by Anne Gracie
But when Cal had taken George away from the farm—kicking and loudly objecting—Martha had chosen to stay behind, deeming herself unsuited to a fashionable life in the city. Cal, who believed in rewarding loyalty, had then arranged for Martha’s recently widowed youngest sister and her five small children to go and live with Martha.
Martha’s own opportunities to marry and have children had been set aside when she devoted her life to taking care of George. Now she relished having a houseful of children to help raise. And having been assured that Willowbank Farm would be her home for as long as she wanted—for life—she’d gained confidence as well as security. Martha was no longer merely the cook or the housekeeper—she was the woman of the house, with a generous income and servants and farmhands of her own.
George could visit and be welcomed as a beloved guest, but if she returned to Willowbank Farm for any length of time, she knew what would happen; Martha would revert to being her servant—she wouldn’t be able to help herself—and George never wanted to see that happen.
So Willowbank Farm wasn’t an option and neither, now she came to think of it, was Ashendon Court or staying with Lily and her husband. Or any other kind of cowardly retreat. “I won’t run away. I won’t hide out in the country as if I’ve done something wrong,” she declared.
“Brava,” Emm said softly.
“But you have—” Aunt Agatha began.
“Oh, bite it, Aggie,” Aunt Dottie said. “We all know what you want, but it’s George’s life, and it’s her decision.”
“I’m staying here,” George finished. “As long as it’s all right with you, Emm and Cal.”
“Of course it is,” Cal said. “Society tabbies are always looking for something new to talk about. Scandals might be uncomfortable to weather, but they never last long.”
“Besides,” Emm added, “if you’re going to be the baby’s godmother, I’ll need you on hand when he or she is born.”
“Godmother? Me?” George swallowed, surprised and deeply moved. “Are you sure?”
“Emmaline! How can you say such a shocking thing!” Aunt Agatha snapped before Emm could respond.
They all turned to frown at her. “But George will be perfect—” Emm began.
“It’s our decision,” Cal said at the same time.
“Will you never stop interfering, Aggie?” Aunt Dottie added. “George will make an excellent godmother.”
“Pish tush, I don’t care about godmothers—though you could do better. What I do object to,” Aunt Agatha said with freezing authority, “is any suggestion that this child might be a girl! You are carrying the Rutherford Heir, my gel, and don’t you forget it.”
For a time they almost forgot their purpose in gathering in the drawing room as thoughts of the imminent baby dominated conversation.
And then the clock in the hall struck twelve.
The last chime faded away. “He’s not coming, is he?” George said. She wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved or insulted. Certainly she was frustrated—all keyed up for a confrontation and then . . . nothing.
Was she never to get the chance to say no to the duke?
* * *
* * *
“Damn his blasted cheek!” Cal exclaimed at the breakfast table the following morning. He slapped down the newspaper he’d been reading.
“What is it?” Emm asked. “Whose cheek?”
“Everingham. He’s made the blasted announcement without so much as a by-your-blasted-leave.”
George looked up from her kedgeree. “What announcement?” Dread filled her. She knew, she just knew . . .
“Read it yourself.” Cal passed her the newspaper. “There.” His finger stabbed at a notice surrounded by an elegantly printed border.
As George read it her mouth dried. It was a notice announcing the betrothal of Lady Georgiana Rutherford to the Duke of Everingham. “But he can’t do that!”
“He blasted well has,” Cal said grimly. “You know, I didn’t mind the fellow when he was going to marry Rose. Bit of a cold fish I thought, but no real harm in him. But this”—he jabbed the notice with his finger again—“I’m getting to see a whole new side of him now.”
The butler, Burton, quietly entered bearing a folded note on a silver salver. “This note was just delivered, m’lord,” he murmured. “A footman is outside, waiting for an answer.”
Cal glanced at the seal, broke it open and scanned the note. “Tell him I’ll be waiting for his explanation.” He glanced at the clock. “Eleven o’clock, on the dot—none of his blasted unpunctuality.” He tossed the note aside. Burton glided out.
“The duke?” Emm asked.
Cal grunted. “I’ll see what the fellow has to say. And it had better be good.” He retrieved his newspaper, shook it out and retreated behind it.
“I won’t marry him,” George muttered.
“I believe I’ve noted that, George,” came a rumble from behind the newspaper. “I wasn’t deaf the first time you said it and the following thirty-eight repetitions have been quite unnecessary.”
There was a moment of quiet, broken only by the ticking clock. Then Emm said thoughtfully, “If Cal has seen the notice, Aunt Agatha will have too.” She glanced at the clock. “I give it another fifteen minutes before she arrives.”
“Oh, lord.” Calling Finn to her, George fled.
* * *
* * *
At precisely one minute to eleven Hart rang the Ashendon doorbell. The butler bowed, said his grace was expected and ushered Hart into the library. Cal Rutherford, very much Earl of Ashendon, stood in front of the fireplace, ramrod straight and wearing the famous Rutherford scowl.
It looked better on his niece. Hart gave the earl a curt nod. “Ashendon.”
“Everingham.”
There was a short silence. It became clear that Ashendon wasn’t going to invite him to be seated, but Hart was damned if he would be treated like a naughty schoolboy, so he chose a leather armchair and sank into it with every appearance of casual unconcern.
The Rutherford scowl darkened.
“Stop looking at me like that. You know as well as I do that it had to be done. We were caught in flagrante,” Hart said after a moment.
“Yes, and how the hell did that happen?” Ashendon growled. “My niece is not that kind of girl.”
Hart, who thought she was very much that kind of girl, shrugged. “No use repining over spilled milk. What’s done is done.”
“Stop hiding behind clichés,” Ashendon snapped.
“Clichés exist for a reason. Without wishing to hash over the past, let us agree that having allowed Georgiana to be caught in a compromising position, I am honor bound to marry her.”
“And placing that blasted notice in the blasted papers without so much as a by-your-blasted-leave? How do you explain that?”
“An accident,” Hart lied smoothly. “I had drafted a notice in anticipation of the event, and an overefficient secretary acted without my knowledge.” He spread his hands in a what-can-you-do movement. “Of course, as soon as I saw it in the paper, I contacted you.”
There was a long silence. Ashendon eyed him coldly. “You know she doesn’t want you.”
“She doesn’t know what she wants. Yet.”
Ashendon snorted. “You don’t know her very well, do you?”
Hart shrugged. “That’s immaterial. Most couples get to know each other after marriage.”
Ashendon’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you really pursuing this? You could have any woman in the ton. Why pursue a girl who doesn’t want you?”
“I want her.” It was risky being so blunt, but they were men of the world, after all.
The gray eyes filmed with ice. “Your wants matter nothing to me, Everingham. The only question I care about is, does my niece want you? And she doesn’t.”
“I
think she does. I think she’s just nervous, like a filly being brought to stud for the first time.”
“My niece is not a filly.” Ashendon’s voice was icily savage.
“No, she’s not,” Hart said, soothing ruffled feathers. “It was a clumsy and inappropriate analogy.”
There was a short silence, filled only by the rumbling of thunder. A moment later, rain started pelting down.
Hart spoke again. “Look, we can dance around the issue all morning, but let us not waste time. Having compromised your niece—and without resorting to vulgarity, let me just point out that she was not an unwilling participant, no matter what kind of girl you imagine she is—I’m doing the gentlemanly thing and preventing a scandal by making her an honorable offer. You know I’ll be generous with the settlements.” After all, they had negotiated the financial arrangements for his marriage to the earl’s sister Rose only a short time before. Ashendon knew who and what he was dealing with.
Hart stood. He was impatient to get things settled. “So, do we have an agreement?” It wasn’t really a question. With his niece compromised and a betrothal notice in the papers, Ashendon had no other choice but to agree. Hart’s visit was a mere formality.
To Hart’s surprise, a faint note of amusement lightened the flinty gray eyes. “You have a lot to learn about Rutherford women, Everingham. I’m George’s uncle, not her keeper. She makes up her own mind. It’s not me you have to convince—it’s George.”
Hart frowned. The marriage was necessary. Surely there was no doubt. “I presume you’ve explained the situation to her.”
“Oh, she knows the situation.” Ashendon seemed to be almost enjoying himself now. “But George isn’t your average young lady.”
Of course she wasn’t. Hart would never have contemplated marriage with her otherwise. “May I speak to her?”
“I’ll see if she’s home.” Ashendon pulled the bell cord.
“Surely she knew I was coming. I sent you that note.”
Ashendon gave an enigmatic smile. “Yes, but George dances to her own tune.”
Just as the butler returned with the information that Lady Georgiana had gone out with her dog, they heard the front door open.
The first sign that she’d returned from her walk early was the wet and muddy dog that came bounding into the room. A moment later Lady Georgiana followed.
The moment she entered the room Hart knew he would need all his powers of persuasion. She was breathing hard, as if she’d been running. Her short dark hair clung in damp feathery clusters around her face. Her clothes were damp and clung to her lithe, slender body. Her hem was as muddy as her dog.
No other woman he knew would have dreamed of entering a room dressed so untidily, especially one containing a gentleman visitor, let alone a young lady expecting a marriage proposal.
Nor would most ladies inflict a damp and muddy dog on a visitor.
But her skin was pale and damp and glowed like a pearl. The dark clusters of hair framed her piquant face enchantingly. Her mouth was plum dark and endlessly enticing.
He was jerked out of his reverie by the dog. The great gray gangly creature inspected his boots, snuffed at Hart’s hand, then nudged him imperiously in a clear demand.
Watching Lady Georgiana, Hart absently patted the dog’s damp head. He didn’t even need to bend down to do it. The dog licked his hand in return.
“Finn, come away,” she ordered, and the dog padded across and flopped down at her feet.
Hart’s hand was now slimy and reeked of eau de damp dog. He pulled out a handkerchief and dried it off. He supposed it was better than the animal jumping up and muddying his clothes.
Lady Georgiana addressed her uncle as if they were alone. “Burton said you wanted to see me, Cal.”
“The Duke of Everingham has my permission to address you.”
Her eyes turned to slits. “Oh?” It wasn’t a happy kind of oh.
The earl rose, looking amused. “I’ll leave you two alone.” He left, closing the door carefully behind him.
* * *
* * *
“It was just so very unfortunate that everyone came out of the concert at that particular moment,” Hart concluded, hoping he sounded sincere. “But there it is. We have no choice, and so I offer you marriage.” He’d delivered what he fancied was quite a pretty speech, balancing rueful regret at the way their private moment had been exposed, with a gentlemanly determination to protect her from the consequences.
“Well, I don’t want it.” She belatedly remembered her manners and added a grudging, “Thank you for the offer.” Her eyes were as flinty as her uncle’s. “Not that it apparently matters to you whether or not I consent. How dare you announce our betrothal to the world without asking me!”
Her nose was out of joint, Hart realized. He’d spoken too bluntly. Women wanted to be coaxed and flattered. In a soothing voice he told her the same story about the overefficient secretary.
She cut through his explanation with brutal indifference. “I don’t care. You shouldn’t even have drafted such a notice before you’d spoken to me.”
He tried not to show his impatience. It was all a foregone conclusion. What was wrong with her? Every woman he knew would be melting with delight at such an offer.
“I’m speaking to you now.”
She made a dismissive sound. “And if you’d spoken to me in the first place, you wouldn’t have been left with egg on your face.”
He repressed the desire to check his face for egg. “What do you mean?”
“That I am not and never will be betrothed to you.”
Hart clenched his fists. “But you must. You’ve been compromised—all those people who saw us. Naturally I did the gentlemanly thing.” He’d calculated it all very carefully.
“Pfft! to your gentlemanly thing. I didn’t want it in the first place.”
He couldn’t believe her attitude. “Don’t you care about what people think?”
She shrugged. “Not much. People think all sorts of stupid things. Nothing to do with me.”
“But—”
“If it’s your reputation as a gentleman you’re worried about, don’t worry. You asked, I refused.”
Hart was stunned by her indifference. He didn’t give a hang about his reputation as a gentleman, but the ladies he knew were almost obsessive about theirs—especially the unmarried ones. “But the notice is in all the papers.”
“You put it in, you take it out.” She rose, and the dog beside her scrambled to its feet. “So, are we finished now? The rain has stopped and I want to continue walking my dog.”
“No,” he said curtly. “We’re not finished. This thing isn’t over. You don’t seem to realize the consequences of your actions—”
“My actions? You were there too,” she flashed.
“Our actions,” he conceded. “You refuse me now, but I cannot think you truly understand the consequences. I will give you time to think it over.”
She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “See, I was right. You can’t take no for an answer. Just exactly like Lord Towsett.”
Hart didn’t know what he wanted most—to strangle her or to kiss her senseless. Preferably both.
* * *
* * *
Having been balked of her prey in the morning, Aunt Agatha returned to Ashendon House in the late afternoon. Finding Georgiana out with her dog—again!—she informed the butler that she would speak to Ashendon and his wife. She found them in the small sitting room and wasted no time in presenting her views.
“Georgiana must be made to understand. It is simply not acceptable that she cause such a disgraceful scandal and smear the reputation of this family.”
“Lily was enmeshed in a scandal, too, but—” Emm began.
Aunt Agatha dismissed it with a wave. “That was purely gossip, spiteful gossip. Georg
iana’s lewd behavior, witnessed in the flesh—and far too much of it at that—her almost-bare legs were wrapped around the duke’s waist! And witnessed by half the ton!”
Cal shrugged. “Scandal gets old quickly. The tabbies will soon move their claws on to someone else.”
“Pah! You men understand nothing! And Georgiana understands less.” She trained her lorgnette on Emm. “So it is up to you and me, Emmaline, to steer this family back to respectability.”
Emm shook her head. “I won’t be a party to forcing George to marry a man she doesn’t like.”
Aunt Agatha stared at her in amazement. “What has liking to do with marriage?”
Emm glanced at her husband and smiled. “Quite a lot, actually, if the marriage is to be a happy one.” She held out her hand to him, and he took it and kissed it. And held on to it.
Aunt Agatha gave them a pained look. “I would appreciate it if you refrained from such vulgar middle-class behavior in my presence.”
Grinning, Cal kissed Emm’s hand again.
His aunt gave him a severe look. “You were irritating as a child, Calbourne, and though I occasionally have hopes for you, this is not one of those moments.”
She turned back to Emm. “We cannot let it be known that a second Rutherford gel has let a duke—the same duke—slip through her fingers. The ton will start to wonder whether there is insanity in our line, and we don’t want that, do we?” She looked pointedly at Emm’s belly.
Emm just laughed. “I don’t think we need worry about that, Aunt Agatha. After all, George has made no secret of her wish not to marry. And it’s not her fault that the duke put the betrothal notice in the newspapers without consultation. I won’t allow George to be forced into marriage.”
“I concur,” Cal said.
There was a long silence. “What is the matter with this current generation? I quite despair of the future. Letting young gels decide what is best for them—faugh! It’s utter folly, mark my words.”
