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5
“My lady,” Anderson, Masterson’s butler announced from the door. “There is a messenger for you. He has been told to wait for a response.”
Georgina looked up from the handkerchief she was struggling to embroider. Good lord, she was terrible at needlework. Why had she even bothered?
Boredom.
She was woefully unprepared to be anyone’s wife, lacking even the most basic skills, her mother had often bemoaned the fact. Masterson, however, didn’t mind. What little use he had for her had long since expired. Looking down at the knotted bits of green thread decorating the edge of the handkerchief, Georgina thought they lookedsomewhatlike leaves. Shaking her head, she placed the fabric aside, glad for the interruption.
“A messenger?” A snide voice drawled from across the room. “For Georgina? Don’t you find that odd, Uncle?” Masterson’s nephew assessed Georgina. He had the blackest eyes, the pupils barely visible. Entirely unnerving but befitting the soulless creature Georgina took him to be.
“I find it odd.” Clarissa, Harold’s nitwit wife, parroted.
Georgina shot her a look. Clarissa rarely espoused her own thoughts, only repeated Harold’s. It was doubtful she’d ever evenhadan original thought. Clarissa’s spare, delicate form, the complete opposite of Georgina’s, was bent over her own embroidery hoop as she calmly placed her perfect stitches upon her square of fabric. Always dressed in pale pink and muted greens, the ribbons adorning Clarissa’s hair added to her child-like demeanor. But no amount of ribbon could hide the maliciousness gleaming in her pale blue eyes. Barely older than Georgina, Clarissa was as rotten as Harold. She was the daughter of a baron. Or a baronet.
Georgina could never discern the difference.
Masterson didn’t bother to look up from the chess table where he sat with his nephew. “Odd? Not in the least.” He waved a hand. “Georgina is having Beechwood Court’s gardens redone. The beds have been left untended for many years. Probably a note from the head gardener. She’s always going on about hedges and rose bushes.”
“The folly is being rebuilt.” Georgina hadn’t even realized Masterson paid the least attention to what she did. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” She stood.
“A waste, in my estimation.” Harold’s dark eyes assessed her, dripping with disdain. “I’d sooner have it torn down rather than incur further costs.”
Georgina wanted to smartly remind Harold of how little his opinion mattered because he didn’t own Beechwood Court. Neither did she. Or Masterson.
At least, Georgina didn’t think he did any longer.
The horses Masterson had used as collateral for the line of credit at Elysium still sat in the stable. The enormous stack of markers sitting in Leo’s safe hadn’t been called due. No solicitor had yet come to the door demanding the deeds to Beechwood Court or the hunting lodge in Scotland.
Merely a reprieve, she supposed. Georgina expected someone representing Leo to come pound at the door any day now.
A soft flutter occurred above her heart at the thought of Leo. She pressed a palm to her chest to stop the sensation.
“Don’t you care, Uncle,” Harold sneered, “that she spends our fortune so lavishly?”
“Ourfortune? I’m not in the grave yet, Harold. Best you remember that.”
Georgina shut the drawing room door before hearing Harold’s whining response. The animosity between Masterson and his nephew was no great secret. Harold and Clarissa’s weekly visits were torturous, made only so that Harold could inspect his uncle’s health and the house that would one day be his. He showed little interest in Masterson’s ancestral estate, probably because it was too far away from the London social whirl.
Harold’s ambitions were very transparent.
As was his dislike for Georgina. If Masterson was aware of the thinly veiled insults and disrespect his nephew threw at her, he gave little indication. Harold delighted in deriding Georgina for what he considered flagrant spending. Her trips to Elysium, Harold claimed, would put them all in the poorhouse.
Well, he needn’t worry about my trips to Elysium any longer.Georgina had been studiously avoiding the gambling hell.
The worst part of Harold’s visits was the blatant way his coal-black eyes studied Georgina’s mid-section, obsessively searching for any sign she might be with child. He lived in fear of his uncle producing an heir, though he needn’t have bothered.
Georgina made her way downstairs accompanied by Anderson. Masterson’s butler was discreet, as any of Masterson’s staff had to be given his proclivities. Anderson had served her husband for years and seemed a decent sort, though he’d politely rebuffed any friendly attempts by Georgina to know him better. Overfamiliarity with the staff was frowned upon.
Anderson led her past the foyer to the kitchen door, where a young boy stood with a note in his hand. He shifted on his feet, eyeing a plate of biscuits sitting just out of reach. Georgina instructed one of the kitchen maids to feed the boy and bring him some milk as she took the note.
As she expected, it was merely a note from the newly hired head gardener at Beechwood Court. Why then, was she filled with such disappointment?
“Please wait,” she said to the boy. “I’ll write out a reply.”
The boy nodded, already stuffing his mouth full of biscuits.
Leo was not going to send her a note. Nor flowers. Or an invitation for a carriage ride. Besides such behavior being improper for a married woman, even one wed to Masterson, the very idea was absurd. The greatest lengths Leo would ever go to for her was teaching her how to play cards or bedding her on a blood-red settee in his office. After all the time they’d spent in each other’s company, Georgina thought she had at least merited a damned bed.
