Page 112 of The English Wife

“Can we dispense with the theatrics?” Four hundred people would be arriving in just over twenty-four hours, including half a dozen houseguests. “I won’t ask how you found me. David told me he’d written you about the house.”

“You knew?” The surprise on his face was almost comical.

“Of course,” Georgie lied. “Really, Giles, you said it yourself. It’s been seven years. Time enough to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Balked, Giles scowled at her. “You always did land on your feet, didn’t you?”

Not always. That horrible first month in London; a breath away from jumping into the river. She’d thought of it, more than once. But it had been stubbornness that had helped her survive—stubbornness and a determination not to let Giles win.

Was it her imagination, or did he seem smaller? It might just be that she was accustomed now to tall men. Or it could be that this was her house and her land. And her ruins, for that matter.

“Is this a social call? Come to the house and I’ll make you known to my husband.”

She turned to go, gathering the folds of her shawl around her, but Giles closed the gap with two quick strides, grabbing her arm and yanking her around to face him, so hard that she stumbled and almost fell.

“And risk my telling him the truth?” Giles’s face was so close that she could smell the spirits on his breath as he snarled, “Where is she, Georgie? What did you do with Annabelle?”

“Where you won’t find her,” Georgie retorted and stepped hard on his foot.

“Damn you, George.” It was hard to look threatening while hopping on one foot.

Georgie watched him, hopping and swearing, and wondered how she had ever found him handsome, had ever fancied herself in love with him.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she said coolly, “or I’ll call the constables and have you locked up for assault and trespass.”

“That’s rich—from a murderess.” Giles looked up from his half crouch, his face ugly with hatred and fear. “Was it the river? Did you throw her in the river? Or was it someplace else?”

After all this time. Georgie put her hands to her temples. She could feel the seams in the leather against her skin. “I never hurt Annabelle. I tried to tell you, Giles.”

That afternoon, running to Giles, telling him that Annabelle was missing, gone. The horrifying rage on Giles’s face, rage and, most crushing, fear. Where is she? What did you do to her?

And then the press of the splintered wood wall against her back, Giles’s face over hers, dark with anger, his knee pressing between her skirts.

Did you really think I would marry you?

Giles rose from his crouch. He limped forward, favoring his left foot, but stopped at a glare from Georgie. “Then where is she?”

“New South Wales,” said Georgie wearily.

“New South—what?” Giles’s mouth gaped. It made him look a few pence short of a pound.

“New South Wales,” repeated Georgie. It couldn’t hurt to tell him now, could it? She had kept her part of the bargain. For a moment, Georgie found herself missing Annabelle fiercely. Missing her and also wanting to slap her. “It’s in Australia. They farm sheep there.”

“But…” Giles cleared his throat a few times. “Her shoe.”

“And her scarf,” Georgie reminded him. “That was Annabelle’s doing.”

Giles just stared at her, uncomprehending.

Georgie sighed. “She ran from you, Giles,” she said, speaking slowly and clearly in words he could understand. “She ran away because she didn’t want to marry you.”

It felt good saying it. It was as though she could breathe, really breathe for the first time in seven years.

Giles shook his head in mute denial. “She was going to marry me.”

Georgie pressed her eyes shut. “No. You were going to marry her. There’s a difference.”

“No.” Giles’s brows drew together. “No.”