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Still, he urged his mount on, over roads that were turning into rivulets, across streams that existed when none had but an hour before. Rage and hurt drove him on until exhaustion and self-pity had him slumping in his saddle as he neared the Northcote Arms where he knew Jack and Odette had stopped along the way. Presumably, Lord Derry was with them as he hadn’t passed him on the return journey.
When he learned they’d in fact headed towards Derry House, George turned his mount in that direction and was announced just as dinner was being served.
Apparently, the rain had made travelling the final distance to Patmore Farm too much of an undertaking that evening, he was told as he stood, dripping on the flagstones. However, instead of inviting George in to join the others, Lord Derry’s butler seemed to infer that while the inclement weather had been reason enough to offer Odette and George’s mother and uncle accommodation, George might consider taking himself off to the Northcote Arms.
He was not about to do that.
“George, you look like something the cat dragged in,” his mother told him, not looking at all pleased to see him when the clearly reluctant butler showed him into the dining room. “And you’re making great puddles where you stand. You’re as bad as a ten-year-old. Really, you must change your clothes but did you think to bring something with you? I cannot believe you did not.”
Derry, realising something of import must have occurred to have his friend riding hell for leather, apparently did not want to bring attention to their collusion, for he merely directed his valet to take George away and provide him with something appropriate.
But first, the others wanted to know if he’d passed Jack along the way. Jack. That’s all they were concerned with. They were cross when he told them he’d passed Jack’s equipage but had not stopped.
The others seemed to see this as a deficiency in George, and he’d been only too pleased to leave before he’d answered all their other questions.
When he presented himself, dry and respectable, in the drawing room after dinner, some of the urgency had dissipated, and he was starting to feel foolish. Not only that, he felt as if his presence were being regarded more like an intrusion. Not even his mother was pleased to see him.
Why Katherine’s cutting words had spurred him on so, he had no idea. What had he been thinking, racing off like that when Katherine had made it clear she’d be happy if she never saw him again—or whether he lived or died? It was cruel and painful. Then he saw Derry lounging against the mantelpiece, looking tall and debonair in his ancestral home; the home that was not quite as grand as Quamby House, yet he looked like the lord of his domain in a way George had never felt. Truth be told, George had spent his whole life feeling li
ke an interloper. The odd boy out. The boy nobody wanted to talk to but was obliged to.
Jack had been good to him. But Lord, it was only because of George that Jack had ever been invited to Quamby House. Jack was supposed to have been George’s playmate. Instead, he and Katherine had become as thick as thieves leaving George on the outer.
George approached Derry, who looked up and ran a hand through his hair, saying, “Miss Worthington and I have been discussing the weather.” His nostrils flared and he looked quite unwelcoming.
“The weather?” George repeated stupidly. He’d come here on a life-altering mission, and yet all these people could talk about was the weather.
“Yes, the weather,” Miss Worthington said. She was seated demurely by the fire nearby.
He eyed her suspiciously. Was she mocking him?
Her clear-eyed gaze seemed to neither approve nor deride. Good God! Couldn’t she decide whether to accept or reject him? Was he so unworthy of notice? Of any kind of feeling either way? A powerful compulsion to stamp his foot and smash every ornament off the mantelpiece before delivering a great punch in his lordship’s self-satisfied face, was replaced by a mild enquiry as to whether they supposed the weather would be fine enough to continue the ride in the morning.
“I’m sorry you didn’t stop to learn from Jack his plans,” remarked Miss Worthington.
George clenched his fists as he tried to rein in his temper. Why, even Miss Worthington thought he wasn’t up to the mark. She was criticising him like all the others as to the decisions he’d made in coming here. They didn’t want him. None of them did. They made him feel as if he were as welcome as the dirt he’d brought in on his boots.
For a long moment, he stared at her. Then he said, “If he’s headed for the Northcote Arms, it’s only half an hour’s ride by carriage from here. He’ll arrive soon enough.” He couldn’t hint at the truth, which was that he’d gone through hell to get here himself—falling from his horse twice, which had only hardened his anger towards Jack so that he didn’t trust himself to face his old friend knowing what only he and Katherine did. Well, maybe Jack did know that Katherine loved him. But not that she’d loved him for seven years and had intended to run away with him. That she would have if Freddy hadn’t intervened. And by God, George had had his hand in that one. Yes, when Katherine had turned him down all those years ago he’d felt glad that he was hurting Katherine in denying her Jack.
Well, Jack would never know any of this from his lips. Not that it would have made a jot of difference. George knew Jack’s reasons for marrying Odette had nothing to do with love and everything to do with honour. That was another reason George hated him so much right now. Jack, who’d had nothing, had proved himself the bigger man. Everyone loved Jack even though he was an orphan.
No one loved George.
Everyone thought Jack a great hero filled with virtue and honour.
No one attributed a jot of the honourable to George.
Miss Worthington sighed. It was a peevish sound that set up George’s bristles. Lord, he didn’t think he could survive a lifetime married to such a creature. Jack deserved her.
“Jack should be here any moment now. He must have reached the Northcote Arms and been directed here quite some time ago. Don’t you think, Lord Derry?”
Not George. Oh no, she didn’t address George. He was beneath her notice.
Derry smiled at Miss Worthington. He actually looked at her with indulgence as if what she’d said weren’t the most clinging and pathetic of utterances. “I’m sure we’ll hear him pounding on the door before we’ve finished our Madeira. Another glass, Miss Worthington?”
“I might just have one myself, Derry,” said George, looking down at the borrowed trousers that were straining across his thighs and too long at the ankles. He felt as ridiculous as he surely looked. He drew himself up. When he was the Earl of Quamby, everyone would want to be his friend. He’d have money and influence. Lord, he had all the money he knew what to do with now, for his father didn’t keep him on short strings like some. True, from time to time Quamby drew in the reins, usually at his mama’s instigation if he’d been on a losing streak for too long. But George didn’t need money. Not generally, although it had been useful to contemplate the funds that would be his price for bringing Derry and Katherine together.
A spasm of pain caused by his disordered thoughts ripped through him, and for the first time, someone showed him concern.
