But he was a guest in the Duke’s house and, in spite of his slightly worn and inelegant clothing, he was determined to conduct himself with all the decorum he could muster. Georgiana took a seat nearby and declined the offer of a glass of sherry. She had never been fond of drinking and preferred to concentrate on the game being played before her.
There were several moments during the game when it was obvious to her that either Oliver was uncommonly inept at chess or that he was deliberately avoiding the chance of winning. The Duke slammed the beautiful table with his hand and called out “Checkmate!” The entire room could hear him announce his victory. Oliver bowed his head and saluted the victor. The Duke was beaming. Georgiana stood and approached the inlaid mahogany chess table.
“I would happily play you, if Your Grace would be willing.”
The Duke looked up at her and the smile stayed upon his lips but disappeared completely from his eyes. He might genuinely like the young woman, but he did not like the potential of being beaten at chess by her, before his guests.
“In fact, Your Grace, I would be more than willing to play for a prize. If you would wager?”
The Duke sat frozen in his seat, never taking his eyes from the young Lady before him. Finally, he spoke.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure, my girl, but I believe I am expected at the card table.” He rose from his seat and indicated Oliver. “Let us see if the Marquess here can provide you with some entertainment at the chess board. Dartworth? Are you ready to play again? If I have not completely exhausted you with my victory?”
Oliver stood to welcome Georgiana to the table.
“I will take the Duke’s seat”, she said softly, slipping into the chair, and beginning to set up the pieces for the new game, “to my eye, it would seem that he was uncommonly lucky to have defeated you.”
For a moment, she was sure that he blushed, but he recovered quickly enough.
“It was only good manners to permit my host to savour the fruits of victory.”
“Ah,” replied Georgiana. “It seems I must have mislaid my manners, for I trounced him most soundly at the board the evening we arrived.”
There was a twinkle in her eye and Oliver smiled again.
“No wonder he would not play you again. And, should you have wagered, what prize would you have claimed in victory, dear Lady?”
“Five thousand pounds. That I might give it to you.”
Oliver’s jaw opened and closed twice without him making a sound. “Georgiana. That is not a subject for jesting.”
“And I am not jesting.” She looked into his blue eyes and saw that he was deeply moved by her words. “I believe that you may now make the first move.”
The two were unaware that Setford and Gerald had settled in two chairs nearby – close enough to overhear the conversation. Nothing was said, but Setford met Gerald’s eyes and raised an eyebrow in interest. Gerald simply mouthed ‘later’ to him and nodded.
This time, Oliver did not feel he had to pander to his opponent’s sensitivities. Although he was initially thrown off by his emotional reaction to what she had said about the five thousand pounds, he soon settled and became absorbed in the game. He played seriously and well. Georgiana was quietly impressed at his grasp of the game, at his patience and his ability to think through the possibilities.
After twenty minutes, the spell was broken by the Duke’s laughter as he won yet another hand of cards.
“They let him win to maintain his favour,” Oliver whispered across the table.
“I guessed as much. Almost everyone lets him win as a courtesy but he must know that they play him too, letting him gather up his winnings and boast of his empty victories. After what he did for my sister, unmasking Lord Edward’s cheating, I know that he is far better at cards than he seems, and far better at cards than he is at chess! He will see, immediately, what they do. So why does he allow it to continue?”
“If they think he is less astute than he is, he has an advantage over them. Rich men rule the world, Georgiana. Everyone must dance to their tunes.”
“Not I, Oliver. I want to dance to my own tune. Except that I can’t actually dance!”
He laughed and leaned a little closer across the pieces.
“Perhaps you would permit me to teach you a few steps?” he looked into her eyes. “But only as long as it gave you pleasure.”
Now it was Georgiana’s turn to smile. She found the suggestion quite appealing, despite the fact that she’d never been interested in dancing since the day she was born. Perhaps, it would be something entirely different and unexpected with the dashing Oliver Kentworthy.
Eventually, the young Marquess sat back and announced a draw.
“We’re going around in circles here and it’s becoming obvious that we could play for many hours without a conclusion. It is quite evident that you are a most worthy opponent. Possibly,” he smiled at her with his even white teeth, “also the most attractive opponent in the room!”
She laughed.
“Only in this room? Have I such little competition?”
“Well, perhaps the most attractive player in all of Christendom.”
“Better. That offers a wider compass for comparison.”
At the card table, the Duke gathered up his winnings, wagging his finger at his guests with a broad grin.
“Now you’ll be telling everyone that my table may well be the costliest in the county, on account of your losses at the gaming table!”
He laughed good naturedly at the expressions on a few of the young men – it seemed that the losses of some were genuine, not intended, and not so lightly felt. Setford was quietly amused, knowing just how good at cards Philip actually was.
Smiling, Rotherhithe continued.
“Gentlemen, let us adjourn to the smoking room and enjoy a pipe or two of Virginia’s finest tobacco. Ladies, you will find tea, and a further supply of sherry and madeira, in the main salon. If you hear singing, fear not for we shall only sing of your beauty and raise toasts to your health!”
Oliver bowed to her, and departed with the other gentlemen. Georgiana took a comfortable seat in the great salon, yet she did not feel entirely at her ease in the company of so many aristocratic ladies. Never having had a London Season, given her youth, for she had turned seventeen only a month ago, and the timing of her father’s death, she had not had much chance to be about in society, even had she been remotely interested in doing so.
She instantly became aware, yet again, of their cool appraisal, their critical glances, the way that they assessed her dress, her manners and her speech. Every time she was in the presence of these people, it was the same. Once again, she felt like a prize exhibit at a cattle auction. A cattle auction – not even a thoroughbred bloodstock sale! The conversation appeared seemly and polite on the surface, but it soon degenerated into the kind of gossiping that Georgiana detested with every fibre of her being.
She remembered only too well how much of a bore she found these dreadful social occasions. Now she was stuck in the middle of such an unavoidable event. She fervently wished that she, like Miss Millpost, could simply settle in a chair in a quiet corner, with a glass of madeira, and ignore it all.
But she could not even stop up her ears and was obliged to hear every word that was being spoken by two older ladies, who were seated near to her on a silk-cushioned sofa.
“A rogue, you say, my dear? That would be the least of it.”
“Do you know more of him than I, my dear?”
“I heard directly from Lady Charlotte herself that’s he’s a rake. He’s a scoundrel. That he consorts with milkmaids and serving wenches. He’s an unmannered ape. No wonder his father lost everything at the gaming tables.”
“Well, my dear, the apple never falls far from the tree. Bad blood, the Kentworthys. Bad seed the whole lot of them. Nothing good will ever come of him, of that I am quite sure.”
Georgiana suddenly realised that they were speaking of Oliver. She tried no
t to show her alarm at what was being said yet her curiosity ran away with her like a team of wild horses.
“Can’t keep his hands off the tavern girls and we all know what they are like, my dear, do we not? The lowest of the low.”
“The father was the same. Young Dartworth has inherited all of his father’s vices and not one penny of the family fortune!”
They both laughed, a braying laugh like a pair of mules, and Georgiana didn’t know if she wanted to bang their silly heads together for speaking so rudely about Oliver, or for not telling the truth. But… what if it was the truth? She felt confused by what she had heard. Inside, she felt hurt and bruised. Serving girls? Tavern wenches? Hayseed milkmaids? It was too much to bear. Was he so smooth and charming with every slatternly dockside doxy? Had she been taken in, like a fool?
She could not bear to think about it. She had been so certain that he was a good man, just in a difficult situation. But… what if she was wrong? Suddenly close to tears, as much from confusion and frustration as from hurt, she considered just leaving the room.
She stood and made her way to a corner of the room near the doors, to stand alone not far from the chair in which Miss Millpost now dozed, blessedly free from any need to socialise with the ladies who filled the room. At least here she could avoid the stares of the other ladies. A conversation caught her attention when her name was spoken.
She heard nothing really new. The women only confirmed that every eager hound in the aristocratic pack was bent on claiming her dowry, and the rich income from her lands, as the valuable prize of matrimony. They were baying for her inheritance. Not for her.
And she had thought that Oliver was different from the others. Now it seemed that, perhaps, the only difference between him and them was that he was poor whilst they were rich.
And all that meant was that he needed her dowry more than most. For, surely, there was some grain of truth in the gossip – things might be exaggerated, but were rarely invented from whole cloth! How could she have been so cruelly deceived?
All heads turned, and every conversation came to an abrupt halt as a commotion broke out in the corridor beyond the salon doors. There were shouts, thumps and raised voices, then the sound of someone crying out, apparently in pain.
Unthinking of her own safety, or anything else, overcome by her insatiable curiosity, Georgiana threw open the salon doors and stepped into the candlelit corridor.
To her astonishment, she saw Oliver, being told to stand against a wall by the Duke. Two young men were lying on the floor at his feet with blood on their faces, and it was clear that Oliver must have knocked them down. Indeed, a visible smear of blood upon his fist confirmed that fact. Georgiana heard a Lady behind her gasp in horror and mutter.
“The brute! He deserves a whipping!”
The Duke was merely looking at Oliver rather than attempting to lay his hands upon the powerfully built young man. Oliver seemed strangely calm, despite the fact that he had just struck the two gentlemen. Georgiana could only wonder at his reason. The Duke stepped back and pointed towards the entrance hall.
“Leave my house immediately, Dartworth, or I shall summon the footmen to deal with you.”
Oliver nodded and, in that moment, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Georgiana standing in the salon doorway. He smiled briefly, sadly, before turning on his heel and marching purposefully towards the great house’s magnificent entrance.
The Duke urged the other men to pick up the two stricken nobles and then ushered them all back into the smoking room amidst a great deal of muttering, and more than a few words of coarse and ungentlemanly language. Then he turned his attention towards the ladies. He tried to affect a calm manner, and offered his widest smile to them.
“My apologies to each and all of you for that unfortunate incident. The young Marquess has a hot head and, although I did not witness the event, I am told that he was the one who started the altercation. Once again, please accept my apologies for the unfortunate disturbance to an otherwise perfectly enjoyable evening.”
The ladies bobbed and curtsied in acknowledgement of the Duke’s attempts to calm them and returned like a flock of obedient sheep to the comfort and warmth of the salon. Except for Georgiana. She was staring at the blood on the polished marble floor and fearing the worst. Perhaps it really was true. And Oliver Kentworthy was nothing more than a scoundrel, a rogue, a hot-headed fool and a rake. The Duke noticed her standing alone in the doorway to the salon. He approached her and ventured to put a fatherly hand on her shoulder.
“I am truly sorry, my girl. I know that you have conceived some fondness for the rascal. I would have preferred that you did not have to witness his brutality at first hand.”
“I am deeply shocked by what I have now heard and seen of this man, your Grace.”
She looked into his eyes and she could see the care that he felt for her.
“I know. I know, Georgiana. He was never going to be a suitable match for you. You deserve much better than Kentworthy. I regret ever inviting him here.”
Slowly, with tears in her eyes, Georgiana nodded her head in agreement.
“You must choose very soon, my girl. Time is running short. Make your choice from the fine young gentlemen who have come to pay court to you. Choose soon, my girl, or I shall be obliged to keep my word to your late father and carry out his wishes by choosing a husband for you.”
At that moment, Cordelia walked up to her sister and placed a comforting arm around her waist.
“Choose soon, my darling sister, or Philip will, indeed, have to choose for you. You know that we only want the best for you.”
Georgiana nodded but, in her heart, she felt that her world was dissolving around her, spinning madly out of control. She was not even sure if she would survive this terrible ordeal.
For that matter, she was not sure that she wanted to survive it. Everything that she had thought she knew of the people surrounding her now seemed cast into doubt. Was she really such a bad judge of character? Had she been so terribly wrong about Oliver?
~~~~~
Oliver was saddened by the whole turn of affairs, but unsurprised. No-one here was likely to take his word on anything.
He was the inconvenient one who disturbed their sense of the rightness of their world. Well, he still had his dignity. For now, a room at the local inn would suffice – at least until his limited funds ran out.
But the look in Lady Georgiana’s eyes, as she had watched him from the salon doorway, would haunt him. His heart ached that he had caused her such pain – and even more that she should, it seemed, so easily believe him the uncouth brute he had been presented as. He had felt, just for a little there, that, perhaps, just perhaps, she was different, and might be able to see the man beyond the clothes and the gossip. It would seem not.
~~~~~
Setford and Gerald, arriving in the door to the hall, just as Rotherhithe ordered Dartworth from the house, allowed the other men to convey the fallen past them, and listened to Rotherhithe’s words to the Ladies. Something was not right here. Gerald could not believe it of Oliver. This was not the actions he would expect from the man he had conversed with this afternoon. He turned to Setford.
“Why would he…?”
“I don’t know. But I am quite certain we don’t have the full story. Still, Rotherhithe seems convinced that its clear cut, and it’s his house.”
Troubled, they turned back to follow the other men – perhaps hearing the story from the two injured men would clarify things a bit. But that was not to be.
The two moaned and performed about their injuries in a manner worthy of the stage. Gerald was quite certain that neither of them would have lasted more than a few days at war.
Their dramatic declarations of being set upon for no reason, and beaten to the floor seemed ridiculous to him, yet everyone else, except Setford, seemed ready to take them at their word, instantly.
The brandy Setford handed him was most welcome, although he was strongly tempt
ed to dash it in the moaning gentleman’s face, to bring him to his senses. Reminding himself that he was now a polite gentleman, and simply could not do such a thing, Gerald settled in a chair in a quiet corner, to continue watching the drama unfold.
Setford simply listened, every sense alert, his clever mind integrating all of what he had seen and heard, looking for a logical answer. He wished, at that moment, that Hunter was here. Of all the Hounds, Hunter was the one with the most astute mind, the one who could take a mass of disparate information, and find the truth amongst it, almost magically. If he could convince him, one day, in the hopefully distant future, Hunter might be the man he handed the spymaster’s role to, when he himself retired. Not that Hunter had the faintest inkling of that yet.
Georgiana slept fitfully that night, woken by strange dreams and haunted by the vision of Oliver Kentworthy leaving the Duke’s great house in disgrace. A cad. A bounder. A scoundrel. A rogue. The words of the other ladies echoed in her mind and drove splinters of ice into her heart. She woke in the early hours and found her pillow damp with tears.
In the distance, a fox barked in the darkness and the household dogs answered the plaintive cry, with a melancholy howling that seemed to come more from the depths of Georgiana’s tortured soul.
She was tormented and distraught, feeling hopeless and, in many ways, abandoned. She could not explain why but she felt Oliver’s departure most deeply and she wondered why the young Marquess seemed so important to her.
In so many ways, the Duke and her sister were right: Oliver was a terrible choice as a husband.
He was as poor as a church mouse, he had a most unfortunate reputation, he had spent time as a common labourer in the former Colonies, he was reputed to consort with tavern girls and serving wenches and his politics were only just short of revolutionary. He was impossible.
And now it seemed that he had a violent temper.
She rolled over and pulled the soft blanket up beneath her chin. The dying embers in the fireplace cast a dull, red glow across the rugs as Georgiana closed her eyes once more and resolved to sleep. Sleep, however, seemed utterly out of reach. Her thoughts went round and round, considering her impossible situation, and finding no answers to her problems.
Redeeming the Marquess: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 6) Page 7
