Page 53 of Prince of Scandal

He paused as their eyes bulged, waiting until they were able to comprehend the news. Then continued: “I met Virginia and we were soon the toast of London. But after she broke off our betrothal and returned to Osbourne, a great many things were said about me. Malicious, entirely false things. And despite no investigation, people just accepted the claims, no matter how outlandish. Because I wasn’t one of them. My parents fled back to Prussia, but I was unwelcome there and in London. King George allowed me to stay in England under strict conditions. Almost a house arrest. So I moved here to Brundall, close to the Great Yarmouth port. And set myself up as Mr. Ashton Latimer.”

Miss March gaped at him. “I am actually speechless at something so awful. Oh, Your Majesty…er…Your Royal Highness…botheration, I don’t know what to call you.”

“Mr. Latimer is agreeable. Or Ashton. That is one of my real names, at least.”

“So the blackmail is Osbourne threatening to expose you?” asked Sir Alan, rubbing his chin. “Bring back all the nasty scandal?”

“Yes. And when he stated his terms, he took great pleasure in reminding me that I have no friends in England. That no one would believe any claims I made against him about the death of Virginia or his other wives.”

Miss March made a growling sound, and without warning, a cannonball in the shape of a reticule hit Ashton square on the side of the head.

“Ouch,” he muttered.

“Phoebe!” said Sir Alan. “Good God, woman, what was that for?”

“Because Mr. Latimer just stated, plain as day, that he has no friends in England,” she snapped. “What are we? Vegetable peelings? Clearly his pea-brain needed assistance in functioning properly.”

The baronet nodded slowly. “Fair point. Dashed foolish thing to say when we’ll assist in any way possible.”

Ashton swallowed hard, humbled to the core. People other than Franz willing to stand by him? And English, to boot? “Well. I…ah…”

Miss March leaned over and patted his arm. “I take it finances aren’t an issue for you?”

“No,” he croaked.

“Then we’ll all travel to London. Sir Alan will pose as your secretary and go to your bank. Once he has secured funds, he’ll rent a townhouse in his name to keep your location secret. I’ll act as messenger between you and Gigi, no one will suspect a vicar’s daughter. Then we’ll rescue her. You’ll wed Gigi instead. If her papa does not consent, we shoot him and travel north to Gretna Green. Either way, we shoot Lord Osbourne. He deserves it.”

Ashton chuckled reluctantly. “You are delightfully bloodthirsty.”

“All those gothic novels,” said Sir Alan, his eyes glinting. “Blossom is far more dangerous than she looks.”

“Precisely,” said the young woman placidly. “I shall tell my parents we are embarking on a crusade for love. They’ll understand. But we must leave today.”

“Agreed,” said Ashton, rising to his feet.

Well. Perhaps there remained a chance for a happy ending. All he’d needed for clarity was friendship. And a heavy reticule to the head.

* * *

Watching Rupert’s continuous routine of nibbling at a gingerbread square then dabbing his lips with a napkin, Georgiana barely suppressed a scream of frustration. The man was worse than Brummel when it came to boorish fastidiousness, but with the added flaw of arrogant irritability so common in older ton men. He was certain he knew everything about everything, and that her thoughts were no more than a young woman’s “whimsy” or “hysteria.” Which made meaningful conversation nigh-on impossible.

How exhausting it all was. Had she really been so desperate to flee her grandmother and Kingsford House that she’d settled on this man as her only option? That might be more humiliating than the scandal and him running away to France. There was just nothing attractive about Rupert. Nothing comforting or protective or lusty. The only time he feigned affection, taking her hand or calling her “my dear” was in the presence of a higher-ranked peer. Married life with him would certainly be a nightmare that must never happen.

“Gigi. Are you even listening to me? This behavior is most inappropriate. You aren’t acting like a betrothed woman at all.”

Georgiana rearranged herself on the parlor chaise and smiled sweetly at Rupert, an action that took great willpower when she wanted to kick him in the shin. “I’m not sure I understand, my lord. What precisely are you cross about?”

Watching him squirm was almost amusing. This so-called gentleman had a bee in his bonnet because in the three full days since they’d arrived in London, she’d not lifted her gown for him. In truth, after discovering such wondrous pleasure with Ashton, even the thought of having Rupert touch her was abhorrent. He was just so selfish. Every single interlude they’d undertaken had been about him; all the vague promises he’d made about disciplining or pleasuring her had never once eventuated. She had no more time for empty words.

Rupert finished his gingerbread and pursed his lips. “A man has needs, Gigi.”

Somehow, she didn’t roll her eyes. “There are numerous establishments to assist with that. Or perhaps visit one of those many women who previously helped preserve the fiction that you hadn’t settled your affections solely on me. Besides…I’ve heard that once a lady is in an interesting condition, only a scoundrel still expects marital intimacies with her.”

The look on his face was priceless. Nothing ruffled Rupert’s feathers more than criticism of his honor, no matter what he’d done to deserve it or how mild the criticism was. That he actually seemed to want an heir might be the only card she held in this game, but it was a good one. Especially knowing that the worst sticklers and twits in the ton did indeed insist that pregnancy halt any bedding and a mistress should take care of a husband’s lusts. The fact that Lilian and Gabriel had continued their amorous exploits right up until a month before Amanda was born was not something she would ever share with Rupert. He needed to think her a most delicate vessel.

“Quite,” he gritted out. Then a sly look crossed his face. “But there are other things you could do, my dear. Use your hands or mouth to prove your devotion.”

Her stomach roiled. “What? Surely you wouldn’t expect a lady to behave like a harlot,” she finished theatrically, swooning a little on the chaise.