Page 61 of The English Wife

But she couldn’t help seeing Anne’s pale hand on Bay’s cheek, the intimacy of it, the familiarity.

“I was born in India. This is nothing to summer in Madras.” Georgie looked across her husband at his cousin, tilting her chin in Annabelle’s way, giving Anne the full effect of Annabelle’s scorn. “The Laceys are hardy stock.”

Anne twirled her parasol between her fingers, making the flounces bounce. “But you’re a Van Duyvil now, Cousin Annabelle.”

“To my infinite joy,” said Bay, covering Georgie’s fingers with his, but the words felt flat, joyless.

They proceeded in silence up the steps. Anne furled her parasol and looked from one to the other with raised brows. “Until supper, then.”

Georgie waited until she had gone into the house before turning to Bay and saying in a low voice, “A marriage of appearances?”

Bay grimaced. “You mustn’t mind Anne.”

A liveried footman was holding open the door, waiting, his face impassive beneath his white wig.

“It would be easier not to mind her if you minded her less,” said Georgie in a low voice, before preceding Bay through the door.

Bay caught up with her by a bust of one of Louis XIV’s ministers that looked as though it had been looted from someone’s château. It probably had. “Anne was my childhood playmate and my closest friend. My mother … well, you’ve seen what she’s like. We were left largely to our own devices.”

Georgie tilted her head back to look Bay full in the eye. “What sort of devices, exactly?”

Bay blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

The mirrors lining the walls reflected them back, a hundred times over, distorted by palm fronds. “What do you think? You must have heard the whispers, Bay. You … and Anne.”

“You can’t think … nothing like that!” He seemed genuinely shocked by the idea. “I love Anne like a sister.”

Georgie started walking again, heels clicking against marble. She hated how small the house made her feel; she wasn’t statuesque like her husband or her relations. A cuckoo in the nest, that was what Annabelle had called her.

She was sick of being the one on the outside, always a step behind. “Do brothers try to break off their sisters’ engagements?”

“Yes!” There was no mistaking the exasperation in Bay’s voice. He moved to cut her off, grabbing her hands in his. “Yes, they do, if they think the man’s a rotter.”

Georgie’s voice was low, scraped from the bottom of her throat. “But you would have let your own sister marry him.”

“With reservations. You know I’ve never liked Teddy.” Bay squeezed her hands, leaning down to try to see her face under the brim of her hat. “And Anne’s not Janie. Anne feels everything so deeply.”

Georgie twitched her hands away. “What makes you think Janie doesn’t?”

Bay held up his hands in surrender. “Perhaps she does. I don’t know. Janie’s the Rosetta stone to me; she’s written in a language I can’t make out. But Anne—”

The way his voice softened when he said Anne’s name made Georgie want to spit. “What makes you think you know Anne so well? Or that you know what would suit her best? Have you ever stopped to think how it must be for her, living in your mother’s house, dependent on your mother’s largesse for every cent she spends? It’s horrid living on someone else’s charity.”

So kind of them to take her in, that was what everyone always said. How fortunate Miss Georgiana was, how grateful she should be. Grateful that she had to exist on crumbs while her half sister had the cake?

“It’s not charity.” Bay caught himself. “Not really. We’re family.”

“There’s family and there’s family. Didn’t you tell me this was once Anne’s father’s house? Can you imagine what it must be to be a pensioner in your own home? No, of course you haven’t. You’re Bayard Van Duyvil, and nothing you’ve wanted has failed to be yours.”

Bay’s face was very still. Only his throat worked, the Adam’s apple moving up and down. “That’s not true.”

Georgie looked defiantly at him. “All right, then. Name one thing. One thing you’ve wanted and couldn’t have.”

Bay’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. “A simpler life,” he said at last.

“That’s rubbish.” Georgie turned on her heel, feeling her shoulder blades tight beneath her dress. “This is a brilliant match for Anne. If you care for her at all, you’ll leave her be.”

“Georgie.” Bay’s hands were on her shoulders. Usually, he called her that only in private, in their own bedchamber. “Georgie. Let’s not fight.”