by Sophia Nash
Well, Quinn had to give credit where it was due. She’d never shrunk from the truth in her life. There were few who could make the same claim. But now, in front of her father, was not the time to—
“You’ll forgive me for my lack of tact, but I will not play the passive, wilting female and let you wrest the stewardship—”
And then he did something he’d not known he was capable of doing. He grasped her arm and wordlessly forced her from the study, calling out to her father his promise of a return on the morrow, and a “Please consider my offer.” He dragged Georgiana from the house, past the openmouthed stare of her mother, and into the little bit of wilderness behind the hedgerow. He stopped when he realized with horror that she was limping slightly.
“Good God, Georgiana,” he said regaining control of his emotions, something he never, ever, ever, lost. “Allow your father the peace he deserves and has earned at this point in his life. Perhaps since you see him every day, you’ve not realized how very altered he is.”
Her eyes became turbulent with emotion. “You’re not to bring his illness into this. We’ve done very well despite everything. And I’ll not let you take the stewardship away from him. You can take the stupid Ellesmere title my mother loves so much, Lord knows I never use it, nor want it. But I will not—”
He roughly grabbed her into his embrace and held her so tightly he could have sworn that he could feel the fast beat of her heart against his own. She was deceptively smaller than he. Why, her head only reached the bottom of his chin. She had such a strong character that she appeared a half foot taller at arm’s length. But what she lacked in height, she more than made up for in the strength he could feel emanating from her body.
She fought against the pull of his arms for but a moment before she stopped struggling against his breast.
“Listen to me,” he said softly into her dark brown hair. “John Wilde is one of the best men I’ve ever known. I’m not trying to hurt your family. I’m trying to do the very opposite. I want to settle the matter of this pension as soon as possible since my life is the only thing separating your family from an uncertain future. I dare not leave your father to the mercy of some delightful fourth cousin I don’t know how many times removed if something should happen to me.”
She had stilled and Quinn was surprised she wasn’t making any effort whatsoever to disengage from his embrace. She had suddenly gone very soft in his arms and he was finding it hard to ignore her lithe curves—especially when her fingers curled at the small of his back.
He swallowed harshly and tried to clear his mind. “Georgiana, what have I done to make you so determined to challenge me at every turn? Have I ever—”
“I’m sorry,” she interrupted; her nose in his neck cloth muffled her words. “You’re right, of course.”
Well, that was a first. Ladies, in his experience, never, ever apologized unless a gentleman apologized first.
“Apology accepted,” he said gruffly before she could change her mind. His body was becoming heated and he knew he should ease away from her but for some reason his body refused to obey his mind. Instead he found himself closing his eyes and leaning in to get closer to her warm soap-scented skin.
“Shall we start over, Georgiana?” he whispered. “Shall we pretend I’ve just arrived, and you’re happy to see me after my long absence? There was a time we were comrades, before we got on with our lives and went our separate ways as all children must.”
She finally pulled away and he watched a veil draw over her usual open expression. He had forgotten the depth of her fathomless, large, dark eyes. She looked ready to speak for a moment, but then she stopped. Instead, she accepted his arm to walk along the hedgerow which secreted scores of birds determined to fill the air with a song of pleasure for a storm survived.
“Quinn,” she said tentatively. “I’ll allow Father is possibly unable to fulfill all the duties of a steward. But, if I can promise our family will keep Penrose in topmost working order, will you allow us to continue…please?”
He took a deep breath and turned to her, halting their progress. He shook his head slightly. “I realize you love it here. But this stewardship is too heavy a burden on your family. No, don’t try to argue. Perhaps if your brother was a little older or had help…Where is Grayson, anyway? I’ve yet to see him or thank him for his obvious devotion to the estate.”
A flurry of pain flooded her expression. “To sea. The Duke of Helston, Ata’s grandson, secured a midshipman’s berth for him two years ago, before Father became ill.”
A ball of unease grew inside him. “Are you suggesting that you alone have overseen the estate? Georgiana, that is singularly appalling.”
“Please, Quinn.”
She said it so softly he had to lower his head to catch it. The intensity was such that he hated what he must do. “You can’t think to continue on like this. It’s impossible. Georgiana, I’m sorry, but I shall have to find a new man to—”
“I can do it,” she insisted, the pleading in her face piercing his defenses.
“Georgiana, I know you can do it. But you simply must not do it. A marchioness—in truth or not—should not muck about in a pigsty. Even you must see the absurdity of it. Ladies are meant to undertake the feminine arts, oversee the female domestics, arrange entertainments, and that sort of thing.”
She stared at him, a terrible combination of misery and disappointment etching her features. And then he knew he could not take this away from her altogether; it must be done more delicately, in degrees over time. “There must be a compromise. There’s always a compromise, Georgiana.”
“Not in this case,” she said sadly. “You’ll either flout convention or you won’t.”
His mind flowed about the locked channels, searching for ways around the problem. “I know,” he said, taking one of her hands in his own. “You shall be given a share in the training and overseeing of a new man. And you shall have a say in who the man shall be.”
He looked down to the smaller hand in his. He turned it over and saw long healed scars tracing a pattern under fresh scratches on her hands. He had never seen such a worn palm in his life. Why, his own broad, callused hands almost looked smooth in comparison, he thought with no small amount of disgust.
When she didn’t answer immediately, he tilted his head to encounter her expression. To save her life, she couldn’t have hidden her obvious thoughts to waylay the plan.
“No,” he said before she could speak. “You, in return, shall promise to help the man we choose.”
She sighed. “As if I have a choice. I still don’t see why I—”
“You do have a choice. You can either play a part in this or you can sit about the interior of Penrose arranging flowers, approving menus, and all other matters a marchioness should attend to.”
“You don’t really mean to formally end the inquiry and declare me the mistress of Penrose, do you?” She stared at him with an intensity rare to behold.
“You tell me what I should do, Georgiana.” He stopped and grasped her chin carefully, very carefully, and peered into her glassy eyes. It was a dangerous moment. A critical, crucial moment during which he must determine the truth. “Are you the Marchioness of Ellesmere, in truth?” He kept his voice gentle, relaxed.
“You called me as much yesterday.”
He stared at her. And for the first time he noticed she had the most expressive brows. They seemed to be constantly changing; one moment elegantly sloping up and around the edges of the quiet beauty of her dark eyes, the next moment angrily flattening into straight lines as impenetrable as a Cornish hedgerow.
“I should like to hear your opinion.”
“Now you want my opinion?”
“Are you going to tell me the truth, Georgiana, or aren’t you?” He honestly had no idea if she would have the nerve to tell him if she had consummated the marriage or not.
Her eyes hardened; her brows followed suit as he knew they would. “Well, let’s see, shall we? My mothe
r says I am. My father says nothing. Anthony’s mother says I am not. The Fortesque solicitors also suggest I’m not if I understood their stupendously long and complicated correspondence. But to answer your question, I’ve chosen not to assume the title.” She examined the edge of her worn apron. “I refuse to suffer the indignity of a doctor’s examination.”
So she would not tell him. But then hadn’t his wife shown him the intricate workings of the feminine mind?
“What if I were not to press the point? What if I were to tell you that I should like to settle the matter now to cause the least amount of scandal possible to both families? What if I were to tell you that I intend to drop the matter of the inquiry and provide a generous widow’s settlement that would keep you in the manner befitting a marchioness for the rest of your life?”
“I would call you foolish,” she replied. “Obviously you have a well-hidden love for trouble, considering what your aunt’s reaction would be.”
“Georgiana…what do you want?” He tried mightily to keep the exasperation from his voice.
Oh, there was no question what she wanted. Had always wanted. Even now when he stood in front of her as coolly detached as a vicar at confession. She wanted to grab onto his lapels and pull him down to her and kiss him until he showed some sort of response that was not at all like the brotherly, reserved expression he exhibited. And for a moment, she teetered on the impulse, leaning toward him until her practical nature took control.
Now, looking into his cool green and amber eyes, she felt a sadness creep over her. The shell of the boy she had known—and maybe even what was beyond it—had hardened, making the man Quinn had become all the more unreachable. For some perverse reason the impenetrable armor he had built around himself made her now lash out at him, if only to see some form of emotion from him. And yet, another part of her yearned to protect him, comfort him. Why on earth she felt a need to comfort one of the most self-sufficient men she had ever known was a mystery.
“Well?” His expression was as emotionless as before. “What do you want, Georgiana?”
The real question was, What was her second choice? What was the best alternative, since she would never have what she really wanted? And this was where her ordered mind always found itself entangled in a quagmire of uncertainty.
“I want”—she hesitated and looked above his shoulder to the deepening mackerel sky—“I want to live as before.”
“Well, I rather think you can’t.” He changed the subject. “Where are you living? The housekeeper says you are at Penrose, but you didn’t come down for dinner.”
She ignored his question with the only thing she was willing to admit. “My mother would not let me live at Little Roses.”
“Then it’s a good thing you invited the Dowager Duchess of Helston to stay as well as the other ladies. It wouldn’t do for you to live at Penrose, alone with me there too. But we will have to come to an agreement about your future residence.” He pursed his lips. “How did you come to meet the duchess and the others? They appear such an odd, little group.”
“I suppose I should explain, since you’re sure to figure it out during the month. Ata has a very generous heart, and I met her when she mysteriously attended Anthony’s funeral here. After everyone had left, she introduced herself and invited, or rather, inducted me against my reservations into her circle of friends—all widows. The Widows Club is clandestine because Ata is convinced no one will ever want to include a gaggle of self-admitted, inseparable old crows in any amusing social gatherings.”
He raised a brow. “I would never describe you as an old crow.” Then he leaned forward, and for one heart-stopping moment, Georgiana thought he might kiss her. But of course she was wrong.
He brushed a lock of her hair out of her eyes. The moment his ungloved fingers touched her face, she felt the heat of a blush force its way to her skin. She turned and began the trek back to the cottage before he could see her reaction to him—all the while careful to hide the limp that appeared when she was inattentive.
“Georgiana…there’s still much to—”
She waved her hand behind her, ending the interlude. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted more for him to go away and never return or if she wanted to continue to suffer the sweet agony of seeing him and the occasional spark of affection in his expression when he looked at her. It was not at all like the darkening look of passion she dreamed about on those nights when she stared at the rolling mist coming across Loe Pool while she lay on her narrow pallet in the small glass-walled house on the island. She often slept there, away from her father’s house, away from the Widows Club, away from Penrose, away from everything except her memories and her dreams.
Only now, Quinn’s return was making her fondest wish appear even more fanciful than ever before.
Chapter 4
If Georgiana had known how awkward it would be to not own a name, she wouldn’t have insisted after Anthony’s death that everyone continue to address her as they had before her marriage.
Now everyone was confused. They didn’t know whether to address her as “Miss Wilde,” or to go against her wishes and use “Lady Ellesmere.” The latter reminded Georgiana too much of her mother-in-law.
The housekeeper, servants, and laborers hedged their bets by sprinkling the bland “ma’am” in their responses or the more formal “madam” in the presence of others. The situation was worse than the endless stream of nicknames she had endured in childhood. She was Georgiana, Georgia, Miss G, and even George, to her younger brother when he was annoyed with her supervising ways. At least all the widows had adopted the use of her Christian name without hesitation. And she was grateful as she surveyed the powder keg of varying personalities assembled in Penrose’s formal drawing room before dinner that evening.
The Duke of Helston, Luc St. Aubyn, paced before a raging fire in the massive fireplace. He had a sour look on his face as he addressed his host. “Well, I knew this was a monumentally bad idea. Is this the best you can do, Ellesmere?” He glanced in his wife’s direction and shuttered his eyes. “Caroline and Henry will freeze in here, my dear.”
His ravishing duchess, Rosamunde St. Aubyn, grasped his wrist to stay his incessant steps. A small bundle swaddled in lace and linen befitting a prince lay in the crook of her arm. The beautiful sleeping infant’s tiny smile trembled in sweet dreamland. “Luc,” she said softly, “Henry is perfectly content.”
“Well,” he responded, “perhaps. But Caro is chilled.”
Ata cradled the other sleeping babe on her lap, a look of complete rapture on her wrinkled face. She appeared not to have heard a word. Indeed, she had stopped talking entirely when the duke and duchess had arrived with the twins.
“I said,” Luc repeated, “Caro is chilled, Ata.”
His duchess, silent, seemed to know better than to confront a lion protecting his pride of cubs.
Ata refused to meet her grandson’s eye. “You can’t have her. It’s still my turn. I was to have fifteen minutes. And really, I think it should be thirty since I haven’t seen her in so long.”
The duke sighed heavily and took out his frustration by waving away a footman and then throwing a massive log on the burning timbers, which only served to send a dazzling amount of sparks up the flue. He grabbed the poker and began poking and muttering something about “infernal turns.”
Georgiana smothered a laugh and glanced at Quinn under her lashes. He had the knowing look of a man well amused.
“It would seem,” Quinn said without a glimmer of emotion, “Your Grace has not yet perceived the benefit of having a ready supply of arms. You might reconsider this shortly. There is nothing quite so exhausting as a new baby, or babies in your case.”
“And it would seem you know little about the matter, Ellesmere,” Luc said, frost emanating from his every pore. “But then I’ve always said that about diplomats. Always willing to advise, but never willing to do. The doing is always left to sailors or soldiers, true men willing to face death inste
ad of—”
“Luc!” Rosamunde interrupted with horror and then directed her attention to her host. “Please excuse him, my lord.”
The rest of the widows—Grace, Sarah, and Elizabeth—had retreated from such fireworks to admire the vast display of art gracing the walls surrounding them.
“That’s quite all right, Your Grace. There must be some latitude given to new fathers,” Quinn said with amusement to Rosamunde. “And I’ve always observed there is a reason God divides temperaments. There will always be those who lead by calm, rational, intelligent example and those who think fear and brute force inspire loyalty. And then there is the force of nature called fatherhood. Your husband displays that force—quite well, if I may be allowed to say.”
Luc growled.
Ata looked up finally. “My dear Quinn, you simply must see Caro’s face. She looks just like me.”
Georgiana smiled to herself as she watched Quinn go to Ata’s side. Surely that had to be the hundredth time Ata had uttered those words in the last few weeks. The baby woke with a start and began to cry. Luc St. Aubyn appeared as if he was going to snatch the baby from his grandmother and head for the hills of Amberley, eight miles distant.
“No, Luc,” his wife said softly, catching his tightly clenched hand again. “I need your help with Henry.” The twin had woken, hearing his sister’s distress, and his tightly clenched little fists matched his father’s. Luc clasped the infant to his shoulder and began the smooth pacing every parent seems to learn within minutes of their offspring’s birth.
Tiny Caro cried most pitifully and Ata began to look a little frantic. Quinn interceded with his perpetual grace and calm. “Will you allow me the pleasure of holding her?”
Ata looked at him warily, very unwilling to give up her great-grandchild.
“I want to examine her likeness to you,” he said.
“Oh yes, do. See how her eyes are wide apart, and she has the dearest widow’s peak, and—”
