Page 75 of Prince of Scandal

Georgiana scowled; with a cramping belly, rattled bones, and her bottom already numb on the too-thin squab, she would quite happily sell any of Rupert’s organs to cease this journey at once and settle somewhere still with a large brandy. Much like Rupert, this carriage looked well enough on the outside, but there was nothing of substance within. Not even a rug or some hot bricks. Without her father’s cloak, she would be bloody damned freezing, yet another offence to add to the list.

“Do not fret, my dear,” Rupert drawled, leaning forward on his seat and touching her knee. Ugh. “We’ll be arriving in Hatfield soon.”

Hatfield. Who lived there? Hmmm. Hatfield House. The Marquess of Salisbury’s seat in the heart of Hertfordshire. She knew Lord Salisbury. He wouldn’t tolerate this nonsense, nor would his grande dame wife.

“Are we to visit with the Salisburys, then?” she asked.

Rupert laughed, the sound without a shred of humor. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? To have a tantrum there and embarrass me with scurrilous lies. No, Gigi. We’ll be staying at an inn. And yes, I will shackle you to the bed to ensure you don’t wander off during the night. You are willful now, but when you are my wife, I shall break you of such unladylike habits.”

Do not react. DO NOT.

Inwardly seething, Georgiana turned to look out the carriage window. It didn’t help; all she could see was late afternoon gloom transitioning to dusk, which reminded her they’d been on the road for hours. Each time they’d stopped, because Rupert needed to use a chamber pot or quench his thirst or stretch his legs, she’d been hopeful there might be some way to escape. But he’d dragged her with him wherever he went, under the guise of newlyweds very much in love, and her wrist and arm were already dotted with small finger bruises. When they’d driven past Highgate, then Finchley Common—once a notorious spot for highwaymen—she’d actually yearned for someone to leap out with a pistol and bellow stand and deliver. Rather frustratingly, the area was now quite safe thanks to the efforts of mounted patrolmen and the enclosure of the land into private ownership.

In fact, her only victory all day was discreetly receiving a free clean rag from a sympathetic maid at one of the stops, so at least she could retain some dignity and not bleed through to her gown. All she could do was pray that Phoebe had freed herself to sound the alarm, her father was well after being cut, and that Ashton was undertaking a rescue effort.

Her prince would come for her soon and punish Rupert for his crimes. For her own sanity, she could believe nothing less.

“How much longer until we reach the inn? I’m hungry,” Georgiana said instead.

Rupert sighed irritably. “You are always hungry. I have never met a woman with an appetite like yours. Especially for sweets. It is most unbecoming and I daresay expensive.”

“Feel free to marry someone else, then,” she replied sharply.

“No. You have the right lineage on your father’s side, and despite his investment missteps, I know he has more than enough funds to keep me in comfort. Once you provide me an heir, it will be a most successful union.”

Georgiana recoiled. “You’ve had three wives and no heirs. Why do you think it will be any different with me?”

He went very still, his gaze turning frigid, and the hand on her knee became a painful pincer grip. “You’re surely not implying that the issue lies with me, Gigi?”

“Er…no,” she stuttered, inwardly cursing herself for the ill-judged, if factual comment.

“I have no heir because I married three women who all turned out to be barren. Surely that is obvious to everyone,” Rupert snapped. “And if they happen to die, what else can a man do but marry again?”

And if they happen to die.

Good God, the man truly was unhinged, pretending a stomach ailment and a fall and drowning had somehow just happened. He sounded a bit like mad King Henry VIII complaining about his wives not giving him sons then drumming up some ridiculous accusation to justify their banishment or death. Rather ironic considering Hatfield House had been Elizabeth Tudor’s residence and jail before she inherited the throne. But why was it always assumed to be the woman’s fault if there were no children? Surely anyone with an ounce of common sense would look at Rupert and say it was a startling coincidence that of all the ladies in England, he’d managed to marry three who were barren.

“Of course,” Georgiana murmured. “Where will we go tomorrow?”

Rupert glared at her for a moment, then relaxed back against the carriage squab. “We’ll leave early and continue onto Stevenage and Baldock; I expect to be in Alconbury by mid-afternoon. After that it depends entirely how I feel. Travelling by carriage is lamentably slow compared to horseback, but it offers sufficient protection from the wind and rain. The weather only worsens the closer we get to the heathen lands of the north. Scotland. Why would anyone bother going there? Terrible food and not nearly enough brandy. Then there are the Scots themselves, so primitive and uncouth. The place has nothing else to offer besides a marriage over the anvil at Gretna.”

Georgiana pressed her lips together to she didn’t say anything else rash, like he was a selfish and thoroughly evil sewer rat. It was easy to forget when Rupert got peevish that he was a killer. Unfortunately, the fist-sized paperweight concealed in the inner pocket of her father’s cloak wouldn’t be much use in the small confines of this carriage, either.

Hurry, Ashton. I love you.

The sun was just beginning to set when Rupert thumped his walking stick on the roof and the carriage pulled into a large and busy-looking inn set back from the side of the road. The main building was two-stories tall and constructed of red brick, but there were several other smaller buildings nearby, including stables, a farrier, blacksmith, and a carpenter. Clearly this was a popular stop for travelers heading north if so many were willing to ply their trade here.

All the better for Ashton to find them.

Wincing as she climbed out of the carriage and very grateful for the polite lad who offered his hand to help her down, Georgiana followed Rupert as he strode into the inn and rang the small bell on the counter.

An older Black woman hurried through an arched doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Welcome to the Good Queen Bess. I’m the innkeeper, Mrs. Ireland. What are ye after, sir?”

Rupert’s lip curled. “You may refer to me as your lordship. My wife and I require a room for the night. Only the best, of course. Plus supper and brandy.”

Georgiana somehow refrained from rolling her eyes, although it was disappointing he’d not given his actual name. Perhaps she could discreetly do so. Drop a trail of crumbs behind them.

“We only have two chambers available, my lord,” replied the woman calmly, clearly well used to managing aristocrats. “Would you prefer ground or first floor?”