First Comes Scandal

by Julia Quinn

  That’s how it had always been with Georgie—well, except for the night before. And even that had turned out fine in the end.

  There were worse fates than marrying one’s friend.

  He propped himself into a more upright position, pushing slightly past her to peer into the hamper. “I’d love some jam. Whatever the flavor.”

  “Bread?” she asked.

  “We’re not savages.”

  She raised a brow. “Speak for yourself.”

  “You eat jam straight from the jar?”

  “You don’t?”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “Raspberry or strawberry?”

  She threw a chunk of cheese at him.

  He laughed and popped it in his mouth. “Fine, yes, I admit it. I’ve eaten jam straight from the jar. But I used a spoon.”

  “So proper, you are. Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never drunk whiskey straight from a bottle.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Oh, there’s no way,” she scoffed. “I’ve seen you and Edmund after a night out at the tavern.”

  “Where we drank from mugs and glasses,” he said pointedly. “Gad, Georgie, do you know what an entire bottle of whiskey would do to a man?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never had whiskey.”

  “How can that be?” he asked. It would be highly unusual for a well-bred lady such as Georgiana to drink whiskey on a regular basis, but surely somewhere along the way she’d had a sip.

  Georgie started spreading jam on a slice of bread. “Well, I don’t live in Scotland, for one thing.”

  “I suppose that would make it difficult. Your father doesn’t drink it?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I’m aware.”

  Nicholas shrugged. Whiskey was so ubiquitous in Edinburgh he’d forgotten that people didn’t drink much of it in England, especially this far south.

  Georgie handed him a slice of bread and got to work preparing one for herself. “Here you go.”

  “Aunt Georgie!”

  They both looked up. Anthony was sidling over, one hand behind his back.

  “Aunt Georgie, do you like worms?”

  “I adore them!” She looked over at Nicholas. “I hate them.” And then back at the boys: “The more the better!”

  Anthony conferred with his younger brother. They both looked disappointed.

  “Clever girl,” Nicholas said.

  “At least more clever than a seven-year-old.”

  They watched as the two boys surreptitiously dropped a few worms on the ground. “Lofty goals,” Nicholas murmured.

  She munched her bread and jam. “You do know how to flatter a lady.”

  “Right,” he said, clearing his throat. It seemed as good an opening as any. “Speaking of which . . .”

  She gave him an amused glance. “Speaking of flattering me?”

  “No.” Good God. This was not going well and he hadn’t even started.

  Her eyes turned to mischief. “So you don’t want to flatter me.”

  “No. Georgie . . .”

  “My apologies. I couldn’t resist.” She set her bread carefully down on a napkin. “What was it you needed?”

  What was it he needed? He needed to go back to Edinburgh and resume his life. But instead he was here, about to propose a marriage of—he assumed—convenience.

  Not his convenience.

  Not hers, either. Not really. Nothing about her life had been convenient lately.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I wanted to talk to you, actually. It’s why I came out here this morning.”

  “Not for the worms?” she asked cheekily.

  This, more than anything, cemented his belief that she had no idea what was afoot.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Tea?”

  “What?”

  She picked up a flask he had not noticed. “Would you like some tea? It’s cold by now, but it will take care of your throat.”

  “No. Thank you. It’s not that.”

  She shrugged and took a sip. “I swear by it.”

  “Right. Georgie. I really do need to ask you something.”

  She blinked, regarding him with an expectant expression.

  “When I came down from Edinburgh it was, as I told you, because my father wished to consult with me about something. But—”

  “Oh, sorry, hold on one moment,” she said before turning toward the lake and yelling, “Anthony, stop that this minute!”

  Anthony, who was sitting rather cheerfully on his brother’s head, said, “Do I have to?”

  “Yes!” Georgie looked for a moment as if she might get up to enforce her will, but Anthony finally rolled off his brother and went back to poking holes in the dirt with a stick.

  Georgie rolled her eyes before returning her attention to Nicholas. “Sorry. You were saying . . .”

  “I have no bloody idea,” he muttered.

  Her expression was somewhere between perplexed and amused.

  “No,” he said. “That’s not true. I do know what I meant to say.”

  But he didn’t say it.

  “Nicholas?”

  In the end, he blurted it out, just like he’d told himself not to do.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Chapter 7

  “I’m sorry,” Georgiana said slowly. “I thought you just asked me to marry you.”

  Nicholas’s mouth moved in an odd manner, as if he didn’t quite understand what she’d said. “I did.”

  She blinked. “That’s not funny, Nicholas.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be funny. It was meant to be a proposal of marriage.”

  She stared at him. He didn’t look as if he’d been struck by a temporary bout of insanity. “But why?”

  Now he was looking at her as if she had been the one struck by a temporary bout of insanity. “Why do you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Most of the time marriage is proposed because two human beings have fallen in love with one another, but since we both know that isn’t true . . .”

  Nicholas let out an impatient snort. “First of all, you know damn well that most of the time the two human beings are not in love, and—”

  “This human being would like to be,” she snapped.

  “So would this human being,” he snapped right back, “but alas, we don’t always get what we want.”

  Georgie felt herself nod. It was all beginning to make sense. “So,” she said, “you’re asking out of pity.”

  “Friendship.”

  “Pity,” she corrected. Because that’s what it was. That’s all it could be. A man didn’t abandon his studies and travel for ten days just to make a kind gesture to a friend.

  He didn’t love her. They both knew that.

  And then she realized. “Oh my God,” she said with a horrified gasp. “This is why you came down from Scotland. It was because of me.”

  He did not meet her eyes.

  “How did you even know what had happened to me?” she asked. Had the gossip reached Scotland? How far would she need to travel to escape it? North America? Brazil?

  “My father,” Nicholas said.

  “Your father?” she choked out. “Your father told you? What, in a letter? The Earl of Manston has nothing better to put in a letter to his youngest son than the tale of my ruin?”

  “Georgie, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t even know the details until yesterday.”

  “So then what did he say?”

  But she knew. She knew before Nicholas could reply, and then it became clear that he wasn’t going to reply. Because he was embarrassed. And that made her furious because he had no right to feel embarrassed. He didn’t get to blush and look at his feet when he had rained such complete mortification down on her. If he was going to do this to her, then damn him he had to take it like a stoic and watch.

  She couldn’t stay still any longer. She jumped to her feet and began pacing back and forth, hugging her arms to her body. Tight . . . so tightly, as if s
he could hold her emotions inside with brute force.

  “Oh no oh no oh no oh no,” she said to herself. Was this what her life had come to? Men were being begged to marry her?

  Or bribed? Was Nicholas being bribed to ask for her hand? Had her dowry been doubled to sweeten the pot?

  Her parents—they had promised they wouldn’t force her to marry Freddie Oakes, but they’d also made it clear they didn’t want her to choose the life of a spinster.

  Had they asked Lord Manston to call Nicholas down from school? Did everyone know? Were they all plotting behind her back?

  “Georgie, stop.” Nicholas grasped her arm, but she shook him off, casting a quick glance toward the lake to make sure Anthony and Benedict weren’t watching.

  “It wasn’t even your idea, was it?” she whispered hotly. “Your father summoned you.”

  He looked away. The aggravating little weasel, he couldn’t even meet her eyes.

  “He asked you to ask me,” Georgie said with growing horror. Her hands covered her face. It had been bad enough that Freddie Oakes had tried to haul her off to Gretna Green, but this—this—

  It was the pity. That was what she could not bear.

  She had not done anything wrong.

  She should not be pitied. She should be admired. A man had kidnapped her. Kidnapped her! And she’d got away.

  Why wasn’t that something to celebrate?

  There should be parties in her honor. A gala parade. Look at the brave and intrepid Georgiana Bridgerton! She fought for her freedom and won!

  When men did that entire countries were created.

  “Georgie,” Nicholas said, and his voice was awful. Condescending and superior and all those things men were when they thought they were dealing with a hysterical female.

  “Georgie,” he said again, and she realized that actually his voice wasn’t any of those things. But she didn’t care. Nicholas Rokesby had known her his entire life. He didn’t want to marry her. He felt sorry for her.

  Then she nearly choked on her thoughts. Because she knew Lord Manston. He was her godfather, her own father’s closest friend. And she’d seen him with his sons often enough to know exactly how the conversation must have gone.

  He had not asked Nicholas to marry her.

  She forced herself to look at him. “Your father ordered you to marry me, didn’t he?”

  “No,” he said, but she could tell he was lying. He’d never been a good liar. She couldn’t imagine why his father thought he could fake his way through a proposal of marriage.

  Honestly, he was the worst.

  “He can’t order me to marry you,” Nicholas said somewhat stiffly. “I’m a grown man.”

  She scoffed. “Some grown man. Your father sent for you and you came trotting down like a good little boy.”

  “Stop it,” he snapped.

  “Don’t pretend any of this is your idea. You are doing nothing but your father’s bidding.”

  “I am doing you a favor!”

  Georgie gasped.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Nicholas said quickly.

  “Oh, I know how you meant it.”

  “Georgie—”

  “Consider this a refusal,” she said, each word a little snip of fury.

  “You’re saying no.” He didn’t ask it like a question. It was more of a statement of disbelief.

  “Of course I’m saying no. How can you possibly think I would accept such an offer?”

  “Because it would be the reasonable thing to do.”

  “Because it would be the reasonable thing to do,” she scoffed. “Were you laughing at me?”

  He grabbed her arm. “You know that we weren’t.”

  “I can’t believe this,” she ground out, yanking herself from his grasp. “Do you understand— No, you couldn’t possibly understand what it feels like to be so utterly without choices.”

  “You think not?”

  “Oh, you think this”—she waved her arm wildly—“this counts as having no choice? Being ordered to marry me? At least you get to feel good about yourself.”

  “I feel splendid right now, let me tell you.”

  “You get to call yourself a hero, saving poor little ruined Georgiana Bridgerton. Whereas I—I get to decide between the man who ruined me and a man who pities me.”

  “I don’t pity you.”

  “But you don’t love me.”

  He looked ready to tear his hair out. “Do you want me to?”

  “No!”

  “Then for the love of God, Georgie, what is the problem? I’m trying to help.”

  She crossed her arms. “I am not a charity. I don’t want to be your good works.”

  “Do you think I wanted to sacrifice my life for you?”

  Oh, that stung.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Nicholas said quickly.

  Her brows rose. “That’s the second time you’ve had to make that statement in the past few minutes.”

  He cursed under his breath, and she was shallow enough that she took pleasure in his discomfort.

  “I hereby release you from all obligation,” she said in her most annoyingly supercilious voice. “You asked. I said no. You have done your duty.”

  “It is not my duty,” he bit off. “It is my choice.”

  “Even better. That means you will respect my choice. To say no.”

  He took a breath. “You are not thinking clearly.”

  “I’m not thinking clearly?” God help a man who told a woman she was not thinking clearly. Freddie Oakes had said the same thing in the carriage heading north to Gretna Green. If Georgie heard it one more time, she wasn’t sure she could answer to the consequences.

  “Keep your voice down,” Nicholas hissed. He jerked his head toward Anthony and Benedict, who had halted their games and were now looking their way.

  “Did you find more worms?” Georgie called out. She had no idea how she managed to sound so cheerful. She didn’t sound so cheerful when she was cheerful.

  “No,” Anthony said, but he looked suspicious. “They’re not fun if they don’t bother anyone.”

  “Right, well, carry on then.” She smiled so broadly her cheeks hurt.

  “You’re going to injure yourself,” Nicholas muttered.

  “Shut up and smile so they stop looking at us.”

  “You look deranged.”

  “I feel deranged,” she practically hissed. “Which should worry you.”

  He held up his hands and took a step back, a motion so patronizing she nearly went for his throat.

  “Aunt Georgie, why do you look like you’re going to strike Uncle Nicholas?”

  Georgie froze, only then realizing she’d made a fist. “I’m not going to strike anyone,” she said to Benedict, who was regarding her with undisguised curiosity. “And he’s not your uncle.”

  “He’s not?” Benedict looked from Nicholas to Georgie and back again. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then turned back to Georgie, this time with a slightly suspicious expression. “Are you sure?”

  Georgie planted one of her hands on her chest. This had to be some sort of elaborate practical joke. Even Shakespeare could not have conceived of such a farce.

  “Papa says we should call him Uncle Nicholas,” Benedict said, his little nose wrinkling. “I know Mummy told us we’re to mind you this morning, but I can’t go against my father.”

  “Of course not,” Georgie said.

  Meanwhile, Nicholas was standing off to the side, doing a terrible job at hiding his amusement.

  “You must do as your father says,” she said to Benedict.

  He nodded. “I think Uncle Nicholas should be my uncle.”

  Georgie wanted to scream. Even the children were conspiring against her.

  “Uncle George is Uncle Nicholas’s brother,” Benedict explained, “so it only makes sense that he’s our uncle too.”

  “Uncle George is your uncle because he is married to Aunt Billie,” Georgie explained. “And Aunt B
illie is your aunt because she is your father’s older sister.”

  Benedict stared up at her with huge, unblinking eyes. “I know.”

  “A person isn’t your uncle just because his brother is.”

  Benedict considered this for about half a second. “But a person can be your uncle if his brother is.”

  “It’s like squares and rectangles,” Anthony interjected, with all the authority of an oldest child. “All squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares.”

  Benedict scratched his head. “What about circles?”

  “What about circles?” Anthony countered.

  Benedict looked up. “Aunt Georgie?”

  She shook her head. This, she could not handle right now. No one should have to deal with an unwanted marriage proposal and geometry in the same morning.

  “You don’t know anything about circles,” Anthony said.

  Benedict crossed his arms. “Yes, I do.”

  “If you did, you wouldn’t have asked about them, because they have nothing to do with—”

  “Boys, stop,” Georgie ordered. “Now.”

  “He does this all the time,” Benedict protested. “He thinks because he’s bigger than me—”

  “I am bigger than you.”

  “Not forever you’re not.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me!”

  “Stop!” Georgie yelled.

  “I hate you,” Benedict seethed.

  Anthony stuck out his tongue. “I hate you more.”

  “Boys, stop this at once,” Nicholas said sternly.

  God above, if they listened to Nicholas when they wouldn’t listen to her, Georgie was going to scream.

  “He started it!” Benedict whined.

  “I did not! You asked about circles!”

  “Because I wanted to know about them!”

  “Enough!” Nicholas put his hand on Benedict’s shoulder, but the little boy yanked himself away.

  And Georgie’s faith in the universe was restored. Nicholas wasn’t having any success at managing them, either.

  Benedict stamped his foot. “Anthony Bridgerton, I hate you the most.” And then he drew back his fist.

  Georgie leapt forward. “Do not hit your brother!”

  But Benedict had no intention of hitting his brother. Instead, his little hand swung through the air, releasing a heretofore unnoticed patty of pure lakefront mud.