Page 2 of Counting on Love

At least that proposal had been painless. And they were still friends.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” Alice said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

That was true. Although Georgiana had seen him infrequently, he’d brightened a few of the drearier parties, and her letters to her cousin had reflected that.

“Have you? That’s wonderful. Saves me the effort of explaining myself.” He straightened his waistcoat. “Would you like to accompany me to the Conservatory? The foliage is supposed to be superb and there is more air to breathe. Bad form, I suppose, for me to lure away two young lovelies, but…” He lowered his voice. “I believe the company there is more congenial.”

He gestured with his chin. Georgiana directed her gaze where he indicated, then dropped her eyes. Lord Dunstun. That proposal had been excruciating. The dullard had been convinced of his right to have her and could not believe she didn’t agree. He accused her of coyness. One thing she was not, was coy. It wouldn’t surprise her if he’d gone on to speak ill of her. Hazard had evidently heard something.

“Yes,” she said faintly. “We’d love to see the Conservatory.”

The trio walked the length of the Prestons’ home. Lord Haslet exaggerated the bend of his elbows, like chicken wings, so that he could escort one woman on each side. They passed a darkened corridor where Georgiana saw two shut doors, evidently off-limits. She wondered if they could even be locked. That might be appropriate as the chaperonage was rather lax. Mrs. Preston’s guest list was known to be exclusive: young ladies as yet unfamiliar with the courtship process should not fear being led into compromising situations by rakes—but Lord Dunstun was here, so the winnowing process was not foolproof.

The next corridor was lamplit and opened into a cardroom. Several couples sat clustered at tables. Likely there was low-stakes gambling taking place, something to entertain the young marrieds since there would be no dancing. The library across the hallway was open but empty. Georgiana was not tempted by it. She had taken a peek inside last year and had been unimpressed: nothing scientific or mathematical. It looked to be a collection of travelogues and fat biographies, spines intact and pages uncut. The Prestons were not readers.

They stepped into the Conservatory. Whoever the architect had been, he’d done a beautiful job. The tall gabled ceiling was all of glass, as were the walls, mostly. Small trees with broad leaves were tucked into niches, and huge flowerpots were arranged to create a maze-like arrangement across the floor. There was statuary too, toga-clad male and female figures. A few cherubic cupids. Nothing improper. None of the niches were secluded enough for couples to disappear into. Several guests wandered here and there, no doubt flirting tentatively. Practicing.

Georgiana withdrew her hand from Hazard’s arm.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll sit on the bench there for a few minutes while you and Miss Fogbotham have a stroll. I seem to have something caught in my shoe that I need to wiggle out before I’m blistered.”

“Oh dear, we can’t have that,” he replied, smiling. He drew Alice closer and led her off. He was the ideal guest for this sort of rout. Charming. Safe. Perhaps she should have accepted him. There were certainly worse marriages.

Georgiana took herself to the bench, a wrought iron piece that was even less comfortable than it looked. She sat, breathing in the earthy scent of potted trees, then sighed and tried to forget that Lord Dunstun was at the party. Surely he wouldn’t approach her. It would be as unpleasant for him as for her. But this was another downside to a second Season. London was littered with gentlemen from last year. Most had not chosen to court her at the time. Why would they now? And of those who had been suitors, she’d rejected the ones who’d asked for her hand and would have rejected the others. Spending more time with them, Hazard excepted, would be pointless and embarrassing.

Bending over, she ran her index finger along the heel of her stocking. She hadn’t been telling a tale. There was a pebble or bit of gravel in her shoe. But all she accomplished was to push it further down to torment her more. It was unfair that ladies were not permitted to swear. Or to remove their footwear at parties and shake out the dirt.

She tried to swipe her finger under her heel, but the shoe was too tight. And now, given that her stays were digging into her ribs, she emitted an unladylike grunt, just as a shadow passed over her. She sat bolt upright.

A man had approached her bench from the side—a tall, broad-shouldered, exquisitely dressed, fair-haired man with a strong, square jaw and blue eyes that were clearly laughing. She knew him. His name sat on the tip of her tongue. What was it?

“Georgie! It is you. My word. You’re a young lady now! How can that be?”

Georgie? No one had ever called her that. And if she could not remember who he was, they were not so well acquainted that he could corrupt her given name in a public place.

She gave him a cold stare. “Do I know you, sir?”

He gaped, then laughed. “Well, that put me in my place!” He wagged a finger and scolded her. “Lady Georgiana, you have known me since you were in leading strings. Our fathers hunted together. Our mothers huddled in front of the fireplace discussing novels. And you…” He drew out the word, lifting his eyebrows. “You were determined to train our barn cats.”

Oh, good Lord. She did know him. His father was the Earl of Iversley. He was Lord Taverston, the eldest brother in the trio known as the lords of Iversley by the ton, which—though incorrect, as they weren’t all lords—still had a musical ring to it that had made the nickname stick. He was the only one of the three sons that she’d met, although it hardly counted as a meeting. She’d been seven years old, at most, when her parents had taken her to Chaumbers, the Earl’s country estate, for a house party. Lord Taverston had been home from Oxford. She couldn’t recall if it had been a holiday or a send-down; however, the other boys had been away at school, hadn’t they? So that hinted at send-down. He’d ignored her, naturally. Maybe he’d pulled her braids once. She’d thought him a prince. For the space of a fortnight. It all came back to her now.

“Lord Taverston, of course, I remember.” She relaxed her frown. “You had the most recalcitrant cats.”

He chuckled. “I can’t get over it.” Without being invited, he sat beside her. “Mother told me to look for you here, but I was looking for a little girl with messy red hair and dirt on her nose. I might have walked right past.”

She didn’t correct him, although her hair was not, had never been, red, except in some light where it might be considered reddish.

She wasn’t sure how to respond. The little he’d said had conveyed quite a bit. Given he was attending Oxford over a decade ago, he would be nearing thirty. He was the Earl’s heir. She did not recollect any recent weddings in the Taverston family. She was a duke’s daughter now, of marriageable age. And his mother had told him to seek her out.

“I can’t imagine how you recognized me, bent over my shoe.”

“Well, Red.” He smiled and touched her hair. Touched it! She drew back. And realized a lock had fallen from its pin while she’d been struggling with the stone.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she said, flushing. “Is there also dirt on my nose?”

He shook his head, looking very amused and frightfully handsome. He had not a hair out of place. Then, without a by-your-leave, he reached out and tucked the lock back where it belonged. Despite the gross impropriety, she held still as he adjusted the pin—she was distracted by his cologne, which was subtly pleasant.

He leaned back. She patted her hair self-consciously and found it secure. “Have you been trained as a lady’s maid?”