substantial inheritance, and Mr. Osbourne’s particular pursuits would leave Miss Morehouse and Miss Howard free to live their lives in peace. Had Miss Morehouse broached the subject with him? She had not encountered Mr. Osbourne this evening, an absence she noted nearly as much as Tom’s presence.
“I should find Miss Howard, before she sends a search party looking for me.” Miss Morehouse stood, started for the door, then paused, turning back to Georgie. “I suppose the one thing that does balance the scales in the most minutest of measures is that I have no chance of being forced to marry you simply because we are alone in a room together.”
Georgie couldn’t help but smile. Indeed, sitting with any man in a room, talking intimately with the door closed would lead straight to the altar, and there would be very little that could be done to change that.
“I suppose that is something.” Inspiration welled, the excitement drawing her to her feet. “Before you leave, can I beg a small favor of you?”
“Of course.”
Georgie rushed to a small writing desk, her mind swirling with possibility. She found a piece of parchment and picked up a quill and started scribbling, not caring if she soiled her gloves with a smear of ink. The last time she’d communicated with Tom, Marcus had composed the letter. She’d allowed her brother to write off her future as a girlish fantasy at best, and at worst, a shameful act that would soil the family name. She wouldn’t allow anyone to speak for her anymore.
The ink was barely dry as she pressed the note to Miss Morehouse’s hand.
“Can you give this Mr. Worthington directly?”
“Excuse me, Mr.Worthington.”
Tom bowed to Miss Morehouse, thrilled to have his conversation with Marcus interrupted. The man’s utter disregard for his sister and his confession that he’d written that letter which had separated them made his blood boil—and brought a crashing wave of guilt for his own response. He’d further injured Georgie, hurling back a scathing response to a letter she hadn’t written.
“Good evening, Miss Morehouse,” he said. “Are you enjoying the evening?”
She pulled a tight, but warm smile that he was coming to understand was her way of saying “no, but I am too polite to say otherwise.” Indeed, when this was all over—even if he lost Georgie forever, he hoped that he and Miss Morehouse could become friends.
“I am about to fetch some lemonade and find a quiet corner to hide in,” she said, which he understood to be the absolute truth. “But I was asked to bring you this.”
He unfolded the note, and even before reading it, recognized the hand that crafted it.
“If you will excuse me, my lord,” he said as he tucked the note into his pocket, “I have something to attend to just this moment. Excuse me.”
It was an odd thing, he realized, just to walk away from Marcus. He could feel Marcus’s glare, and indeed he savored it. At one time, he was entirely at the eldest son’s beck and call. Gabriel too, if he thought on it, even more so once they joined the army. Now, there was only one person he cared to answer to.
He ducked into a quiet corner outside the ballroom and read Georgie’s note.
Dear Mr. Worthington,
The last time we exchanged letters, I fear you were misled. I beg a few moments with you to right the wrongs spoken in my name. I am in the library if you are so inclined to meet with me.
–G
Would he meet her in the library? Hell, he would meet her anywhere. Blood pounded in his ears, hope dancing with fear, as he forced himself to walk to down the candlelit hall that led to his father’s library.
He gripped the polished brass doorknob, prepared to turn it, when he realized the door was open. A sliver of golden light framed the door, coming from within. Anticipation flared inside him, swirling in his blood.
An invitation.
He pushed the door open and beheld the love of his life standing in the center of the room. Candlelight warmed her skin, dancing off the beads sewn into the neckline of her dress, which skimmed over her body and inspired a hundred unholy thoughts. She was at once angel and temptress, salvation and sin.
“Tom.”
The sound of his name on her tongue had always been sweet torture. Playful, sometimes argumentative, and when they were younger, naturally infused with the authority of a person of her rank. But there was something else in her acknowledgment.
