Page 130 of The English Wife

“Don’t worry.” In defiance of the crowd, Georgie lifted a hand to Bay’s cheek and then wished she hadn’t. The illusion of intimacy came too close to the real thing. “I’m not afraid of Giles anymore.”

Bay smiled ruefully at her, a perfect Renaissance prince. “That’s what scares me.”

Georgie wrinkled her nose at him over her shoulder and swirled away, or as much as one could swirl in a skirt braced with horsehair and weighed down with semiprecious stones. Around her, the ball was proceeding apace. The supper was already set out in the dining room; the dancing would begin again at one, when she and Bay would open the German. Even her mother-in-law couldn’t find fault with the arrangements.

Or, rather, she would, but it wouldn’t be Georgie’s fault.

Upstairs, through the balusters of the gallery, she could see two white-nightgowned figures, their nurse’s hands bunched in the fabric on each side. Georgie considered going up, but she knew that if she did, she might never come down again.

Don’t go, Bay had told her. We can make this right.

She had agreed that they could discuss it later, but deep down, she knew she had already made her decision. She didn’t want to live her life in thrall to Lacey Abbey anymore, living first in Annabelle’s shadow, then Bay’s. She wanted to find her own place, whatever and wherever that might be.

What would it be to strike off into the world? Not running, not afraid. She could take the twins to Venice and scold them out of plunging into the canals; take them to ride on the donkeys in the Tuileries Garden.

She could feel exhilaration rising at the thought, and a strange sense of rightness. As much as she loved Bay, she didn’t want to see Bast and Vi raised as he had been raised, stifled into correctness, swimming on a rocky beach because it was where “our people” went, or twisting themselves into molds that didn’t fit because people might snicker at the Opera. She would raise them to be strong and free.

With the freedom that came of having the Van Duyvil money and name. There was that, but she was a pragmatist, wasn’t she? She wasn’t ashamed of using the tools that came to hand.

“May I have a word?” It was David, dressed as Michelangelo, complete with tights, floppy hat, and easel.

Georgie put an arm familiarly through his. Amazing how much more affectionate she could feel towards David now that he was no longer a rival. “I was just going to get a breath of air. Come with me.”

“Is that wise?” David glanced over his shoulder, where half a dozen people were marking their conversation with interest.

“Possibly the wisest thing we’ve done.” Georgie deliberately leaned into his arm, making David twist nervously. She batted her eyelashes at him. “Shall we give them one last show? For Bay’s sake?”

“That was … well, that was what I wanted to talk to you about.” David dropped his voice as she led him out through the French doors onto the winter-blasted balcony.

Chinese lanterns glimmered in front of them like fairy lights, stretching down the terraces to the river. But there was an emptiness to it. The women in gowns and gallants with swords at their waists who ought to have been trysting among the topiary were wisely remaining inside, by the warmth of the supper table. Only the shadows kissed beneath the lanterns.

David was shivering in his doublet, his teeth chattering as he said, “I wanted you to know … I’m leaving after the ball.”

Georgie looked up at him, the cold forgotten. Something about the way he said it made her feel very old and very cynical; there was something about noble gestures that brought out her worst impulses. She also suspected that Bay had put him up to it. Because Bay, no matter how much he might love David, was his mother’s child first.

Heaven help anyone who sullied the noble name of Van Duyvil.

As gently as she could, she said, “There’s no need, David.”

David walked beside her down the lantern-strung paths. The high yew bushes hid them from the house. “I won’t be the cause of your leaving Bay.”

She could tell him that he wasn’t, that if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. But that would be petty. Instead she said, thoughtfully, “I’ve always thought it would be horrible to be Count Paris. No one wants to be the person to stand between Romeo and Juliet.”

Bay would have had a quick response for her. David just looked uncertain. Shakespeare wasn’t his chosen tongue. “No one’s going to take poison.”

“I didn’t mean it literally.” They walked together for a moment, David thoughtfully matching his pace to hers. “I’m tired of being the odd one out. I want something of my own, David. Is that so strange?”

David cast a quick, worried look down at her. “But you’re married.”

That didn’t stop you from falling in love with my husband, Georgie almost said, but held her tongue.

Instead, borrowing a phrase from Anne, she said lightly, “We’re almost in the new century, after all. If Mrs. Vanderbilt can divorce, why can’t a Van Duyvil?”

“Annabelle.” It was Elizabeth I standing behind them, in all her offended majesty. There might be half a dozen Elizabeths at the ball, but this was the only one who mattered, her mother-in-law, in red wig, ropes of pearls, and a face that sank a thousand ships. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Brilliant. This was all she needed. Georgie looked at her mother-in-law. “Were you following me?”

Mrs. Van Duyvil seemed taken aback at being on the receiving end of the interrogation. “Someone needed to remind you of the proprieties, Annabelle.” She looked pointedly at David. “Since you don’t appear to be able to control yourself.”