by Julia Quinn
Her mother was right. She couldn’t molder in her room forever. She probably was justified in taking a few more weeks of feeling sorry for herself, but after that she would have to move on.
“Georgie, darling,” Billie said when Georgie reached her side. “How are you holding up?”
Georgie shrugged. “Eh.”
“Is Mama driving you mad?”
“Just a little bit.”
Billie sighed. She’d visited several times since the scandal had broken, often just to distract their mother so that she would not smother Georgie with her concern. “She means well.”
“I know. That’s what makes it bearable. And occasionally even nice.”
Billie took her hand and squeezed it. “Have you heard anything from Mr. Oakes?”
“No,” Georgie said with some alarm. “Why, have you heard something?”
“Not really. Just little rumblings that he might still be trying to press his suit.”
“That’s not new news.” Georgie’s mouth flattened into a grim line. She’d received a letter from Freddie Oakes the day after she’d returned home to Kent. It had been full of drippings and drivel, and she could hear his smarmy voice in his words of undying love and devotion. The way he told it, he’d been overcome with the need to make her his.
Rubbish. All of it. If he’d wanted to make her his, he should have bloody well asked.
“We shall do our best to distract you this evening,” Billie said. “There is nothing like the banded multitudes of Rokesbys and Bridgertons to make one laugh.” She considered that. “Or cry. But tonight, I think laugh.”
“Speaking of multitudes, do you know why Nicholas is home?”
Billie shook her head. “I saw him only briefly. He looked rather grim.”
“Oh, dear. I hope nothing is wrong.”
“If that’s the case, I’m sure he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
“How unlike you to be so patient.”
“It can’t be anything too serious,” Billie said. “I can’t imagine there is trouble at school—he’s always been so clever. But why else would he be down?”
Georgie shrugged. She hadn’t seen Nicholas very often in the last few years. But given that a family was indeed a group of people who loved and cared about each other (and were therefore logically interested in comings and goings), she generally knew what he was up to.
“I think they’ve arrived,” Billie said, looking over her shoulder toward the door that led out to the hall.
“The Earl and Countess of Manston,” Thamesly announced, as if they didn’t all know who was expected, “and Mr. Nicholas Rokesby.”
This bit of formality was followed by Edmund’s more jovial greeting. “Rokes!” he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing in Kent?”
Nicholas laughed and made the sort of noise that revealed nothing. Georgie thought it remarkable that this seemed to satisfy Edmund, but the two men began to chat as if nothing was amiss.
“Did you see that?” she asked her sister.
“See what?”
“He just completely avoided the question, and Edmund didn’t even notice.”
“Oh, he noticed,” Billie said. “He’s just pretending not to.”
“Why?”
Billie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t care.”
“Of course he cares. Nicholas is his closest friend.”
“Then he’ll ask him later. Really, Georgie, why are you so curious?”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Probably because I know I’ll find out soon enough. It’s not as if someone has died.”
“Of course not,” Georgie murmured, because what else could she say? Sometimes she truly did not understand her sister.
“I’m getting a glass of sherry,” Billie said. “Can I get you one?”
“No, thank you. I’m going to say hello to Nicholas.”
Billie gave her a look. “Don’t interrogate him.”
“I won’t!”
But Billie clearly didn’t believe her. She pressed her lips together and wagged her finger as she departed. It was rather like getting scolded for something one hadn’t yet done. Georgie scowled in return—since there was nothing like an older sister to bring out one’s inherent immaturity—and of course that was when she found herself face-to-face with—
“Nicholas!” she exclaimed.
Although really, exclaimed might be too optimistic a verb. The sound that came out of her mouth did not sound fully human.
“Georgiana,” he said, giving her a polite bow. But the look he gave her was somewhat wary.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “You surprised me.”
“My apologies. I did not mean to.”
“No, of course not. Why would you?”
He did not have an answer to that. And, to quote herself, why would he? It was a stupid question.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Let us begin again. It is lovely to see you.”
“And you.”
If this wasn’t the most awkward conversation they had ever shared, she didn’t know what was. Georgie did not know what to make of it. She would never have called Nicholas Rokesby a confidante, but he was certainly a friend, and she’d never had difficulty chatting with him before.
“You look well,” he said.
He looked tired. Exceedingly so. His eyes were the same blue shared by all of his brothers, but the purple shadows beneath seemed to be draining them of their usual sparkle.
But she couldn’t very well say this to him after not having seen him for nearly a year, so instead she thanked him politely for the compliment. “Er, thank you. It’s been a . . .” Oh, for heaven’s sake, he had to have heard what had happened to her. “It’s been an eventful few weeks,” she finally said.
“Yes, I, er . . .” He cleared his throat. “I imagine so.”
There was another awkward pause, and then another, which made her wonder if two awkward pauses in a row was really just one long awkward pause.
But what if one broke them up with a nonverbal motion such as shuffling one’s feet? Did that ensure they were two separate pauses? Because she had definitely shuffled her feet.
She was doing it again, as a matter of fact.
Aaaaand now it was officially the longest pause in the history of long pauses.
“Ehrm . . .”
“Ahh . . .”
“Do you like Scotland?” she blurted out.
“I do.” He looked relieved that she’d asked such a benign question. “It can be quite cold, of course, although not so much this time of year.”
“It is far to the north.”
“Yes.”
She waited for him to ask her a question, because surely she could not be expected to take care of all the boring questions, but he just stood there with a queasy expression on his face, and every so often he’d dart a glance over at his parents.
That was odd.
Lord and Lady Manston were talking with her parents, which was not odd. Except that half the time she could swear Lord Manston was sneaking glances in their direction. And when he wasn’t, Lady Manston was.
Honestly, the entire exchange was downright bizarre.
She decided to make one last attempt at polite conversation and gave Nicholas her best sunny smile. “Did I hear that you arrived only this morning?”
“Indeed.”
“We are very lucky you decided to come to dinner, then.”
His brows rose, just a tiny bit.
Georgie dropped her voice to something closer to a murmur. “Or would it be correct to assume that you had no choice?”
“None whatsoever.” He quirked a wry smile, and Georgie had a feeling it was his first authentic expression of the evening.
“I sympathize utterly,” she replied. “I begged Mama to let me have toasted cheese with Anthony and Benedict in the nursery.”
“Are they getting toasted cheese?” He sounded undeniably jealous.
“They
always get toasted cheese,” Georgie replied. “Why don’t we ever get it, that’s what I’d like to know. Because you know it’s what we all really want.”
He scratched his jaw. “I am quite fond of your cook’s famous rack of lamb . . .”
She leaned in. “But it would be better with a side of toasted cheese.”
He smiled. There, that was better, Georgie decided. Maybe she’d imagined the odd way he’d been looking at her.
Toasted cheese fixed everything. She’d been saying it for years.
Chapter 5
As it turned out, toasted cheese did not fix everything.
Georgie knew this now because her mother, in a rare display of whimsy over decorum, had requested that it be served alongside the soup, and now everyone was happily munching away, commenting on what a lovely, comforting surprise this was, and why didn’t they always have toasted cheese with dinner?
It should have been delightful.
It would have been delightful, except . . .
Georgie stole a glance to her right.
He was looking at her again.
Georgie wasn’t sure what was more aggravating—that Nicholas Rokesby kept looking at her with a strange expression or that she kept noticing that he was looking at her with a strange expression.
Because this was Nicholas.
Rokesby.
If ever existed a gentleman who should not make her feel awkward and out of place, it was he.
But he kept stealing sidelong glances, and while Georgie’s experience with gentlemen was limited, she could tell these weren’t admiring sorts of sidelong glances.
Freddie Oakes had given her plenty of those. Insincere ones, but still.
But Nicholas . . . He was looking at her differently. Almost like he was assessing her.
Inspecting her.
It was disconcerting in the extreme.
“Are you enjoying the soup?” she blurted out.
“What?”
“The soup,” she said. She tried to sound sweet and accommodating, but from the look on his face, she’d clearly failed. “How is it?”
“Er . . .” He looked down at his bowl with a perplexed expression. Georgie supposed she couldn’t blame him considering her query had come out more like a barked command than anything else.
“It’s delicious,” he finally said. “Are . . . you enjoying it?”
His voice rose more than was normal on the final word, as if the question itself was a question.
Georgie could only imagine what he was thinking. Should he talk to her? Had she gone a little bit feral?
She wondered what he’d do if she bared her teeth.
Had he been told of her downfall? He must have been; she could not imagine that his parents would have not told him. And Lord and Lady Manston had to know; she couldn’t imagine that her parents wouldn’t have told them.
So he knew. He had to. And he was judging her.
Was this what her life had come to? Being judged by Nicholas Rokesby?
Goddamn this made her angry.
“Georgie, are you all right?”
She looked up. Violet was staring at her from across the table with a vaguely alarmed expression.
“I’m fine,” Georgie said in a clipped voice. “Splendid.”
“Well, we know that’s not true,” Edmund said.
Violet elbowed him. Hard.
“What?” Edmund grunted. “She’s my sister.”
“Which means you should be more careful of her feelings,” Violet hissed.
“I’m fine,” Georgie ground out.
“Splendid,” Lord Bridgerton said, having obviously missed the first half of the conversation. He turned to his wife. “The soup is delicious, darling.”
“Isn’t it?” Lady Bridgerton gushed. “Cook tells me it’s a new recipe.”
“It’s the toasted cheese,” Edmund said, still chewing. “It makes the soup taste better.”
“Whatever you do, don’t say that to Cook,” his mother replied. “And the toasted cheese was Georgie’s idea.”
“Well done,” Edmund said with a wink.
“If you must know, I wanted it in the nursery with your children,” she said to him.
“And who could blame you, delightful little terrors that they are.”
“Stop,” Violet said. “They’re perfect.”
“She forgets so quickly,” Edmund murmured.
“They take after you,” Lord Bridgerton said to his son. “It’s no more than you deserve.”
“To have a child just like me? I know, you’ve been saying as much for years.”
“They are delightfully perfect little terrors,” Violet said.
While that conversation spiraled into something both adorable and nauseating, Georgiana turned back to Nicholas. For once he wasn’t staring at her, or pretending not to be staring at her. But he did look, well . . . odd.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Because maybe this wasn’t about her. Maybe he was ill.
He winced. Or not a wince, because he didn’t actually make a sound. But he did one of those things where the corners of his mouth twitched to the side without actually forming a smile. “I’m fine,” he said. “It was a long journey.”
“Of course.”
She said it politely, but she knew he was lying. Not about being tired. That was clearly the truth. But whatever it was that had him acting so strangely, it wasn’t a lack of sleep.
Frankly, she was starting to find this entire dinner tedious. If she could slap a happy expression on her face and keep up her end of the conversation, why couldn’t he? The only thing that had changed since the last time they’d seen each other was her social ruin.
Surely he did not condemn her for that?
Not Nicholas.
It was as if the entire world had been set to a ten-degree slant, and he was the only person to notice.
At first glance, everything seemed normal. Everything was normal. Nicholas knew that.
But it didn’t feel right.
Seated around the table were the people Nicholas knew best in the world, the people with whom he had always felt the most at ease. His parents, his older brother George and his wife Billie, Edmund and Violet, Lord and Lady Bridgerton, even Georgiana.
And yet he could not tamp down the sensation that everything was wrong. Or if not wrong, then at least a little bit not right.
A little bit not right.
Coming from a man of science, it was the most ridiculous statement imaginable.
But there it was. Everything was off. And he did not know how to fix it.
All around him the Rokesbys and Bridgertons were acting with complete normality. Georgiana was seated to his left, which was perfectly normal; he couldn’t begin to count the number of times he’d sat next to Georgiana Bridgerton at a dining table. But every time he looked at her—
Which was to say far more often than he normally looked at her.
Which was also to say that every glance was abnormally quick because he was painfully aware that he was looking at her far too often.
Which was to say bloody hell, he felt awkward.
“Nicholas?”
He couldn’t stop thinking that—
“Nicholas?”
He blinked. Georgie was talking to him. “Sorry,” he grunted.
“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” she asked. “You look—”
Strange?
Mad?
Strangely mad?
“Have you slept?” she asked.
Madly strange it was, then.
“You must be terribly tired,” she said, and he could not help but wonder what was in his eyes to make her say that, since he had not managed to respond to either of her queries.
She cocked her head to the side, but he noticed that her eyes took on a different expression. She was no longer looking at him in that oddly penetrative manner, thank God.
“How long does it take to travel to Kent from Edinburgh?” she asked.
>
“It depends on how you do it,” he told her, grateful for a fact-based question. “Ten days this time, but I took the mail coach from Edinburgh to London.”
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“It is.”
It was. But not as uncomfortable as he was right now, conversing with the lady he had a feeling he was going to end up marrying, despite his very great number of reservations.
“I was surprised to hear you would be joining us this evening,” she said. “Actually, I am surprised you are here at all. Weren’t you meant to come down next month?”
“Yes, but”—Nicholas felt his cheeks grow warm—“Father had some business to attend to.”
She stared at him with an open, curious expression.
“That he needed me for,” he added.
“Of course,” she murmured. But she didn’t look the least bit put off by his words. If she was blushing, it was with such delicacy that he could not detect it in the candlelight.
It occurred to Nicholas that he’d forgotten to ask his father one very crucial question: Had anyone told Georgiana that he’d been summoned from Scotland to marry her?
“I hope whatever he called you down for was worth it,” she said breezily. “If I were studying something as interesting as medicine I wouldn’t wish to be disrupted for an annoying family triviality.”
No, then. She didn’t know.
“What do you like best about it?” Georgie asked, dipping her spoon into her much-discussed soup. “Studying medicine, I mean. I think it sounds fascinating.”
“It is.” He thought for a moment about how to answer her question. “There is always something new. It is never the same thing.”
Her eyes lit with interest. “I watched Anthony get a wound stitched last month. It was splendidly gruesome.”
“Is it healing well? No infection?”
“I believe so,” she replied. “I saw him before dinner and he seemed perfectly healthy to me. Violet would surely have said something if there had been a complication.”
“I would be happy to take a look at it after dinner.”
“He’ll be asleep, I’m sure. Violet insists upon an early bedtime.”
“Tomorrow, then.” It was good to talk about medicine, to remind himself that there existed an area of his life where people looked up to him. Where he could say something and have it assumed that he knew what he was talking about.
