by Julia Quinn
“Influenza is highly contagious, and we don’t understand how it spreads. It is simply not safe, especially for you.”
“For me?” Georgie’s eyes widened, possibly from surprise, possibly from irritation. He could not tell for sure.
“It is a disease of the lungs,” he told her. “You may not have had a breathing episode for several years, but you are almost certainly more susceptible than most to this sort of illness.”
“Mr. Rokesby is right,” Marian said emphatically. “Your mother would flay us alive if we took you to a house with such disease.”
Georgie turned to Marian with a sharper expression than Nicholas was used to seeing on her face. “My mother,” she said, “is no longer responsible for my welfare.”
“No, but I am,” Nicholas said, eager to be done with the discussion. “And we’re not going to London.”
He would not put Georgie—or any of the others—at risk.
It was odd. It had not been until Jameson had breathlessly informed him of the outbreak in London that Nicholas had felt the full weight of his new obligations. It wasn’t just Georgie he was responsible for now. He was a man with a household.
“We need to help them,” Georgie said. Then as if something had shifted inside her, her voice filled with emotion. “We need to help them, tend to them, and . . . and you’re a doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor yet,” he reminded her.
“But surely you would know what to do.”
“I know enough to know there is nothing I can do.”
She gasped.
“No, no, I don’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. Good God, he had sounded fatalistic.
She made a questioning motion with her hands.
“Based on Jameson’s report,” he told her, “there is nothing I can do for them that is not already being done. A doctor has been called for, and the ill have all been given willow bark and bone broth.”
“Willow bark?”
“It seems to help with fevers.”
Her brow dipped into a vee. “That’s so interesting. I wonder what the reason . . .”
He waited for her to finish her thought, but she just shook her head. “Never mind.” She blinked, then looked up, her eyes suddenly bright and clear. “What now?”
“We press on,” he said. “And find a place to spend the night.”
“Will that be a problem?”
Nicholas let out a sigh. His father had sent a man ahead to reserve space at coaching inns along the route, but obviously no arrangements had been made for the first stop.
“We shall take our chances like everyone else on the road,” he said. “I’ve gone back and forth to Edinburgh several times, and I’ve never had difficulty securing a room before.”
Of course he’d never traveled with a wife, thirteen servants, and three cats.
Meow.
It was a delicate sound, quite unlike the howling they’d endured all afternoon. He looked at Georgie, his brows raised in question.
She shook her head. “That wasn’t Cat-Head.”
He sighed. “Of course it wasn’t.”
But she didn’t hear. She was already hurrying back to the carriage, tending to the one she called Blanche.
Which was almost as ridiculous a name as Cat-Head, given that Blanche was almost completely black.
“Did anyone find the other baskets?” Nicholas asked as he followed Georgie to the carriage.
“I don’t think anyone looked,” Marian said, scurrying along after him. “Do you want us to?”
“No, best to be on our way. We’ll find them for the journey tomorrow.”
Marian nodded, but when he stepped aside to allow her to enter the carriage before him, she said, “If you don’t mind, sir, I thought I might ride in the second carriage.”
Georgie, who had already alighted, poked her head out. “Are you sure? It’s smaller than this one, and you’ll be three across on the seat.”
“We will be just fine,” Nicholas said, putting an end to the discussion. Frankly, he’d been surprised when Marian had entered the lead carriage at their departure. Surely as newlyweds, they could expect to have the space to themselves.
Meow.
He sighed. Along with the cats.
At least the he-devil was quiet. Although the true test would come when the wheels began to—
GRAOWWW!
“I’m sorry,” Georgie said.
Nicholas attempted a smile. “Nothing to be done.”
She smiled in return, an expression that was one-part apologetic, one-part grateful, and one-part ready to tear her hair out.
GRAOWWW!
He fixed the cat with an icy stare. “You have no interest in romance, do you?” he muttered.
“What did you say?” Georgie asked, startled.
GRAOWWW!
He shook his head. Funny how it hadn’t been until they were packing up the carriages and it became clear that Georgie was bringing her pets that he remembered that he didn’t much actually like cats. His sister had had cats. They had been the most spoiled creatures on the planet, and they left fur everywhere.
GRAOWWW!
And some of them, apparently, liked to complain.
“Sorry,” Georgie muttered. She picked up a shawl, and then—
His eyes widened. “Are you swaddling that cat like a baby?”
“I think it’s helping.”
GRAOWWW!
Well, it wasn’t hurting, at least.
“There, there, Cat-Head,” Georgie said. “We haven’t much farther to go.” She looked up at Nicholas. “Do we?”
He shrugged. He wasn’t sure where they were going to spend the night. He’d instructed the driver to stop at the next reputable coaching inn, but if there wasn’t room, they’d have to keep going.
Grrrrraow.
“I think he’s falling asleep,” Georgie whispered.
“Praise the Lord.”
Georgie sighed. “Indeed.”
By the time they finally stopped for the evening, Georgie was exhausted. She’d got Cat-Head to sleep, but then she’d had to hold him like a baby the rest of the trip. She’d tried to set him down once, careful to keep the swaddling tight and firm, but the minute he touched the bench, his eyes popped open and his howling began anew.
“No, no, Cat-Head,” she murmured, desperately trying to settle him back down.
She then tried to keep her hold on him while at the same time setting him down on the bench. She felt ridiculous, all bent at the waist as she leaned over him, but if she could get him to fall back asleep in such a position, maybe he’d stay that way when she pulled her arms away.
“Pick him up,” Nicholas had begged.
“He doesn’t know the difference.”
“He knows!”
“How can he know? I have my arms around—”
“He knows!”
She picked him up. He quieted instantly.
He knew.
Damn cat.
So she held him. The whole trip.
She held him when they stopped at the first inn, only to be told there were no vacant rooms.
She held him when they stopped at the second inn, where she waited while Nicholas and the drivers conferred for at least ten minutes, only to decide that they did not like the look of the other travelers.
Georgie was not exactly sure what that meant, but as they all had experience traveling the Great North Road and she did not, she decided to take their word for it.
It was late, though, much later than they would have normally chosen to retire for the evening, and she sensed that everyone was eager to put an end to the day’s journey when they came to a stop in front of the third inn. Unfortunately, it proved only marginally more fruitful than the other two.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Nicholas said when he opened the carriage door.
Georgie had been waiting in the coach, Cat-Head still swaddled in her arms. “Please don’t tell me they are full.”
�
��They’re not, but they’ve only one room available. I’m afraid you shall have to share with the maids.”
“All five of us? Will we fit?”
“The innkeeper says he can send up extra bedding.”
“But what about you?”
“I shall sleep in the stables, along with the rest of the men.”
“But it’s our—”
Wedding Night.
The words hung unspoken.
“We shall make do,” Georgie said firmly. Maybe it was for the best. Did she really wish to spend her wedding night in a coaching inn called The Brazen Bull?
“We could keep going,” Nicholas said, “but it sounds like the other nearby inns are also full, and—”
“It’s fine, Nicholas.”
“The horses are spent,” he said, “and I suspect we’re all exhausted.”
“Nicholas,” she said again. “We will be fine. I promise.”
He stopped talking finally, and just blinked up at her. “Thank you,” he said.
“There is nothing to thank me for.”
“You could be very ill-tempered about it all.”
“I could.” She smiled. “I still can.” She held up Cat-Head. “Want a cat?”
“God, no.” He held out his hand. “Let me help you down. We should make some haste. It’s late, but I’m told we can still get supper. I’ve made arrangements for a private dining room.”
The cats were handed off to the maids, the footmen saw to the luggage, and Georgie and Nicholas made their way across the courtyard.
The inn was at a busy crossroads, and after so long in the carriage, Georgie was unprepared for the sheer volume of humanity sharing the scene. Nicholas, however, seemed perfectly at ease. He strode forward with purpose, threading between strangers as he made his way to the front steps of the old Tudor building that now housed The Brazen Bull Inn. Georgie was thankful for him, or to put a finer point on it, for the crook in his elbow in which her hand was tightly tucked. She could have done without his legs being quite so long; she had to scurry like a mouse just to keep up.
But then he stopped suddenly a few feet from the entrance—Georgie had no idea why; she hadn’t been paying attention—and she smashed right into him. Her arms flew around his midsection as she tried to keep hold of her balance. It was muddy, and the ground was hard—a fall would have been messy, embarrassing, and probably painful.
It was over in an instant, but the moment lengthened the way a blink can last forever. She felt her fingers spread against his firm belly as she regained her balance, instinctively pulling herself against him for stability. She felt her cheek press against his soft wool coat. She felt her breath catch.
“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked, and she felt him start to twist in her arms.
“I’m fine, I—” She stopped, realizing that she was hugging him. Her face was pressed into his strong back, cradled in a curve she hadn’t even known was there.
“I’m fine,” she said again, reluctantly loosening her grip. He finished turning, and they were face-to-face. How were his eyes so luminously blue, even now when the night air stole the color from the sky?
Was it just because she knew what he looked like? She’d grown up around the Rokesbys; they all possessed those marvelous azure eyes.
But this felt different. She felt different.
“Are you sure?” he asked. And she realized his hand had covered hers. It felt . . .
Intimate.
She looked down at their hands, then back up at his face. She had known him forever, but suddenly the whole world was strange and new. He was holding her hand, and she was suddenly full of emotion and confusion and something she couldn’t quite define.
“Georgie?” he said softly. “Are you all right?”
She smoothed out her breathing, and said, “Yes.”
Then the moment was over.
But something inside her had changed.
It turned out that The Brazen Bull’s private dining room was private only insofar as it was separated from the main dining room by a wall with a doorway in it.
But just a doorway. If a door had once resided there, it was long gone, and while the inn’s other patrons respected the boundary with their bodies, the same could not be said for their words and conversation, which poured loud and bawdy through the air.
It made conversation a challenge, and Nicholas almost wished they’d pressed for their meal to be had up in the room with the maids, but then he remembered that the maids had the cats, and at least one of those cats was probably howling, and frankly, he wanted nothing to do with it.
Uncharitable of him, perhaps, but it was the truth. Even the raucous singing wafting in through the doorway wasn’t bothering him. Not that it normally would, but Georgiana was a lady and if he was hearing correctly, someone was extolling—in rhyming couplets, no less—the tongue-related talents of an unnamed, yet highly industrious, female.
He should get up and say something. But he was damned hungry, and the beef stew was surprisingly good.
Oh my sweet Martine, something, something quite unclean.
Nicholas grinned in spite of himself. Martine. She was probably French.
And hopefully imaginary, poor woman, if the lyrics were anything to go by.
He stole a glance at Georgie, hoping she wasn’t too bothered by the coarse language. She had her back to the doorway, so at least she couldn’t see the men dancing along in their clumsy jigs.
Georgie’s brow was fixed into a frown. Nothing distressing, just that faraway look people got when their mind was somewhere else.
Nicholas cleared his throat.
She seemed not to hear him.
Nicholas reached forward and waved his hand in front of her eyes. “Georgiana,” he said, his voice a little bit singsong. “Georgiana Bridgerton.”
Rokesby, he realized with a start. Georgiana Rokesby.
He didn’t think she noticed his mistake; instead, she seemed to be embarrassed that he’d caught her woolgathering.
She blushed. Blushed! And she looked . . . beautiful.
“Pardon,” she murmured, looking down. “I was thinking on a dozen different things. This noise makes it hard to concentrate.”
“Yes,” he said, but what he was really thinking was that looking at her made it hard to concentrate. She was pretty, of course, she’d always been pretty with her strawberry blond hair and intelligent blue eyes. She was his wife now, he thought, and when he looked at her, it felt different.
And strangely, he wasn’t so sure it was only because they were married. He had the oddest feeling that even if they had not stood before the priest that morning and said their vows, he would see something new every time his gaze touched her face.
She had become a discovery, and he had always had an endlessly curious mind.
She took a sip of her wine, then dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. Her eyes flicked over her shoulder at a particularly loud burst of laughter from the men in the other room.
“Are coaching inns always so noisy?” she asked.
“Not always,” he replied. “But I find this quite soothing after the cat.”
She let out a little snort of laughter. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was not well done of me.”
“Who do you fear offending? The cat?”
“He tried his best,” she said.
“He is a demon.”
“Don’t say that! He just doesn’t like to travel.”
“Neither do I,” Nicholas said. “He’s ruined it for me.”
She gave him a look, lips pressed together and eyes both narrowed and thoroughly amused. “He will grow on you,” she said primly.
“If I don’t kill him first.”
“Nicholas!”
“Don’t worry,” he said with purposeful blitheness. “It’s not me you need to fear. The maids will surely crack first.”
“Cat-Head is a very brave kitty.”
At this he could only raise his bro
ws.
“He was the one who attacked Freddie in the tree.”
“That was that one?”
“He was brilliant,” Georgie said, eyes flashing with the memory. “You would have loved it.”
“After having seen what he did to Oakes’s face, I’m inclined to agree.”
“First he did this”—Georgie made a motion with her arms that did a surprisingly good job of demonstrating a cat jumping out of a window—“then he did this”—her arms rose past her face in a clawed vee—“and then he did this.”
Nicholas could not make out this last motion. “What is that?”
Her face split in a gleeful grin. “He wrapped himself over Freddie’s face. Honestly, I don’t know how Freddie could breathe.”
Nicholas started to laugh.
“I would draw it for you if I had any talent. It was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Or rather, it is now. At the time I was too terrified Freddie would fall from the tree. But oh my goodness, if you had seen it for yourself . . . He was shrieking, ‘Get it off! Get it off!’ and he was clawing at Cat-Head . . .”
“Clawing,” Nicholas gasped, because that was somehow the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
And then his laughter set her off, as laughter often did, and the two of them completely lost the battle for dignity. They laughed and laughed, until Georgie had to set her head on the table and Nicholas feared he’d strained a muscle.
“Well,” Nicholas said, once he’d mostly recovered and Georgie had returned her attention to her meal. “I suppose I owe him a debt of gratitude. But you must admit, Cat-Head is a stupid name for a cat.”
He watched Georgie pause, spoon lifted midway to her mouth.
“What?” he said. Because honestly, she had the oddest expression on her face.
She set her jaw and lowered her spoon. “Oh?” she said with calculated pacing. “A stupid name, is it? And I wonder whose fault that is.”
Nicholas paused. This was clearly a question to which he was supposed to know the answer. “Edmund?” he guessed, because Edmund was usually responsible for such things.
“You, Nicholas. You named my cat Cat-Head.”
“I named a cat Cat-Head.” It came out more of a statement than a question.
“You named my cat Cat-Head.”
