Page 48 of The English Wife

Bay cleared his throat. “That would depend on the circumstances, I would think.”

“This isn’t a discussion of the law in Blackstone, Bay!” There were times when it was well to look at all sides of a situation, others where one needed to act. “If you won’t defend yourself, let me. Let me deal with Sir Hugo.”

Bay made an instinctive movement of negation. “Did I … did I tell you I had a letter from my mother this morning?”

Georgie didn’t know whether to hug him or empty the dregs of their lemonade over his head. He might well have had a letter from his mother, but if it hadn’t been his mother, it would have been something else. Her husband, she was learning, shied from confrontation; his chosen weapon was diversion.

“How very timely,” said Georgie drily.

The color rose in her husband’s cheeks, but he said, doggedly, “It is, at that. She wants us to return to New York.” After a pause, he added, “My sister’s engagement is off.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that would cause you to repine. You didn’t sound very fond of the man.”

“It’s worse. He’s proposed to Anne.”

“Oh, dear.” Georgie was momentarily diverted. “Perhaps she sees something in him?”

“The chance of escaping my mother, perhaps.” Bay nudged a clump of grass with the polished toe of his shoe. “My mother is … well, let’s just say she’s not an easy woman.”

“And I imagine she’s about as pleasant as a nest of hornets about now.” Georgie leaned back on one arm. “Would you be so keen to do your filial duty if it weren’t for Sir Hugo?”

Bay’s eyes met hers, charmingly rueful. “I will admit, our present circumstances add a spur. But,” he added quickly, “I would have wanted to go anyway. For Anne.”

It was his sister, Georgie would have thought, who would be in need of sympathy. She was the one who had been jilted, and publicly. But that was all beside the point. “Sir Hugo won’t just disappear because we cross the ocean.”

“Won’t he? I can’t imagine he’ll follow us to New York.” Bay lifted the lemonade bottle, emptying the dregs over her glass. He offered it to Georgie. “You’ll like Newport, I think.”

He was doing it again, changing the subject. Georgie pushed the glass back at him. “It’s all very well to play ostrich, Bay. But burying your head in the sand doesn’t stop nasty things from creeping up on you. It just stops you seeing them before they strike.”

Bay reached for her hand, balked by the fact that he was still holding the lemonade. The expression on his face made Georgie chuckle. It was a bit rusty, but it was still a laugh. Bay’s face softened.

“You see?” he said. “It’s not so bad as all that.”

Georgie shook her head. “I don’t like to think that Sir Hugo is holding my past over your head. I’d rather be done with him, once and for all.”

“We’d meant to return to New York anyway.” At Georgie’s look, Bay set the lemonade carefully down next to the hamper. “All right. But let me deal with Sir Hugo in my own way? I’d rather not expose you to his unpleasantness.”

Georgie didn’t know whether to be frustrated or touched. “You know what my life was before, Bay. There’s no reason to wrap me in cotton wool.”

Bay reached for her, but paused, letting his hand rest on the blanket between them. “Maybe that’s why I want to wrap you in cotton wool,” he said quietly. “Because I know what you’ve suffered.”

He treated her like a porcelain doll. Not with his words; he was nothing but frank with her, or as frank as Bay could be. It wasn’t his mind he shielded her from, but his body. It was a strange paradox: when they were awake, clothed, strolling arm and arm in the gardens, Georgie had never felt closer to another soul, more loved, more protected. It was at night, in the marital bed, that she felt the gulf between them, that she felt him holding himself apart from her, afraid to hurt her.

It was maddening. From time immemorial, men and women had been coupling behind haystacks, but her husband was too much of a gentleman and she too craven to turn their tentative caresses to good purpose.

I’m not afraid anymore, she wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t find the words. And he would know her for a liar. She was afraid still.

But she was afraid of other things as well. No marriage was a true marriage until it was consummated. Bay had never indicated that he thought of her as anything but a true wife, no matter the irregularity of their courtship. He had written immediately to his mother to announce their union. He had outfitted her as his wife, introduced her as his wife.

But as long as the marriage remained unconsummated, the fear was there.

The lady or the tiger? The marriage bed or no marriage at all?

“Well, don’t,” said Georgie shortly. It was the closest she could come to broaching the topic that had been most on her mind. “You said once you wouldn’t put me in a glass case.”

“Not even a particularly charming one?”

“Bay…”