Page 37 of The English Wife

“What about that brandy, then?” Georgie demanded.

Brazen was safe. Brazen made people think you were worldly. Sometimes, she envied Kitty, who had been taught to fight for herself from the moment she was born, clawing her way from the cradle. Georgie had been raised as a lady, which, she had learned, was of very little use outside the drawing room.

“Straight or with water?” asked Bay solemnly, but there was something in his eyes that made Georgie turn away and look out at the sun on the water and the graceful arches of Waterloo Bridge.

“Any which way.” She braced her palms on the windowsill, her gloves grimy and cheap against the gleaming woodwork. The Savoy had only been built four years ago, and everything seemed expensive and new. Rather like Bayard Van Duyvil. He belonged in this sort of room. She didn’t. Turning, Georgie took a deep breath and accepted a broad-bellied brandy glass. “Bottoms up.”

She took a small sip, holding the liquid on her tongue, feeling the sting of it beneath the sweetness.

Bay held the glass in the palm of his hand, letting his skin warm the bowl. He stood a safe distance away, by the fireplace in which no coal burned. “What do you intend?”

Georgie seated herself carefully in a well-upholstered armchair. “I had thought I might go to Edinburgh. They have theaters there, I’m sure. Or there’s Paris. I can speak French—after a fashion. It’s better than my Italian, in any event.”

“Is it worth it?” Bay set down his brandy on a small table.

Georgie stared down at her own drink, feeling the sting at the back of her eyes, the hard lump in her throat. “It’s better than finding out the alternative.”

Bay sank to the ground beside her chair, folding his long legs under him. Georgie could feel the tug as the hem of her skirt was trapped beneath his knee. “Why are you so afraid of him?”

Georgie yanked her skirt free. “I … I balked Giles of something he wanted once. He’s not a man who forgives easily.”

Bay didn’t say anything. He just waited, looking up at her.

Georgie clutched her brandy snifter between her palms. “Giles wanted to marry Annabelle. The estate didn’t pay for itself, but there was some money, from Annabelle’s mother—”

Georgie broke off, forcing herself to be honest, to give credit where it was due, even if it cut her to the core. It would be so much easier to brand Giles a villain, black to the core, but it was never that simple, was it?

She looked at Bay with haunted eyes. “It wasn’t just the money. I think he really fancied himself in love with Annabelle. In his way.”

A dangerous, grasping sort of love, about catching and possessing. Annabelle was to be his prize as much as his wife. At least, as long as the attraction lasted. Giles was the sort who grabbed at toys and broke them when he got bored.

“I take it that, er, Annabelle didn’t want him?” Bay’s voice was gentle, undemanding.

“No.” Georgie’s voice was hoarse. “No, she didn’t.”

She had gone over it again and again, endlessly, wondering what would have happened if they’d all just given in, if Annabelle had married Giles.

But she couldn’t. It couldn’t have happened any way other than the way it had. The story played itself out, again and again, and it always ended the same way, like a demonstration of the ruin of Pompeii.

“I think I can guess what happened next.” There was a quiet anger in Bay’s voice that hadn’t been there before. “Mr. Lacey didn’t take no for an answer. He came after you. And you’ve been running from him ever since. Is that right?”

Georgie tried to speak, but her lips wouldn’t move. She nodded dumbly.

The back of her head, banging against the wall; the frantic whinnying of her mare, fighting to be free of her stall; dust and hay and the taste of blood in her mouth.

Tears ran soundlessly down her cheeks, making wet tracks down her face, onto the bodice of her dress. Georgie tried to swipe them away, but they kept falling, falling like rain.

“Georgie.” She couldn’t see Bay, but she could feel his hands, gently, removing the brandy snifter from hers, and the small clink as he set it down. “Georgie. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Georgie choked on a hiccup. “You don’t really believe that.”

It was just the sort of thing everyone said. Of course Giles could hurt her. She’d always been small, small and slight. She’d never really thought of it, though, never reckoned her character in terms of size, until Giles had forced her to realize her own weakness, the limits of her own strength.

Bay put a handkerchief into her hand, the linen crisp beneath her fingers, laundered and starched. It seemed almost a shame to soil it with her tears.

“Thank you,” Georgie managed. There was a monogram on the handkerchief; she could feel the intertwined letters beneath her fingers. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to get control of herself. “You’re right, I suppose. He can’t hurt me if he can’t find me.”

“He can’t hurt you if you’re married to me.” Bay rose to his knees before her chair. “Marry me, Georgie.”