But Georgie had never been coy, and he would eat his own foot if she had the first inkling how to flirt.
He shook his head, rather more forcefully than he’d intended, judging by the wounded expression on her face. “Absolutely not. Bridge isn’t here to look after you, but I am. I’ll not…”
For some confounded reason or another, he couldn’t finish the thought.I’ll not willingly hand you over to your social executioner.Instead, he stood there, staring at the hurt pouring from her eyes at his dismissal.
“I’m sorry, Georgie. I promised him I’d always do what is best for you. I need you to trust me that, whatever ideas you have about him, Lord Haworth is far from what is best for you.”
She didn’t huff at him in exasperation, as he’d expected. Nor did she cross her arms over her chest and give him a petulant pout. For that matter, she didn’t even stamp her foot.
No, Georgie merely looked at him with her brown eyes huge and awash with hurt, and said as calmly as may be, “I’m no longer a child, Monty.” Then, as the music had come to a close and the other dancers were clearing the floor, she curtsied to him as politely as she’d ever done and turned to leave him where he stood.
Something jagged and sharp, and probably rusty from the feel of it, stabbed him straight through the gut at her calm composure, and he sucked in a breath of air that felt icy and far from refreshing.
Cedric closed his slack jaw and rushed to rejoin her, placing her gloved hand on his arm as he led her back through the throng to her awaiting mother. “I know you’re not a child,” he said softly, so no one could overhear.
She didn’t pull away from him. But neither did she respond, save for an almost inaudible sniff. Her hand trembled gently, such a slight movement he would have missed it entirely were he not so attuned to every fiber of her being.
When had he become so? Good God, the realization was almost more than he could fathom. It hadn’t always been like this between them. For many years, she was the petulant, bordering on obnoxious, little sister of his best friend, the girl who was always in the way and spouting off some random fact that no one cared to hear. While he cared for her a great deal, as he did for the entire Bexley-Smythe family, more often than not over the years, he would have been content to have far less frequent encounters with young Georgie.
But then, when had she begun to comport herself as a lady? Perhaps that had something to do with his sudden change.
When they were still several feet from reaching her mother, Cedric tugged gently on Georgie’s arm, slowing their pace to a near crawl. “Tell me the reason you wish to meet Lord Haworth,” he implored her cautiously. “The reason he and none other will meet whatever need it is you think you have.”
She stilled and faced him, looking up at him with still hurting eyes. “It’s not one I can explain to you, Monty.” Gingerly extricating her hand from his arm, she put a step between them. “I can’t explain it to anyone right now.”
Georgie pulled on her pelisse haphazardly, already in a mad dash to get out the front door before anyone could stop her. “I’ll be back in more than enough time to dress for the Davenport ball, Mother, I promise!” The door slammed as she scurried into the carriage with her maid, Nettie, close behind her.
Once settled on the bench, Georgie sighed in relief. She loved her mother and sisters dearly, truly she did, but she needed the calming influence only her friends from Broadmoor Academy could provide. Thank goodness Patience Findley had insisted they all join her for tea this afternoon.
Not that she could tell them about her plans. She bit her lip while she watched the Mayfair images passing by out the window, racking her mind for a way she could talk to them about it.
But if Lady Moira Kirkwood heard even one tiny little inkling of what Georgie intended to do, she’d insist that Georgie spend much more time thinking it through and talking it over, despite the fact that she’d already virtually thought herself into the grave over it all. Pippa—better known to the ton as Lady Philippa Casemore—would likely tell her, in no uncertain terms, that she’d gone ‘round the bend for even dreaming of such a thing. And dear, sweet Patience would make certain she knew she was daft and could be giving up her one true chance at making a match.
When had making a match ever been a priority for Georgie, though? Not ever, that she could remember. Certainly, Mother hoped she might, despite the air of scandal floating around their names, thanks to Percy’s dealings of recent years. But Georgie just wanted to study her books and gain her knowledge. And now? Now, she wanted the sort of knowledge a young lady couldn’t obtain through books and study—scandal be damned.
She didn’t even really know if flying in a gas balloon would be scandalous. It probably would be, especially considering that she’d be up in the basket alone with Lord Haworth. She would gladly seek someone else out for her adventure, were there anyone else in Town with a balloon. Sadly, there was not. Georgie would do her best, however, to be certain they weren’t seen. As long as Lord Haworth cooperated.
Gaining his cooperation would be much easier if she could meet the dratted man, though. Somehow, she simply must find a way to meet the viscount, and that likely meant finding a way to sneak past Monty.
Sneaking past Monty was something she could use her friends’ help with. But…no. That really didn’t seem like a good plan of action. The fewer people who knew what she was planning, the better.
Almost before she was ready, the carriage rolled to a stop at Hanover Square. The driver came around and set down the steps, then handed first Georgie and then her maid down onto the cobbled path.
Near giddy with the need to see her friends again, she dashed up the marble steps and through the ornate, gilded door, almost barreling over the butler in her haste. “So sorry!” she called out behind her. “I know the way.”
Her impatience to see her friends was growing by the moment, until she felt ready to burst with the need to hug them all close to her. Good heavens, it was as though she hadn’t seen them in years, instead of the mere few months’ separation they’d experienced. Granted, the three of them had seen each other last night at the Heathfield Ball, while she’d been forced to attend the Sutherland Ball instead, alone, save for her sisters and Monty.
Running was far from a decorous manner in which to comport oneself, but Georgie couldn’t seem to avoid it. She dashed all the way to the parlor and straight into Patience’s waiting arms.
“Tell me everything!” she demanded. “I want to hear every last tiny detail about the Heathfield ball.”
Numb.
It was a prickly sort of numbness, one that trailed up Georgie’s spine and crept up the back of her neck to settle at the base of her skull and torture her into madness.
The numbness must be why she hadn’t noticed it was raining when she left Patience’s house, walking blindly down the street and forgetting about the waiting carriage until Nettie took her forcefully by the arm and dragged her inside it.
She looked down at her sodden afternoon gown and tugged at a lace flounce. Scandal was something Georgie, as a Bexley-Smythe, was altogether too familiar with. She was more than prepared to face her fair share of it, as her elder sisters had both been dragged through the muck and mire over the last couple of years.
Two of her three dearest friends, however—Pippa and Moira—were absolutely and unequivocally not supposed to be veiled in scandal this Season. Yet both of them had somehow found herself the subject of a bet in the book at White’s.
Neither of them would receive vouchers for Almack’s. Not now. Not only that, but they’d be turned away, or at least passed over, by some of the haughtier, high-in-the-instep hostesses. It was sure to ruin their chances at making a successful match this Season. Pippa, at least, had the decency to be horrified over her circumstances. One would think they both should be, since they knew full well how difficult life had become for Georgie’s sisters.
All of that left her simply numb. Dumbfounded, even.
Her own problem of sort
ing out how to evade Monty seemed rather trivial, all things considered.
When the carriage pulled to a stop at Berkeley Square, Nettie dragged Georgie out and up the steps to her home. She tried pulling her all the way up the stairs, but Georgie was in such a daze that she stumbled and fell, and the clatter brought Mother out into the corridor from the parlor.
“Lud, what have you done with yourself, Georgianna?” The censure was softened, somewhat, by the note of concern in her tone.
“She got caught in the rain a bit is all, my lady,” Nettie replied when Georgie was unable to form a coherent response. “I should have been quicker with the parasol. We’ll have her sorted out in no time.”
Mother just pursed her lips and nodded. When Nettie and Georgie were once again on their way up the stairs, Mother added, “I’ll send Rose and Fanny up to help you, as well. There isn’t much time before we must leave for the Davenport Ball.”
Blast. The ball. Somehow, in all her concern over the predicament her friends had found themselves in, Georgie had let the thought of it slip her mind. All she wanted to do was sit in her chamber all night and sort out a solution to everything, from how she could help her friends to how she could help herself.
Would Lord Haworth be at the Davenport Ball tonight? She hoped he would. If so, one thing was certain: she would find a way to meet him, and she would find a way to talk to him…away from Monty’s prying eyes.
The rain, which had been falling at a sedate but steady rate since late afternoon, was now coming down in droves all of a sudden and showed no sign of slowing.
Cedric stared out the window of the Davenport ballroom, watching rather more anxiously than he had any right to be for the Stalbridge carriage to pull into the drive…and to be certain Haworth did not pull into the drive.
Deuced annoying, that. Yes, he felt responsible for the Bexley-Smythe women…but why was he so worked to tatters over their almost unnoticeable tardiness? They weren’t even fashionably late yet. Nothing to worry about, despite the unfortunate turn the weather had taken. And Davenport had assured Cedric that Haworth wasn’t on the guest list, so there was really nothing for him to concern himself with in that regard.
He had to get a firmer hold on his faculties.
A strong hand clapped him on the back as though to do just that, and he jumped slightly before recovering himself.
“If you keep watching for it, it won’t come.”
Cedric turned to find James Throckmorton, an old friend from his school days—one he hadn’t seen in ages—grinning at him like a simpleton.
“What in God’s name do you think I’m watching for?” he asked, with a far surlier tone than he realized himself capable of. That didn’t bode well.
“Doesn’t matter what—or whom, I suppose I should add—you’re watching for. It’s still not going to come any time soon if you keep up your vigil.”
Throckmorton probably had the right of it, but that didn’t make Cedric feel any better about things. But then again, maybe he should keep up his vigil. If he kept watching for Haworth, the viscount wouldn’t come—at least according to his school chum’s logic.
In response, Cedric crossed his arms over his chest and faced the window again, just in time to see the Stalbridge carriage pull into the grand drive. “You’re wrong,” he said, just to provoke the man standing beside him. “It’s here now.”
Without awaiting a response, Cedric spun on his heel and dashed down the spiral staircase. He nearly ripped an umbrella from a footman at the bottom of the stairs and rushed out into the rain, ignoring the line of umbrella-toting footmen he passed along the way in his haste to get to the carriage.
When the driver opened the door and set down the steps, Lady Stalbridge caught Cedric’s eye from inside and smiled. “Why, Lord Montague, what a sight you are!” She took his hand and descended.
A parade of footmen had rushed forward with their appendages, and he passed the matriarch off to one of them before turning back for first Mattie and then Frankie, who each looked up at him adoringly and thanked him profusely for his chivalry in coming to their aid on such a frightful night as this. Finally, only Georgie remained inside the carriage.
When he reached out for her hand, she scowled at him, her sour expression akin to someone who’d just eaten an entire lemon.
“Really, Monty, I’m quite capable of doing this myself you know.” Her words were more of a grumble than anything. Instead of giving him her hand, she placed one on the wall of the carriage and the other on the door, attempting to descend without assistance.
Her independence, in most instances, was something he found charming. Tonight was not one of those instances. “Give me your hand so we can get out of the rain.” Again, the note of surliness in his voice was somewhat surprising.
Georgie’s prior scowl was now an all-out glare. Her lips pressed together in a thin line—an expression he’d seen on countless occasions before, but normally when he and Bridge had told her she couldn’t accompany them to do something she wished to do.
The longer they stood there, with her half in and half out of the carriage and with him waiting with his stolen umbrella, the wetter his boots and the bottom of his trousers were becoming. Patience had never been one of his strengths, and the little bit of it he possessed was washing away down the gutters with the rain.
She leveled him with a withering glance and took a step…and would have fallen flat on her face, had he not tossed his umbrella to the nearest footman and caught her. Three footmen rushed forward with their umbrellas, hoisting them overhead to keep them as dry as possible.
“Oof,” Georgie muttered, squirming against him to free herself.
Cedric would have none of it, however. She may very well be determined to attend this ball looking like a drowned rat, but he damned well wasn’t going to allow that to happen. Much like he wasn’t going to allow Haworth to ruin her, despite both of their best efforts to the contrary. He resituated her in his arms, nodded to the footmen who were protecting them from the rain, and took off towards Davenport House, ignoring Georgie’s outraged grumblings and her struggle to get free.
When they reached the awning, where Lady Stalbridge and the two eldest Bexley-Smythe sisters were waiting, Cedric planted Georgie on her feet and took a step back as the footmen rushed off to keep other ladies and gentlemen dry.
Georgie’s eyes were black with rage, and she planted her hands on her hips. Her chest rose as she filled her lungs, surely preparing to deliver him a diatribe he’d likely never forget.
Before she could get a word out, however, her mother took one of Cedric’s hands between both of her own. “You are such a dear man. I don’t know what we’d do without you, my lord.”
A flurry of air flew through Georgie’s lips in something that sounded like, “Aughmmphgrr.” She knew better than to say what she was really thinking in front of her mother, though, so that was where she left it.
He’d have to find her alone later. For some confounding reason, he was next to desperate to know what she was really thinking at that moment.
It would have to wait, though. Her sisters once again offered him their thanks, as well. Then Georgie glanced over her shoulder for a moment, grinning when she turned back. “You must all excuse me. I see Moira.”
With that, she scurried away into the ballroom.
Cedric watched her go, and still couldn’t pull his eyes away for long moments after she was gone. How perplexing.
“Perhaps he attended another function,” Moira said.
Georgie reared back for a moment, startled that her friend could possibly know she was searching for Lord Haworth, before realizing Moira had been speaking to Pippa. Of course. Pippa was looking for her gentleman from the park—Lord Colebrooke, a title which did not quite strike any chords in Georgie’s memory. Rather odd, that. She shook the doubt from her mind and refocused on Pippa’s predicament.
Patience gave a wan smile. “This is hardly the event of the year.”
&
nbsp; On cue, Georgie added, “Hopefully we’ll have better luck tomorrow.” And hopefully she would have the same. She wasn’t exactly limited in time to achieve her goal for the Season, but now that she had it in mind, she wasn’t terribly keen on the idea of putting it off any longer than necessary.
“I wish you’d seen him,” Pippa went on wistfully. “Like a dashing Sir Galahad. The most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”
“Who is?” Lord Harrison Casemore, one of Pippa’s elder brothers, interjected out of the blue. Gracious, where had he come from? And how can I use him to assist me in meeting Lord Haworth? He was a handsome devil of a man, even if he was more than just a trifle intimidating with his hulking frame. This was not a man one wanted to meet under the wrong circumstances. He had always been a bit roguish, yet cordial to the girls. She might just be able to convince him to aid her cause.
With that devious thought, all of Georgie’s attention turned once again to her own predicament, and she completely ignored her friends and Lord Harrison for a moment.
He was Pippa’s brother, after all. Surely he would be willing to do a tiny, little favor for one of her most especial friends. As long as Georgie didn’t let on why she needed to meet the man, surely he couldn’t have any objection to it.
She could just pretend that she’d seen Lord Haworth across the way at a ball (which, admittedly, she had) and was interested in gaining an introduction as she found him terribly handsome or some other silly, flippant sort of thing Lord Harrison would expect of a debutante like his sister.
Before she could finalize her plans in her mind, however, he was sighing and returning his attention to the other revelers, and Patience tugged Pippa back into their circle of four. “What did happen last night?”
Pippa shook her head, a woeful expression planted squarely on her face. “I don’t remember a thing. I don’t even remember arriving at the Heathfields’. I don’t remember encountering Mr. Potsdon. I don’t remember St. Austell.”
“He is quite handsome,” Moira piped in with a wicked gleam in her eye. “Pity he’s not a Scot.”
Bexley-Smythe Quintet 01 - Flight of Fancy Page 2
