Marry in Scarlet

by Anne Gracie

  “We are not betrothed!” George shouted.

  “Of course you are,” Aunt Agatha said.

  The duke pulled her against him. “She’s a little overwhelmed,” he told the crowd.

  “I am not overwh—”

  But Aunt Agatha and the duke were talking over her so she couldn’t get a word in. “Yes, you are, my dear.” He sounded cold and relentless.

  “Perfectly understandable,” Aunt Agatha said. “Excitement does that to some gels,” she told the crowd. “She doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.”

  “I do know,” George insisted “And I’m not betrothed!”

  “I’ll put the notice in the papers in the morning,” the duke said.

  George stared at him in stupefaction. “You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  “For heaven’s sake, shut your mouth, gel,” Aunt Agatha hissed in her ear. “Leave it for now. Discuss it with the duke later, in the privacy of your own home. Or do you have any more appalling indiscretions you wish the world to witness?”

  George rather thought they’d already witnessed quite enough but her aunt had a point. The crowd pressing avidly around them, eating up the gossip and no doubt adding to it, was unnerving. “Very well, talk tomorrow morning?” she said to the duke in a low voice. Though there was nothing to talk about, really. She was not going to marry him. The very idea was ridiculous.

  He was just being gallant—or something—because they’d been caught kissing.

  And how that had happened she had no idea.

  He nodded.

  Aunt Agatha gave a briskly approving nod. “Eleven o’clock, Ashendon House.” She turned to the crowd. “My niece and I shall depart now. Enjoy your supper and the rest of the concert. Devastated to miss it, Cicely, my dear. Your performance was superb. Wonderful hospitality as always. Mrs. Gastonbury, thank you. Come along, Dorothea. Collect my cloak please. We’re leaving.” Taking George’s arm in a steely grip, she led her toward the front door.

  George’s legs were still distinctly wobbly, and when Aunt Dottie slipped an arm though hers, she felt obscurely comforted. “Don’t worry, my love,” Aunt Dottie murmured. “I have one of my feelings about this. It will all work out for the best.”

  George managed a weak smile. Aunt Dottie’s “feelings” were legendary in the family. George didn’t believe in them herself, but it was nice to have some support.

  * * *

  * * *

  “I won’t marry him!” George said for the umpteenth time. They were traveling back to Ashendon House in the carriage. Aunt Agatha hadn’t stopped haranguing George since the carriage door closed. If it hadn’t been pouring with rain, George would have jumped from the moving carriage and stormed off.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, child. You have no choice. You were caught by half the ton with your skirts up around your waist, climbing the duke like a tree. If you didn’t want to be compromised, you should never have left my side in the first place.”

  “But—”

  “Do not argue with me, gel! If you hadn’t behaved like the veriest trollop—and at a ton event—you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  George bit her lip. That part was true enough. She didn’t understand herself how it had happened. One moment she’d been standing in the hallway, telling the duke to get out of her way, and the next . . .

  “But it’s too late for regrets. I’m only grateful that the duke behaved like the true gentleman he is and made you an offer—and in such a public manner that neither of you can wriggle out of it.” Aunt Agatha’s expression reeked of triumph.

  “I will wriggle out of it,” George insisted. “Besides, he didn’t make an offer, he made an announcement—and without my permission.”

  “You gave him permission when you climbed up his torso like a cat in heat, with your dress hitched—”

  “I refuse to marry a man I dislike because of one stupid incident.” The image painted by her great-aunt’s words was embarrassing in the extreme, but it didn’t alter George’s determination.

  “A man you dislike?” Aunt Agatha repeated scornfully. “You chose an odd way of showing this so-called dislike. Besides, regrettable as the incident is, the result is one we all ought to be grateful for—”

  “Grateful! To be forced—”

  “Forced? Pah! It’s an opportunity, gel, one you don’t deserve! The sight of you when I came out from the concert, wrapped around the duke like the worst kind of hussy!” She shuddered dramatically. “I’ve never been so ashamed in all my life!”

  George didn’t even try to defend her actions. Truth to tell, she’d shocked herself with her response to the duke’s kisses. She hadn’t believed herself capable of such a thing. How had it happened? One kiss and everything had spiraled out of control. It wasn’t like her. She’d never been interested in men before, not like that.

  And she didn’t even like the duke.

  Her aunt’s words, however, had confirmed a suspicion that had been hovering at the edge of her mind for some time. It explained a lot. Why she was acting so out of character. How he’d been able to . . . do what he did.

  “Of course you’ll marry him—and be grateful for it! If he is willing to marry a gel who has proved herself a strumpet—”

  “Piffle!” Aunt Dottie said from the corner seat.

  “I beg your pardon.” Aunt Agatha turned on her sister with freezing hauteur.

  “Granted,” Aunt Dottie said loftily. “But only as long as you stop this hypocritical nonsense. We all know you’re thrilled to the back teeth, so stop ranting at poor George and pretending to be shocked!”

  George blinked. Aunt Dottie, normally so mild mannered, had spoken quite sharply.

  “Poor George? Pretending? Did you not see how the wretched gel behaved?”

  “It takes two, Aggie—or are you suggesting that the duke was a helpless innocent seduced against his will?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “The trouble with you, Aggie, is that you’ve never understood the power of passion. You never have and you never will.”

  Aunt Agatha’s bosom swelled with indignation. “That’s rich, coming from the family spinster.”

  Luckily, before the argument could get any worse, the carriage slowed. Aunt Dottie glanced out the window. “Ah, here we are back at Ashendon House, and look, Burton has waited up for us—see, he’s opening the door—and, oh, good, he has two footmen ready with umbrellas. No need to get down, Aggie. You go on home and get to bed. What we all need is a good night’s sleep. Everything will look better in the morning.”

  Her sister snorted. “I doubt it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Hart punched his pillow. It wasn’t even dawn yet, but he was wide awake, despite having barely slept the night before. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. Each time he’d drifted off to sleep, he’d awoken a short time later, restless, erect, taut with arousal.

  Georgiana Rutherford . . . The taste of her was still in his mouth—along with the cognac he’d drunk when he got home. She’d fired his blood. The cognac hadn’t helped; it only inflamed his memory of the taste of her.

  He ached for her.

  That explosion of . . . passion, that . . . conflagration. Unfeigned, unforced. Her kisses were eager and untutored, but there was a wildness in her, a deep hunger that awakened something in him that he’d never felt before.

  It made him uneasy. The whole situation had gotten perilously close to careering out of control. For a while there he’d quite lost his head. He never lost control. Particularly around women. Never.

  He lay in bed, waiting for the dawn chorus in the trees outside, but there wasn’t a peep.

  Of course it had all worked out as planned . . .

  But his own, unplanned reaction still shocked him.

  The tast
e of her mouth, the unique female fragrance of her, the remembered feel of her slender thighs locked around his waist . . . His body throbbed. Frustration. Futile agony. A damnable situation.

  Exercise, that’s what he needed. Fresh air, fresh thoughts, not this everlasting churning of the same scenes over and over in his mind, reliving that extraordinary scene. Those kisses.

  He lay brooding, then in a decisive move threw off his bedclothes and leapt out of bed. Dawn rides. She often went riding at dawn, Sinc said.

  Hart washed, and donned his buckskins and boots and in a short time was heading for Hyde Park, just as the first rays of light gilded the spires of the churches.

  The streets were already busy with costermongers and barrow-boys setting up; but the park, once he passed through the gates, was largely deserted. He rode for a short while, enjoying the loosening of his tense muscles and the fresh scent of the earth, damp and fragrant from the previous night’s downpour. The birds were awake now, and the twittering was deafening.

  A movement caught his eye. He turned and there she was, demure and proper in a sage-green habit, riding her glorious black stallion sidesaddle, elegant as the finest lady. Her shaggy hound lolloped along beside her, then veered off on some canine errand.

  There was no sign of the groom who’d accompanied her before. Good.

  Hart started forward, then, with a muttered curse, reined in, as Cal Rutherford, her uncle and guardian, moved into view, mounted on a fine-looking bay gelding.

  Damn. Hart had no intention of speaking to her guardian, not here, not now. His little fish was hooked but was not yet in his net.

  She called out something and with a laugh raced away, riding fast and furious with a grace and skill few women had. And giving Cal Rutherford—no mean rider himself—a run for his money.

  Lord, but the girl could ride—astride or sidesaddle, she outrode them all.

  Hart hung back at a distance, watching her, observing her interaction with her guardian. She usually rode out with all her family, Sinc had said, but Lady Rose had left London with her long-lost husband. Lady Lily too had gone to the country with her husband.

  Georgiana had been quite alone when he’d first come across her in Gloucestershire, five years before. Quite frighteningly alone, he’d realized in retrospect, with nobody to care for her or protect her, except for the dubious protection of the local squire who’d told the locals not to interfere with her.

  According to Sinc’s sister, she hadn’t even known she had family.

  She had family now.

  He watched her racing her uncle, winning the race—lord, but that stallion was fleet—and throwing back her head and laughing at something he said. She seemed to laugh easily, with family, with friends. Though not with him. Never with him.

  She and her uncle walked their mounts quietly for a time, seeming to be discussing something serious. Was she telling her uncle about the night before? And if so, what was she saying? He hoped her uncle was backing Lady Salter.

  She leaned over and pinched a few leaves off a bush, crushing them between her hands and smelling them as she talked to her uncle. Did she realize how sensual she was or was that a discovery that still lay ahead of her? Of them.

  Her zest for life—her enjoyment of small, simple things—fascinated him.

  Hart was solitary by nature. He had few friends. He’d learned young that most people wanted to be friends with a duke or the heir of a duke, not so much with Hart himself. Who Hart was, what he thought, what opinions he had were almost immaterial. They wanted the duke, not Hart.

  She most emphatically didn’t want the duke. But last night she’d kissed Hart in a way that had rocked him to his foundations. She’d kissed Hart, not the duke—he could tell the difference.

  He sat quietly on his horse, watching her, feeling a little like a voyeur; unable to take his eyes off her, unable to make himself leave.

  He would have joined them, except he wasn’t yet ready to talk to her guardian. He needed to get everything in place first.

  Chapter Nine

  It is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.

  —JANE AUSTEN, EMMA

  They waited for the duke to call. George had gone for her usual morning ride with Cal. She missed the company of Lily and Rose, but still, it was good of Cal to come out.

  She’d told him what had happened the previous night. His lips had thinned, but he hadn’t said much to the point. Cal was often like that. A man of action rather than words. leaving her with no idea what he really thought.

  And when they’d arrived home, Aunt Agatha was waiting, a silver dragon lady breathing brimstone and betrothals. “At least you’re not wearing those disgraceful breeches,” she said the moment George walked in the door. “Run upstairs and change into something pretty, something worthy to receive the addresses of a duke in.”

  George did think of changing into her oldest breeches, and went as far as pulling them out of the chest. But then she thought of the way he would look at her down that long, superior nose of his, and changed her mind.

  She put on a dress—the plainest one she owned. She would not dress up for him.

  She paced around the house, rehearsing in her mind what she was going to say to him. The trouble was, apart from “No, I won’t marry you,” she didn’t know what else she could say.

  If he, like Aunt Agatha, pointed out her unseemly behavior, she couldn’t deny it. If he wanted an explanation, she had none—none that she cared to speak aloud, that is.

  According to Aunt Agatha, he was being extremely gallant in offering for her, and George could see that, by some lights, that might be true. Only she had a deep dark suspicion that he’d engineered the situation. He’d sent that footman in to call her away from the concert.

  And wasn’t it a very strange coincidence that he’d started kissing her just before the break for supper? Had he known everyone would come out then, and find George wrapped around him?

  The flaw in that reasoning was that he couldn’t possibly have known that George would react to his kisses the way she had. And if she hadn’t, if she had pushed past him and walked away, as she’d intended, nothing would have happened.

  No matter how George looked at it, it kept coming back to being her fault.

  Aunt Agatha argued that if she didn’t agree to the betrothal, the duke would be held to be a scoundrel and a seducer. But Aunt Agatha would make any argument that would achieve her aim. She was determined that a Rutherford girl would marry the duke, and George, unsatisfactory as she was, was the only one left.

  Aunt Dottie did suggest—very quietly so her sister couldn’t hear—that George could always agree to the betrothal, and later, when the dust had settled, she could call it off. Girls were allowed to break betrothals; only men could not—well, they could, but then they’d be regarded as dishonorable scoundrels whose word of honor could not be trusted.

  A man’s word of honor was held to be almost sacred, but if a woman gave her word, she wasn’t taken seriously. Because only men—only gentlemen—had a sense of honor. Apparently.

  George hated the hypocrisy of that. If she gave her word, she’d keep it. Her sense of honor was just as reliable as any man’s. As any duke’s.

  The duke was to call at eleven. Time crawled on.

  By half past ten George was ready to climb the walls. Or murder Aunt Agatha who didn’t let up her lecturing for a moment. They’d all gathered in the drawing room to wait for the duke’s arrival.

  “Of course you will accept, you stubborn child. You have no choice in the matter.”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Agatha, but that’s not true,” Emm said serenely. “I made a vow when I first married Cal that all the girls would be free to choose their own future, and nothing has changed. Admittedly Geo
rge is in an awkward situation, but—”

  “Awkward? She has caused a scandal!”

  Cal added his mite. “Seems to me the duke is as much to blame, if not more so. Can’t see George instigating a thing like that, myself.”

  George grimaced. Her behavior had been totally uncharacteristic, she knew. She was only just starting to understand why. It was so frustrating the way nobody talked about these things—not to unmarried girls, anyway. It was infuriating to be kept in ignorance of how one’s body worked. At least George had been able to put two and two together because of her years growing up in the country. How did gently reared London girls ever work things out? She supposed they waited until they were married—and then it was too late. They were caught.

  The clock in the hall chimed eleven. Cal glanced pointedly around the room. “And if the duke is so keen on this betrothal, where is he?”

  Aunt Agatha sniffed. “So he’s late. He’s notorious for unpunctuality.”

  “Maybe he’s changed his mind,” George said brightly.

  “No matter what the duke does,” Aunt Agatha persisted, “a scandal has occurred and the family must handle it. And if you won’t send the foolish gel down the aisle, what do you intend to do?”

  Emm and Cal exchanged glances. “I suppose you could go to the country for a while,” Emm suggested. “Wait for the fuss to die down. You could go to Ashendon Court for a few weeks, or go and stay with Lily and Edward. Old Lord Galbraith would be happy to welcome you. And of course there is always your own house at Willowbank Farm. Martha would be delighted.”

  George considered that possibility. She’d grown used to living in London, but there was no denying she missed the country. She’d often thought of returning to Willowbank Farm, the place where she’d grown up. Martha had begun as George’s nursemaid. Later she became cook, housekeeper and the closest thing to a mother—to any kind of a parent—that George had ever had.

  And when the money from her father had run out, Martha had stayed with George, working for no wages, sharing the desperate struggle to survive. George loved Martha dearly, and knew Martha would happily welcome her back.