Page 24 of One Night with a Rake

“Nathaniel?” Georgette’s voice called him back from his musings.

“I think you should make your own decisions,” he said, silently cursing his better angel. How was he going to ruin her if his conscience kept leading him down such disgustingly proper paths of righteousness? “Once a woman marries, I gather she has few enough opportunities to choose much of anything. Make the most of this one.”

She was silent for ten beats of his heart. Then, sounding for all the world like the royal she was destined to be, she announced, “I’ll take the pink.”

Ten

“I assume Mme. Reynard had suitable fabric for your gown in her shop. She always has such an exquisite selection,” her mother said between delicate spoonfuls of the white soup. “I imagine she agreed that red is the bold choice required. A royal choice.”

“We finally settled on something,” Georgette replied circumspectly. She hoped the final product would be fetching enough to mollify her mother once she discovered her express wishes had been ignored.

“Trust me, Lady Yorkingham, she’ll be resplendent,” Nathaniel said. “Though that’s little credit to Mme. Reynard. Your daughter would be the making of any gown.”

He tossed a quick wink to Georgette, but it was his smile that warmed her to her toes.

They were seated opposite each other near the middle of the long table, with her parents occupying the distant head and foot. There was such an expanse of tablecloth between them, she was amazed that Lord and Lady Yorkingham were able to carry on even this stilted attempt at conversation without resorting to speaking trumpets.

They’re like islands dotting a white linen sea, Georgette mused. Never touching, only catching glimpses of each other through the mist rising from the soup tureen.

Her mother was a stickler for formal suppers. Even if they hadn’t had a guest, the seating plan would have remained the same. Her parents seemed to be holed up in their own separate strongholds at opposing ends of the long table.

The only thing that would have been different if Nate hadn’t been dining with them was that there would have been no pretense at conversation.

Silence would have reigned.

There was such a thing as companionable silence. Georgette imagined that a couple seated by a cozy fire, each reading their own book, would enjoy a comfortable sort of quiet. The air above their heads might shimmer with imagination and adventure they could later share in animated conversation.

By contrast, the silence that filled her parents’ union was a hollow void, an emotional doldrums. Georgette had always promised herself she would not have a marriage of such deadly calm.

But what else could she expect to have with the Duke of Cambridge?

“How very gallant of you, Lord Nathaniel.” Her mother dabbed her lips with a linen napkin fringed with Belgian lace and motioned for the footman to remove the soup course.

Her father looked up when Mr. Darling, Georgette’s feckless footman, leaned over him to slide his soup bowl away. Her mother cleared her throat loudly and her father seemed to take the hint that he was expected to contribute something to the dinner conversation.

“I’m sure Georgette is grateful to have such a staunch friend as you, Lord Nathaniel. As we all are.”

Friend? Georgette did not feel friendly toward him exactly. She felt…jittery inside toward him.

How did one categorize that?

Nathaniel made an attempt to engage her father in conversation about whether the Prince of Wales could be kept from mucking up the foreign policy the prime minister espoused, and the ensuing discussion carried them through the next three courses. Georgette was beginning to feel her family was almost normal.

“Oh, Georgette, did I mention I’ve sent word to your dancing master? Mr. Gooch will be here tomorrow at ten,” her mother announced as the treacle arrived for dessert.

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” Georgette said. “I’ve been dancing for years.”

“Yes, but you’ll want to put your best foot forward for the royal duke,” her mother said. “We certainly wouldn’t want a repeat of the debacle last Season at Almack’s.”

“That was not my fault.”

Georgette’s ears burned with embarrassment. There was every chance that Nathaniel hadn’t heard about the incident. How like her mother to make sure he did.

“Then whose fault was it, dear?” Lady Yorkingham asked with deceptive sweetness.

“Lady Bracegirdle’s, of course,” Georgette said through clenched teeth. “If she hadn’t worn that ridiculous turban with the ostrich plume, none of it would have happened.”

Georgette had watched in horrified fascination as the offending headdress came near to annihilation each time Lady Bracegirdle passed one of the lit candles in the wall sconces.