by Gaelen Foley
Georgie glanced at her. “Yes. I daresay it would be most educational. There’s a gallery there for citizens to come and listen, is there not?”
“Yes, Miss, the Stranger’s Gallery, but they hardly ever let ladies in, and a child—?”
Georgie smiled sympathetically at Matthew as she smoothed his dark forelock. “Yes, well, don’t forget, this particular child will have a prominent seat in the Lords one day, and control who-knows-how-many pocket boroughs in the Commons. We’ll just pop in for a moment or two, won’t we? Just long enough for my little Lord Aylesworth to see that his papa really is hard at work, not just leaving him alone for no reason.”
She was confident that this would help the boy realize that he really was not being abandoned, even if sometimes it felt that way.
“How does that plan sound to you, my lad?”
Matthew had lit up. His eyebrows were arched halfway up his forehead and his mouth had formed an O.
Georgie laughed. “I’ll take that for a yes! Come on, you rascal. Would you accompany us to Whitehall and arrange for one of the footmen to join us, as well?” she asked the maid.
“Aye, Miss! I’ll tell the coach house to ready the gig, too.”
She nodded in thanks, then rose, holding Matthew’s hand firmly. Watching her, his big, brown eyes were wide.
Those dark eyes must have come from Catherine, she thought, for Ian’s eyes were green. She felt a twinge of dismay at her exclusion from the original Prescott trio, but she dismissed it.
What did it matter whose child this was? He was hurting, and she could help.
“Come along, my dear, we have to find your shoes.” She bent down and gave him a wink. “We’re going to have an adventure!”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
M atthew’s mood had improved considerably by the time he and Georgie rode down busy Whitehall in the open gig, making their way to Westminster Hall beside the Thames, where the Parliament was housed.
The sun was out, the June breeze playing with the ribbons that tied Georgie’s bonnet. Before long, the squeaky one-horse gig rolled to a halt in the bustling New Palace Yard, just as the mighty bells of Westminster Abbey across the way bonged once to toll the half-hour.
The driver stayed with the carriage, while Scott the footman helped the boy and the two women down. Then the four of them—Georgie and Matthew, footman and maid—walked toward the hodgepodge of ancient buildings that remained the medieval palace complex. Georgie glanced up at weathered gray pinnacles and octagonal towers before Scott hurried them into the two-story building known as the old Court of Requests, where the Lords convened on the upper floor.
Outside the formidable entrance, however, Georgie paused, bent down, and straightened Matthew’s little jacket. She took his cap off his head and gave it to him to hold.
“Hats off. Shoes on,” she reminded him sternly.
He giggled.
“Now then, my cub,” she said, smoothing his tousled hair, “you must promise to be quiet as a mouse when we go in. If you’re very good, we will go to Gunther’s for some ice cream when we’re done.”
“With Papa?”
“Maybe. Come, let’s go have a look.”
He latched onto her hand and they marched into the stuffy lobby with Sally and Scott in tow. The place was quiet, and no wonder, that, she thought. Few among the populace cared about dull politics on such a balmy spring day. The servants retreated to stand respectfully by the dark-paneled wall while Georgie took a few steps into the chamber, leading Matthew by the hand. In short order, the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod approached in his old-fashioned uniform of somber ebony, and inquired about her business. Georgie promptly explained who she was, and who Matthew was.
The man seemed disinclined to grant her request for a peek into the House of Lords via the Stranger’s Gallery. Ladies were not usually allowed to witness the proceedings, he told her. But Georgie charmed and cajoled him; pleaded and promised to stay for only two minutes, three at the most; swore on the grave of her mother that she would not cause a disruption; reminded him of her lofty family connections; boldly described herself as betrothed to the Marquess of Griffith, and generally browbeat the stalwart fellow for Matthew’s sake until her will finally won out over his.
Then she and Matthew were whisking along gleefully behind old “Black Rod” through the lobby to the stairs, past a dim-lit library and committee rooms shabby with age, up to the second floor. The Gentleman Usher took a pointed look at his fob watch, prepared to time them, while Georgie gave Matthew a final warning to be silent once they went in. Then their escort opened the door and let the two of them go tiptoeing into the otherwise empty Stranger’s Gallery.
Hand in hand, Matthew and she crept to the railing of the slender balcony and peered down upon the dazzling House of Lords, and its session in progress.
Massive chandeliers of brass lit the oblong hall, the far end of which was dominated by the crimson velvet canopy of state above the sovereign’s gilt throne—empty at present. Above the mellow oak paneling, old tapestries in dark wood frames depicted the great defeat of the Spanish Armada.
Only half listening to the speakers’ remarks on dry economic matters, Georgie eagerly scanned the rows of red seats, looking for Ian. She spotted her cousin Damien, Lord Winterley. He sat toward the back, because he was the newest-made earl. Robert claimed a very different position by the formal order of precedence, as one of the dukes of longest standing. Within each rank of the peerage, the lords’ precedence was determined mainly by whose title was the oldest.
All the while, different men had been rising from their seats to speak their piece in quick succession, the seeming chaos of the process all directed by the bewigged Lord High Chancellor from his place of honor on the Woolsack. The old man banged his gavel once again. “The Marquess of Griffith is now recognized.”
When Ian stood, Georgie and Matthew exchanged an eager grin. The topic could not have been drier; he criticized excessive government spending of late and forcefully protested some new policy of taxation. Georgie watched and listened, unabashedly admiring. The man was as much at ease before the peers of the realm as he was in cultured conversation over dinner.
“My learned and noble lords…” As he took his turn to expound upon the question, Ian’s gaze wandered over the crowded hall and up to the Stranger’s Gallery.
Georgie’s heart beat faster.
He suddenly paused mid-sentence, spotting them. Astonishment flashed across his handsome face, and then, all of a sudden, Matthew could no longer hold himself back.
The boy jumped up and waved at him excitedly. “Papa! There’s my papa!”
“Shh!” Georgie hushed him, aghast after all the usher’s admonitions. But as the child’s happy outburst echoed through the chamber, the lords laughed and turned to look, craning their stiff necks.
“Order! Gentlemen, the house will please come to order,” the Lord Chancellor chided, though he, too, fought a grandfatherly smile.
Her face scarlet, Georgie plucked the beaming Matthew back from the rail and tugged him toward the door before they embarrassed Ian any further by having to be officially ejected.
Still, she could not help stealing one last glance at him over her shoulder. For the barest instant, their eyes met. His expression softened as he held Georgie’s gaze.
“Lord Griffith, anything further?” the Lord Chancellor inquired.
Ian turned toward the Woolsack as though dazed. “Er, no, sir. I yield the floor.”
“As you wish. Next we shall hear from Lord Forrester. Sir, proceed.”
As the next speaker rose, Ian brushed his coattails gracefully aside and sat back down, sending Georgie a rueful smile.
When the Lords adjourned for a short recess, Ian beckoned them down. Georgie led Matthew by the hand to see his father, but as soon as they entered the august chamber, the boy broke away from her and went hurtling toward his sire.
To her relief, Ian bent down and welcom
ed his son with open arms. Rather than scolding Matthew for his interruption earlier, he picked the boy up and held him proudly as the elder statesmen came over to meet and jest with the wee lad.
Matthew clamped his hands around his father’s neck with a fastness that seemed to say that now that he’d finally got hold him, he was never letting him go.
Georgie nodded self-consciously to the gentlemen, some of whom she had met at the ball the previous night. Ian set Matthew down at length, and while the elderly lords looked on with indulgent smiles, he led his little heir by the hand over to the seat that his ancestors had held for hundreds of years, and which Matthew would one day occupy, in turn. Matthew climbed onto it and grinned at him, delighted with all the attention, especially from his father.
Georgie watched them fondly from across the venerable hall. When she saw Ian help Matthew down from the seat, she approached the pair. Ian spotted her and led Matthew back toward her.
They met up in the middle of the aisle. There, some of the old gents engaged the boy anew while Ian turned to her, still looking a bit mystified by their visit.
“This is a most unexpected surprise,” he murmured, while a few feet away, a trio of kindly old earls quizzed Matthew on how old he was.
“You don’t mind, I hope?” she asked. “He was having a bit of temper tantrum and he really just—needed to see you.”
“No, I’m glad you came.” Ian scanned her face with probing intensity.
Georgie faltered, looking away with a blush. “We’re, um, going to Gunther’s next. Perhaps you’ll be able to join us?”
“There’s a vote next hour. I can’t,” he said.
“I see.” She dropped her gaze.
An awkward pause ensued.
Her heart pounded. “Matthew wasn’t the only one who missed you,” she blurted out all of a sudden, lifting her shoulders with a hapless smile. “I did, too.”
“You did?”
“I—wanted to make sure everything was—all right between us,” she said haltingly. “Last night sort of…went off track.”
“That it did.” He nodded cautiously.
“I’m sorry,” she confessed in earnest quiet. “I was a—a little rude to you—and you were right, anyway. I really should be more careful about not wandering off without, um, my chaperon. I would hate to embarrass my cousins or, especially, you.”
He was shaking his head. “I was too quick to criticize. Honestly. You didn’t do anything wrong. You just needed air. The ballroom was rather close. I didn’t think about the asthma. Were your lungs bothering you, then?”
“No.” Staring into his eyes, she shook her head slowly. “It was…something else.”
His eyes narrowed in question.
Georgie glanced about at the busy chamber. “Maybe we could talk about it later?”
“Of course,” he said at once. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes—I’m fine.”
“I was planning on dropping by this afternoon, anyway,” he said. “To give you your present. Only I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to see me.”
She smiled tenderly at him. “Of course I do.”
He returned her smile with a hesitant one of his own, then dropped his gaze and paused. “Sometimes, you know, I can be a pompous arse.”
“No, you’re not,” she chided, her soft laughter easing some of the tension between them.
He shrugged, but she reached out and captured his hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze, not caring who saw. His fingers curled around hers, so strong and gentle. Just that small touch felt so good, so reassuring.
People noticed, but she didn’t care.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he whispered, holding her gaze with great warmth.
“I am now.”
“Well, very good, then. And you promise you’ll tell me what’s on your mind when I come over?”
She nodded, bracing herself for a conversation that was sure to test her courage.
“Whatever it is,” he added softly, “we’ll figure it out.”
I love you, she thought all of a sudden, staring at him with a lump in her throat.
But she gave him another firm nod.
A burst of laughter arose from nearby as Matthew came scampering back to them and attached himself to Ian’s leg. “Papa, are you coming with us to eat ice cream?”
He laid his hand on the child’s head. “No, pup, these gentlemen need me here. You go with Miss Georgie and I shall see you in a bit—I promise.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And you will behave yourself,” he added, giving his son a no-nonsense look. “I don’t want to hear about any more temper tantrums. That is no way for a Prescott to behave.”
Georgie stifled a smile as Matthew shuffled his feet remorsefully.
“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.
“It’s all right,” Ian said, chucking him under the chin in affection. “Very well, then, you two had better run along before all the ice cream melts.”
“Come along, Lord Aylesworth,” Georgie said cheerfully. “Let’s go see what flavors they’ve made for us today.” She took the boy’s hand and sent Ian an intimate smile, which he returned with a golden glow lighting the depths of his eyes.
Matthew waved farewell to the elderly lords he had befriended, and Georgie tugged him by the hand out of the halls of power. Ian remained where he stood, watching them until they both were out of sight.
It was another two hours before the session was ended, the vote taken, the count announced. Ian’s side had carried the motion, but he wasted no time on his colleagues’ congratulations. He left Westminster in a hurry, ordering his coachman to take him at once to Knight House.
When he arrived, Mr. Walsh, Hawk’s stately butler, informed him that Miss Knight was waiting for him in the music room. Thrusting his top hat and walking stick into the old fellow’s waiting hands, Ian strode across the marble foyer to show himself up, but as he started toward the stairs, the entrance to the ante-room caught his eye.
Through the open doorway, he spotted a profusion of flowers, as though the adjoining room had been turned into some dashed florist’s shop.
He turned abruptly to the butler. “Egads, Walsh, did somebody die?”
“Er, no, sir. The flowers arrived today for Miss Knight. Admirers from the ball,” he added in a confidential whisper.
“What, all of them?” he exclaimed.
“You are welcome to inspect them for yourself if you desire, my lord.”
Ian frowned at him, then marched over to have a look. He nearly sneezed upon stalking into the ante-room, so thickly did the cloying floral perfumes hang upon the air.
With a faint scowl, he snatched the card off the nearest dozen roses and read it. His frown deepened. A survey of the various bouquets revealed a formidable tally of rivals for Georgiana’s affections: one duke, eleven earls, and two viscounts.
Bloody hell.
In the doorway, Mr. Walsh clasped his white-gloved hands behind his back and lifted his chin with unconcealed pride in the legions the newest member of the family had conquered.
Ian pursed his lips and looked at him without a word.
“It is fortunate that milord has always been a sporting man,” the imperious butler remarked with an impertinent lift of his bushy gray eyebrows.
Ian snorted, prepared to forgive the cheeky observation, since, after all, Mr. Walsh had known him since he was Matthew’s age. “Damned lucky I didn’t come empty-handed.”
“Indubitably, sir. Good luck,” he added, staring forward once more with a polite show of indifference.
Ian gave the savvy old fellow a resolute nod, then left the entrance hall and bounded up the stairs.
When he stepped into the music room above, he found his fair friend bathed in a pool of sunlight from the expanse of sparkling windows along the back wall.
She was on the floor, clad in strange clothes, her willowy limbs contorted in a bizarre position. Ian tilted his head in perplex
ity as she unfolded her legs and pushed up into an upside-down pose.
What in blazes…?
Her dainty feet pointed straight toward the ceiling. Her hands braced the curve of her back, snug and secure, and the slim column of her body was supported by her elbows, forming a sort of tripod.
As a man who woke up most days feeling like his joints were made of iron, he thought it looked like some cunning form of torture, but her expression appeared one of perfect repose. Her wispy, Indian-style shirt had fallen down just a bit, exposing a few inches of her flat, ivory belly. Likewise, the loose black leggings that hugged her trim figure had also descended, giving him a scandalous view of her darling ankles.
Her face was turning red from being upside-down as she managed to turn her head a little. “Ian!” she greeted him in a cheerful burst of pleasure. “Come in! Oh, and shut the door, would you? I don’t want my cousins to think I’m eccentric.”
He laughed in spite of himself, fearing she might be a little late for that. Nevertheless, he obeyed; then he sauntered over to her with a growing smile, tilting his head again to meet her upside-down gaze.
“What in the devil are you doing, girl?”
“I’m playing the piano. What does it look like?”
“Torture, actually.”
“It’s yoga, you silly-head. I told you it’s my saving grace, remember?” She closed her eyes again with a look of great tranquility. “You should try it sometime. It would help you not to be…so stiff.”
“I thought you liked me stiff,” he purred as he pulled off his morning coat and dropped into the armchair nearest her.
She laughed. “You are wicked.”
“You have no idea,” he replied in a low murmur. If only she knew where his errant thoughts were wandering to now…He found himself inspired by her impressive flexibility. “Isn’t that painful?”
“It’s wonderful,” she declared, then rolled slowly out of the shoulder stand and lay flat on her back.
Lying there, stretched out on the plush carpet, she looked so soft and inviting—temptation incarnate, with her skin aglow, her eyes as blue as the sky. Leaning forward in the chair, he let his gaze travel over her in rapt appreciation.
