by Gaelen Foley
“And?”
“We’ve been—friends. For a number of years.”
“Friends! I see.”
“Damn it, Georgiana, she means nothing to me,” he whispered furiously as he fastened his trousers again with a rough, hurried motion. “I went to the opera earlier tonight to see her so that I could tell her that it was over. When I got there, she was with some other fellow. She looked quite content enough, so I assumed with my long absence to India that she had moved on.”
“Well, it seems you were wrong!”
“I don’t know what she’s doing here. We had a small conversation—considering she was with somebody new, I didn’t think it necessary to come out and specifically give her the jilt! I assumed it was understood!”
“Didn’t you ever hear you should never assume?”
“Georgie—”
“Go! Get her out of here, for heaven’s sake. I can’t believe you have a mistress!”
“Former mistress. Georgie, it was long before I ever met you.”
“I’m waaait-ing,” Tess called in singsong impatience, unaware of their whispered exchange. She was drumming her fingernails on the door, as if she found all of this very amusing.
Georgie bit back an unladylike reply, disgusted with the way the woman had paraded through his house as if she owned it, straight up to his bedroom. If the door weren’t locked, she’d have walked right in!
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve had her in this bed, haven’t you?”
Ian just looked at her. “Lock the door behind me. I don’t want her seeing you or she’ll spread word of this all over Town.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“I’m going to lie,” he clipped out.
“Right. You’re fairly good at that when you choose!”
“Well, darling, I do work for the government,” he drawled. He got up from the bed and walked, bare-chested, to the door.
Georgie nearly protested about him going to face the woman in his half-naked state, but then she realized with rising fury that if they had been lovers for years before she came along, it wasn’t as though “Tess” hadn’t seen him in the buff already.
No wonder the hussy wouldn’t go away. What woman in her right mind would give a specimen like Ian Prescott up without a fight?
He waited at the door for Georgie to come over and lock it behind him. No doubt Lady Faulconer would not have any qualms about coming into his bedchamber if she were able.
Georgie punched a pillow out of her way with a low expletive as she got up and marched over to the door to let him out.
He waved her off to the side so she wouldn’t be seen, and then he went out, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Well, aren’t you a naughty boy,” Tess chided as he joined her.
“Come on,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Let me show you to the door.”
“Ow! I’ll thank you not to break my arm.”
Georgie turned the lock, but she remained beside the door, eavesdropping in bone-deep indignation. Still wanting to wring his neck and Lady Faulconer’s, too, she unlocked the door and opened it a crack, peeping out as she heard their voices receding.
Though she was vexed enough to spit nails, she was keen to see what sort of female he was in the habit of choosing for companionship.
“Tess” had arrived with an impressive hat that she had taken off and discarded on the console table, but Ian swiped it up and carried it for her as he grabbed her elbow none too gently and steered her toward the exit. The woman let out a short, indignant “Oh!” as Ian shepherded her out into the hallway beyond the long, narrow parlor. Mr. Tooke followed them all the while, apologizing profusely to his master.
“It’s all right, Tooke. We all know dear Lady Faulconer can be a great deal more stubborn than the average female,” he said in a taut monotone, then kicked the parlor door shut behind them.
Georgie closed the bedroom door again, locked it just to be cautious, and leaned back against it. Folding her arms across her waist, she glared into the room and shook her head in lingering disbelief.
She’d had no idea he had a mistress. Or were there several such women in his life? And who the deuce was Emily?
This was all very disturbing. It begged the obvious question that if she hadn’t known this about Ian, what else didn’t she know? She dropped her head with a low sigh, rubbing her brow and trying to contain her bewilderment at how close she had come mere moments ago to being deflowered.
If that had happened, then she wouldn’t have had any choice but to marry him—a man that, perhaps, she didn’t know quite as well as she’d thought.
Oh, God, what am I doing? she wondered as the terms of his proposal flooded back into her mind. “You’re marrying me. Any questions?”
Any questions! She lifted her head again with a scoff of renewed indignation. The more fool, she, falling right in line with His Lordship’s will like some vapid little simp! It was as if he’d put a spell on her, an aphrodisiac spell of craven lust, that made her eager to become his slave. Had the events of Janpur changed her so much that she was suddenly happy to let a man walk all over her, make her decisions for her, tell her what to do?
Wedlock is a padlock…
Don’t forget, she reminded herself with a keen look, narrowing her eyes. This was the man who put you under house arrest.
Yes, he had saved her life and her brothers’ lives, and he might have his wonderful moments, but Ian Prescott could be very controlling at times, and she might as well just face the fact head-on that marrying him would mean willingly putting herself under his full legal power.
For the rest of her life.
As Aunt Georgiana had often warned in her essays, in the eyes of the law, marriage formed a couple into one person—and the man was that person.
She had never met her aunt in life, but in the silence, she could almost hear the duchess lecturing her. You’d better think about this, my girl. Be sure, be so very sure, before you make a move that cannot be undone. Don’t make my same mistake and sign your will away to an autocratic lord…
Georgie heaved a sigh, staring bleakly at nothing. Why couldn’t things ever be easy?
Yet as Ian himself had admitted earlier, this was awfully sudden, his offer of marriage. It was true, she had dreamed of being with him, but she had disem-barked from the boat tonight thinking he despised her, and now, an hour later, they were engaged.
This was certainly not the time to be impulsive. Maybe she had better think this through a bit more carefully, not go flinging herself blindly into some reckless adventure the way she would have done before. This was marriage they were talking about. This meant the rest of her life. If Ian really cared for her, he would at least give her some time to be sure of her decision.
Resolving herself to this course of action, she marched back over toward the fireplace to find her clothes.
Matthew Prescott, the sixteenth Earl of Ayles worth, heard the arguing below, sat up in his comfy cot in the nursery at the top of the stairs, and rubbed his eyes drowsily.
He didn’t know what they were talking about, but at the sound of his magnificent Papa’s voice, sleepiness fell away like his favorite blue blanket, which he now kicked off excitedly. Papa was awake!
Climbing down from his bed, the boy padded barefoot to the door. He went up on tiptoe, reaching high to turn the doorknob, and then he snuck out quietly to avoid waking the nursery maids.
The stairs led down to the long, narrow family parlor, but Papa wasn’t in there. Matthew had heard the door shut angrily, so he realized that his sire was in the hall.
As he started down the darkened stairs to the long, narrow family parlor, taking one step at a time, holding on to the banister, he figured out by the tone of his Papa’s voice that the person he was talking to was the Hat Lady.
Matthew made a face.
The Hat Lady had often come to visit, but she wasn’t very nice. Matthew had always thought she had hard eyes that gleamed like litt
le polished river stones. She did not feel children should ever eat at table and she looked at Matthew coldly whenever Papa turned away.
He heard her whining at Papa now in a manner that would have gotten him scolded by his nurse, were he to do it. He could hear their words through the wall as he approached, though he didn’t understand them.
“Tess, don’t play wounded with me,” Papa chided. “I saw you at the theater with your new friend.”
“Oh, him! Come, darling, were you jealous? Is that what drove you into another woman’s arms tonight?”
“No.”
“Blast it, Griffith, I have waited months for you to come back from that horrid continent, and now you’re completely ignoring me!”
“I’m not ignoring you. Tess, you’re not listening—it’s over.”
Out in the hall, the Hat Lady launched into a shrill tirade, but Matthew stopped paying attention as the door to his Papa’s bedchamber opened below and another girl came out.
She shut the door quietly again and walked over toward the fireplace. She paced back and forth with delicate clenched fists, the dingy skirts of her walking dress swirling about her ankles. Without warning, she suddenly sat herself down on the couch.
She leaned forward, rested her elbows on her knees, hung her head in her hands for a moment, and then she clapped her hands over her ears as if she couldn’t stand to hear Papa arguing with that other lady.
What a curious person!
Hesitant in his uncertainty about the newcomer, Matthew lingered in the shadows, but he was filled with great curiosity about this odd, pretty lady on his couch. Her long hair was black like soot, and her dress was plain and blue.
He could see that she looked upset, and he had half a mind to go to her and ask her what was wrong. But if she was anything like the Hat Lady, she would only frown at him and call for his nurse, and then he would be scolded for getting out of bed.
When she lifted her head and squared her shoulders, he saw that she was much prettier than the Hat Lady.
Then she sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, at which Matthew’s giggle nearly betrayed his position in the stairwell. He didn’t know much, but he knew that wasn’t good manners, and this stranger’s private lapse in etiquette made him like her right away.
Out in the hallway, he heard the Hat Lady go storming out at last, with old Mr. Tooke trying to be helpful as he showed her out. Their hurrying footsteps faded, then Papa came back into the parlor.
Unseen in the shadows, Matthew watched Papa and this new lady intently. He wanted with all his heart to run to his father, but something told him he should not.
Papa’s face looked grim and serious as he closed the door quietly behind him and walked past the bottom of the stairwell, near the place where Matthew was spying. He heard his father let out a low sigh, and saw him rest his hands wearily on his waist. After a moment, Papa walked over to the rumpled lady.
She rose from the couch as he approached and folded her hands before her waist. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was mussed, but Matthew didn’t mind, for he was never neat enough for anyone, himself.
“Would you please take me to Knight House now?” she asked his father.
Matthew perked up. Knight House?
His best friend, Morley, lived there. Knight House was his favorite place in all the world, much better than his own gloomy, too-quiet home, where everyone had to be on their best behavior. Knight House was a good deal easier, in all, and he went there every day, across the park. Aunt Bel was the closest thing to a mother that he had ever known.
“Georgiana—”
“Please, Ian.” The messy lady’s voice was soft like wind chimes.
Matthew couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Georgiana, I’m sorry,” Papa said.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She dragged her hand through her rumpled hair. “I realize you did not invite her here.”
“But what about us?” He glanced meaningfully toward his bedroom door.
“No! Please, Ian. I’m very tired. I think—really think I’m going to need some time.”
“Time?”
“This is all happening so fast! It’s confusing—please, won’t you take me over to my cousins’ house? I’m so tired I can’t even think straight.”
Papa let out another sigh that seemed to say a hundred things, but he did not explain them. He just stared at the wall. “Of course.” He went into his room and came back out a moment later with a shirt and jacket on. He gestured toward the parlor door and the dark-haired lady walked ahead of him.
As she came closer, Matthew saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. Papa didn’t seem to have noticed.
Of course, Papa failed to notice many things.
Like Matthew, for example.
From his perch in the shadows, he watched the adults pass, filled with awe as always at how huge and mighty and important his father was. Sally the nursery maid had told him that marquesses didn’t have time for little boys. Nevertheless, Matthew wished he could go to Knight House with the two of them, though it was the middle of the night, and Morley was probably sleeping.
But then he recalled that he was going to Knight House himself tomorrow. If Papa was taking the messy lady there, he could get a closer look at her in the morning.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
D elicate English sunshine filtered through her lashes the next morning as Georgie opened her eyes, slowly awakening to the easy luxury of Knight House and the cream-colored bedchamber she had been assigned. The first thing her gaze fixed upon was the vase of muted purple hydrangeas basking before the window.
She sighed and closed her eyes again, contentment rippling through her. She stretched on the wonderfully comfortable bed, but did not hurry to rise. She lay on her side, listening to the birds chirping in the park outside her window.
It was a new day, and things no longer looked so dire. Her brothers were alive. The cousins she had feared would look down on her had turned out to be lovely people and had welcomed her with open arms. Their kindness had humbled her, given her earlier prejudices about Londoners. Now she knew better. She was in a safe place, and Ian had asked her to marry him.
Remembering the lascivious things they had done to each other the night before, only to be interrupted by a late-night visit from his former paramour—what a debacle!—she let out a groan of frustration and pulled the pillow over her head.
Today she would have to figure out what to say to him in response to his offer of marriage. Unless, of course, it had all been a dream!
Casting the pillow aside again, she sat up, still clad in the battered chemise in which he had nearly ravished her. She climbed out of the canopied bed and went over to the curtained window, peeking out. Across the park, she could see his stately home—the one with the door painted burgundy. It was even grander in the light. She stared past the swaying trees of Green Park hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but this was an idle fancy.
He did not appear.
Above, the yellow sun was high. Below, all sorts of people strolled along the park’s graveled lanes. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the waist-high chest of drawers that held the vase of ball-like flowers, musing on the prospect of seeing him again today. He had promised he would come and visit her.
A light knock at the door just then drew her from her thoughts. “Are ye up now, Miss?” a soft Cockney voice inquired. “It’s Daisy. I’ve been assigned as your maid.”
“Come in,” she called, glad of the interruption. She turned away from the window and went to meet the girl.
As the staff hurried to serve her, Georgie was touched by their solicitude. Daisy worked on getting a bath drawn for her, while two more maids brought her breakfast.
“Lord Griffith told the kitchens not to fix ye any meats, is that correct, Miss?”
“Oh—yes,” she said, startled that he had remembered she was a vegetarian. Of course, he was thoughtful li
ke that.
“Is eggs all right?”
She nodded as the maid lifted the silver lid off her plate and revealed an English breakfast revised of the customary bacon and sausage. She helped herself to the fruit, pastries, a scrambled egg, and some of the breakfast beans.
“Would you like us to open your trunks for ye, Miss?” the girls offered while she ate.
She nodded, eager to be reunited with her personal effects after all these months.
The scent of sandalwood and incense wafted out of her traveling trunks as each was opened. Georgie reviewed the contents between bites. The maids were ooh’ing and ahh’ing over her brilliant-hued saris and other exotic items, especially the scarves of pure Kanchipuram silk in her wardrobe, when Camille arrived, the duchess’s own lady’s maid.
The resident beauty expert of Knight House presented herself to help Georgie dress and fix her hair. Noting how the sea voyage had taken its toll on her complexion and hair, Camille briskly brought out an array of beauty potions to help restore her looks. It proved to be a formidable task. Avocado was smashed into her hair while lemons were rubbed all over her face and hands and the top of her chest to fade her light tan from the ocean’s blaring sun. Milk and rose water followed, while a thick concoction of cocoa butter soaked into her hands. An oatmeal mixture was used in the bath to refresh all of her skin. Lastly, she washed it away with a lavender soap.
When she emerged from her luxurious bath wrapped in a large dressing gown, Camille snipped the ragged ends off her hair, bringing it back to life, and finished her off with a brisk manicure. At last, Georgie gazed into the mirror at a very English-looking girl, neatly dressed in a long-sleeved, high-waisted gown of sprigged muslin, her hair arranged in a top-knot with soft tendrils framing her face.
Well, she thought, a sari was more comfortable, but she certainly looked a good deal more like someone who might have received a spectacular offer of marriage from a wealthy and powerful marquess.
She stared into the mirror, wondering, given her unconventional ways, if she was equal to the demands of such a highly visible public role, for that was what being Ian’s marchioness would mean.
