Forever and a Day

by Delilah Marvelle

  “No. If you are having fun, the aristocracy considers you to be a whore.”

  Bursting into laughter, Georgia leaned toward her. “Surely, you jest! You mean women don’t ever dance or play cards or drink whiskey?”

  Lady Burton smirked. “Do not make me laugh. While women dance and play cards in respectable moderation, whiskey is out of the question. As a lady of quality, you will only be allowed to drink tea, milk, hot chocolate, soda water, juice, champagne and wine. Nothing more.”

  Georgia groaned. “But I like whiskey.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you like. Whiskey will never touch your lips again. Not even in the privacy of your own home.”

  Georgia’s eyes widened. “I would think I have every right to drink whatever I want in the privacy of my home. It’s my home, after all.”

  “Ah, now, that is the American in you grouching, my dear. You Americans do love to flaunt your freedom, but remember, it always comes at the price of others. In London, one’s home is the altar of a church you had best respect, for although you may think the world is not watching, all of your servants are. Oh, yes. Those naughty, naughty servants who dutifully bow to you left and right and say, ‘Yes, my lady’ and ‘No, my lady,’ are always looking to squeal to the rest of society. ’Tis the only power they have over their masters and the ton will use them to judge you and dunk your head into the Thames.”

  “What good is bein’ rich if you can’t do anythin’? In my opinion, you Brits are missin’ the whole point. Even God had to take a piss on Sunday.” Georgia set her hands on her hips. “Are all Brits this morbidly uptight?”

  “Yes. Why do you think I left?” Lady Burton reached out and grabbed Georgia by the hands, forcefully removing them from her hips and yanking them down hard to her sides. “You must learn poise.”

  Lady Burton paused, her dark brows coming together as she brought Georgia’s hands up between them. Turning them upward and exposing her palms, she drew in an astonished breath, glancing up. “What have you been doing to your hands?”

  Georgia slid her hands out of Lady Burton’s grasp. “There isn’t a thing I haven’t done with them.”

  Lady Burton’s features softened. There appeared to be a genuine charity buried within her, after all. “We will make them new again. A pumice stone and a daily soak in almond milk will ensure they soften. Now. Let me look at your pretty face.” Reaching up, Lady Burton grasped Georgia’s chin firmly, tilting her face toward her before nudging it from side to side. “Tragic though it is, freckles are not at all popular. We will have to fade them by using benzoin and cover them with powder whenever you are in public.”

  Lady Burton stepped back, tapping the tip of her finger thoughtfully against her full lips. “I have decided on the name we will use. Miss Georgiana Colette Tormey. Georgiana will be easier for you to assimilate as it is but an extension of your real name, Colette gives you a dash of French class the British love and Tormey is of the Irish Gaelic that means Thunder Spirit. What do you think? Is it enough to seduce the masses?”

  Georgia smiled. “I like it.”

  “So do I.” Lady Burton eyed her. “Oh, how I dread the thought of watching you pick up a fork at breakfast tomorrow morning. I have a feeling you will be cracking the same egg for hours. That said, Miss Tormey, let us go upstairs. We shall begin your regimented nightly routine. Be forewarned, it involves knotting your hair with paper curls for the rest of your life.”

  Georgia cringed. She had knowingly condemned herself to almost a full year of this? Was any man worth all of this? She paused. Yes. Yes, Robinson certainly was. Damn him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  You are not worth the dust

  which the rude wind blows in your face.

  —William Shakespeare,

  King Lear (as published in 1770)

  9th of April, 1831

  The opening of the Season in London—Rotten Row

  BY JOSEPH, SHE FELT LIKE A horse being led by a horse.

  Georgia thought it so odd that the path she and her well-groomed horse were on would be called Rotten by the aristocracy given it was their bloody row.

  Directing her horse at a slow pace alongside Lady Burton, whose gaze was primly fixed on the path leading through the park, Georgia tightened her gloved hands on the leather reins and prayed she didn’t fall off the saddle.

  “On the path before us, if I am to believe the color of his gloves, is the infamous Lord Seton,” Lady Burton announced in a casual tone, tilting her chin toward her. “He has a twin. The two wear different-colored gloves to allow the public to differentiate them. Lord Seton wears white and his brother, Lord Danford, wears black. The two play at switching gloves all the time, but we are about to beat them at their own game. Do you see him? He is the only gentleman on the path before us and is heading our way.”

  Georgia scanned the dirt path before them, noting the only man visible through a crowd of carriage-riding mothers and their daughters just beyond Rotten Row itself. A young, dark-haired gentleman in a black horsehair top hat, garbed in a well-fitted riding coat and gray trousers, steadily veered toward them. His black leather boots gleamed in the sunlight with each trot of his black stallion.

  Georgia glanced toward Lady Burton. “I see him. Yes.”

  “The purpose of this ride is to formally introduce you to London society and ensure everyone clamors to further know you.” Lady Burton smiled and stared out before them, guiding her horse toward him. “Follow me. From what I know, after poking about for good targets, Lord Seton is not only a flirt, but happens to be within the circle of your Yardley. Producing a flurry of male interest that will rile your Yardley into full cooperation is exactly what you want. So I suggest you make this Lord Seton notice you. And now is your chance.”

  “You want me to entertain him? Here on the road?” Georgia wrinkled her nose. “Wouldn’t that be considered crass?”

  “No. Rotten Row is designed to showcase a woman’s potential. I am not asking you to flip up your skirts. I am asking you to smile. Do you want to marry or not?”

  Georgia sighed and guided her horse to fall into a trot beside the woman. “I’m ready to be showcased.”

  “Good.” Lady Burton glanced toward her with unusually bright and eager dark eyes. “Now keep up. The moment he passes, hold his gaze as if he were Yardley himself and you wanted him naked. Then we pass and you are done.”

  “No words?”

  “No words. Respectable society excites very easily, my dear. Here in London, you are dealing with a very different breed of men. They are well-trained dogs, so to speak. But dogs all the same. Now here he comes. Silence and poise.”

  Georgia set her chin and kept her gaze trained on the young gentleman whose horse was about to pass their own. He casually glanced toward them, his dark eyes scanning Lady Burton before jumping to Georgia. His straight brows rose a small fraction as if he were genuinely intrigued.

  In the name of every Five Pointer who would never see the glory of this day, Georgia heatedly met his gaze for a very long and very sultry moment and hoped to God it was sultry enough. Still holding his gaze, she lavishly smiled.

  He slowly grinned, his shaven cheek dimpling rather adorably. A gloved hand came up to touch the rim of his hat as he passed.

  Georgia inclined her head, in turn, before altogether ignoring him and sweeping her gaze back to the dirt path before her. She trotted on with her horse in silence until he disappeared off the path.

  Lady Burton slowed their pace. “Well done. And now the gossipmongers cometh. Remember. They can smell discomfort well over a mile and these two hags are no different.”

  An open black polished barouche with two elderly women well adorned in oversize bonnets and daffodil-yellow and teal-patterned gowns extravagantly embroidered with lace steered out of their path to round them. They slowed their horses and leaned toward each other, exchanging quiet words whilst glancing toward her.

  Ah, yes. The gossipmongers.

  In un
ison, they set their aged chins and veered closer, slowing their barouche. The eldest of the two, with thick white sausage curls, smiled and regally called out, “My dear Lady Burton. Was New York truly that devoid of entertainment?”

  That sounded like an insult. Which meant it probably was.

  Lady Burton feigned a gracious smile and slowed her horse so as to better engage them. “I rather adored New York, but my American friend, the ever-charming Miss Tormey—” Lady Burton sweepingly gestured toward Georgia “—insisted that I join her and Mrs. Astor for the Season.”

  Both of the women’s eyes widened. They stared up at Georgia in unison, almost bringing their barouche to a complete halt.

  One of them eagerly leaned forward, searching Georgia’s face. “Miss Tormey. I have heard so much about you. I am Lady Chartwell and this is my sister, Lady Hudson. We welcome you to Town.”

  Hudson. Like the river that never stopped piddling.

  Georgia counterfeited a smile and tugged on the reins of her horse. Using her right boot against the side of the horse, she came to a halt. She focused on her words and her stance, knowing every breath counted. “I thank you for the warm welcome and confess I am rather smitten with London. The gentleman are so civilized and the women so well dressed. You must recommend who oversees your wardrobe. ’Tis divine.”

  The two women beamed.

  The one with the sausage curls smugly offered, “The Nightingale over on Regent Street is where every lady ought to be outfitted whilst in London. They only hire seamstresses out of France and never replicate any of their patterns.” She perused Georgia’s riding outfit and paused. “I don’t believe I have seen a riding habit so well put together. Was it assembled here in Town?”

  Georgia tried not to smirk. She thought she’d never hear rich society compliment her outfit. “So lovely of you to notice, Lady Chartwell, but no. It was assembled on Broadway in New York. Their seamstresses are all French, too. Though I will admit, I am rather bored with my current wardrobe. I will have to visit this Nightingale’s in the hopes of entertaining myself.”

  “You will not be disappointed,” the woman chimed in return. “I do hope you will be able to find some time during the Season to call upon me and my sister over on Park Lane with Mrs. Astor. We have yet to meet her. I hear she will be acting as your chaperone? Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Georgia offered.

  Noting that Lady Burton was bringing her horse to a trot and was silently signaling that it was time for them to go, Georgia did the same. “It was a pleasure. I hope to see you both soon. Good day.”

  “Yes. Good day.” The two prodded their barouche onward, glancing toward each other in exasperation as if they had just witnessed a woman sprinting naked across Rotten Row.

  Superficial bitches.

  When they were well out of sight, Lady Burton tossed out, “You did well.”

  Georgia sighed. “Do I actually have to call on them now?”

  “You said you would, so yes. You have to.”

  Georgia groaned. “I hate London.”

  “This is probably where I should remind you that you have come to town to wed and stay in it.”

  “Oh, yes. That.” Georgia bit back a smile. “I wonder what Robinson will think of me when he sees me.”

  “He will most likely faint.” Lady Burton paused, her dark arched brows suddenly rising. “Well, well, well. It appears the row is more rotten than usual today. I love it. For the sake of your reputation, my dear, ignore these two men approaching on horseback. Heaven only knows who they are and what they want.”

  Georgia darted her gaze over to the two who were riding on black stallions in worn black coats, worn leather boots and no hats. One had black disheveled shoulder-length hair and the other had sunlit chestnut hair and a worn leather patch over his…eye?

  Her eyes widened as she tightened her hold on the reins. It was Matthew! Matthew and…Coleman? What the bloody hell were they doing in London? Had they followed her?

  Oh, this wasn’t good. She couldn’t let them see her lest they engage her in public and ruin everything.

  She quickly yanked the rim of her hat as far down as it would go until she couldn’t even see the road before her and only the reins in her hands. She also yanked the long trailing veil of her riding habit up and over her face, burying herself in it.

  “The veil never goes over your face,” Lady Burton chided. “’Tis meant for decorative purposes only.”

  “Not today it isn’t.” Georgia lowered her voice. “I know those two. They’re from New York. And of all things, they’re from my part of town.”

  “Are they?” Lady Burton sounded not only intrigued but smitten. She was quiet for a moment, then casually inquired, “Might I ask who the man with the patch is? He looks rough enough to be fun.”

  Georgia glanced over at the woman in complete disbelief and though she couldn’t see her because of her drawn hat and veil, she hoped to God she could convey that any interest in Matthew was a very, very bad idea. “He’s the last person you want to ever involve yourself with. He’s a thief.”

  Lady Burton let out a laugh. “All men are. Now quiet. Here they come.”

  Georgia prayed and brought her horse to a full trot in the hopes of passing faster.

  A low whistle escaped who she knew to be Matthew. “Apparently, I’ve been living in the wrong city all my life,” he drawled. “Ladies.”

  She cringed as their horses trotted past one another. Georgia even sped up her horse in an effort to fling off the words Matthew had just unknowingly tossed at her.

  Lady Burton called out for her to slow. “Miss Tormey.”

  Georgia hissed out a breath. Flopping back her veil, she readjusted her hat and choked out, “That was disgusting. I felt like I was being groped by my own brother.”

  Lady Burton aligned her horse beside hers and slowly grinned. “Speak for yourself. I rather enjoyed that.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye

  may, go marry:

  For having lost but once your prime,

  you may forever tarry.

  —Robert Herrick, Hesperides (1648)

  15th of April, 1831

  The Wentworth home on Park Lane

  “SPEAKING OF GRANDEUR…I was rather astonished His Grace had invited Miss Tormey into our circle. The moment she was announced, His Grace greeted her quite warmly, as if he was genuinely charmed. Curious, that. She must be of some notable worth. Lady Chartwell, I hear, was rather taken by her, as well.”

  “You mean to say that Miss Tormey is here?” There was a tsk-tsk-tsk and the fluttering of a fan. “Whatever is the Season coming to? We only seem to acquire crawlers these days.” The conspirator lowered her voice. “Though I will admit I have been most curious to glimpse her. Is she really as beautiful as some claim?”

  There was a tittering, dismissive laugh. “’Tis but her coffers that make her breathtaking in the eyes of London, I assure you.”

  Roderick felt like gouging his ears out so he wouldn’t have to listen to any more. At least his father had shown him some mercy and hadn’t insisted that he stand by the main entrance to greet all of the incoming guests.

  Swiping a flute of champagne off a silver tray, Roderick rounded yet another group of fan-fluttering, eye-darting women. Taking a long swallow of the tart-zinging coolness, he strode toward the farthest section of the candlelit ballroom.

  Seeing his grandparents quietly lingering with a large group of men and women, he tightened his jaw and averted his gaze, hurrying past to avoid them. ’Tis all he seemed to be doing these days. Avoiding people.

  He veered toward the farthest corner and paused, finding Lord Seton and Lord Danford leaning against the paneled candlelit wall, occupying his usual space.

  Though everyone in London usually steered clear of the two men, given that they were twins notorious for placing monstrous bets on anything and almost always emptied the pockets of every man in
a breath, Roderick rather liked Danford and Seton. They were good men who always donated whatever they won to local charities. They were two of the few gambling men in London who actually made the church proud.

  As Roderick approached, he noted that their dark heads were still bent toward each other, their foreheads creased in what appeared to be a most serious discussion. Though the two brothers were impossible to distinguish by eye, they assisted the public by wearing different-colored gloves.

  Roderick’s brows came together as he veered in. “Danford? Seton? Is everything all right? You two look a bit frazzled.”

  Both men paused from their conversation and glanced at him.

  Danford pushed away from the wall, his coal-black eyes taking on that devious sparkle they were known for. “Frazzled? More like dazzled. Always good to see you, Yardley. Even if it isn’t all that often anymore, given this damned romance you’re having with the university. What is this business with you being a professor, anyway? You’re making the rest of us look stupid and lazy, as always.”

  Roderick bit back a laugh. “I just needed something to occupy my time. It keeps me out of trouble.” And distracts me from thinking about Georgia.

  Danford paused and waved Roderick over with the wag of his black-gloved fingers. “Speaking of trouble…”

  Roderick drew closer. “What?”

  Seton, who was closest to Roderick, yanked him closer, almost spilling the champagne out onto his white gloves. “Not what, my friend. But who.” Seton leaned toward him, his shaven face bearing new mischief. “Have you had a chance to meet Miss Tormey yet? By God, I did. Saw her over on Rotten Row a few days ago. I had to bloody send that woman flowers. She gave me this—this…look that I’m still trying to recover from. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.”

  There was that name again. “No. I haven’t met her yet. Who is she?”

  A low, long whistle escaped Danford’s teeth. “That about says it all.”