by Julia Quinn
“I had a mare foaling,” he protested. “I don’t think I even came in the house for a few days. I lived in the barn.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said flatly. “You hardly made a point of speaking to me when we were in the same room.”
“I hadn’t realized,” he said, discovering that they had strayed onto dangerous ground. “I didn’t see you.”
“Of course you saw me,” she said. “Just as clearly as I can see my hat on that twig over there. So will you please pick it up, give it to me, and stop this absurd behavior so that we can continue into the village?”
“I feel absurd around you,” he said, knowing it was true.
“Now that you’ve noticed me?” she asked. There was a tone in her voice that told him clear as day just what she thought of his behavior last year. And the year before. And likely the year before that.
“It wasn’t just you,” he said. “I didn’t see anyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I only vaguely remember the Twelfth Night holiday. I was thinking about my stables. I know that my sisters were running about, and you were there, and Finchbird, of course. Oh, and my aunt Emma.”
“Plus a good four or five other people,” she pointed out.
“I didn’t see them. I don’t remember them. I had a mare with twin foals. I do remember looking at you and thinking how sad your eyes looked, but I didn’t know what to say about that, or how to make you feel better, so I just went out to the stables.”
She snorted. It was a ladylike snort, but a snort nonetheless.
“I’m seeing you now,” he offered.
Georgina had snapped off a twig of hawthorn and was fiddling with it. Her delicate fingers made some sort of yawning hunger rage in his body, a hunger to strip off her gloves and press his mouth to her palms. “I don’t think I want to be seen by you,” she said, not looking at him.
“What do you mean?” He pushed up her chin with his hand so she had to meet his eyes.
“You don’t know anything about life.”
He had a very judicial answer to that. “What are my deficits? Tell me, and I’ll improve.”
Her eyes had turned dark lavender, grave and sad. “You don’t see … you just don’t understand.”
“I see you now, Georgina. Believe me, I’ll never be able to go back to entering a room and not know if you’re there. And I wouldn’t want to either,” he added. “I will always look for you first.” His voice was fierce, and even though the whole idea was new to him, he knew it was true, in his gut. He would never be the same.
“People die, Hugh. They die.”
Her face was so white that he could have counted every one of her adorable freckles. “I know that. I almost died myself, just last month.”
“That’s just it! You don’t know.”
“Of course I do. I know there’s a reasonable chance of it, and that’s precisely why I asked Carolyn for the list. You don’t think that I’d darken the door of a ballroom without a damned good reason, do you?”
The smile in her eyes was tinged with that sadness he hated. “No.”
“Unless you were in the room,” he said, knowing it was true.
She wrinkled her nose. “Very pretty.”
“Very true. Now.”
“My point is that you don’t really think that death exists. But it does, Hugh. It does. People are there one day, and gone the next. And you could easily be one of those people, given the dangers of the work you do.”
“You’re not worried about Richelieu’s bucking, are you? Not when your own pony used to excel at it? You know perfectly well that I’m not going to fall off in the middle of pranks such as those.”
“I know it, and I was frightened anyway.” He knew she was telling the truth. “I don’t want to be afraid,” she said, the same wrenching sense of truth in her voice that had been in his.
That was a bit of a facer. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.” He said it carefully.
“You’re like a boy, Hugh. You don’t understand how fragile life is. You don’t realize that the thread breaks between one moment and the next.”
“Georgie …”
“You’re a boy,” she said flatly, looking down at her gloves again.
So she thought he wasn’t man enough for her. She really did want an older man, the way Carolyn had said. All this flame between them, which he knew damn well would never go away …
He had to be sure. He couldn’t just let her go. “Are you saying that you don’t want to marry me?”
“You haven’t asked me, but yes.” She met his eyes steadily, and he saw nothing but determination there.
“Because I’m not man enough for you.”
“I don’t mean it as an insult,” she said earnestly. “It’s—it’s wonderful for you that you are able to take such joy in the moment, in the present. It’s just that it’s all different for me.”
“Because your husband died. And if you did marry again, Georgie …” His voice was a little hard, so he gentled it. “What sort of man do you want?”
“I told you!” she cried. “I don’t want to marry. Ever.”
“But let’s just say that you did. Describe a man to me.”
“That’s not the right word,” she whispered.
“Then describe the kind of man who would understand what you’re saying.”
“I think it’s important to realize that people really die,” she said. “They do. You live your life as if you didn’t believe it was a possibility. You’re twenty-eight, and you just came out of a weeklong coma. And yet you’ll never stop breaking horses, will you?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t think death will come for you,” she stated. “You think the rules don’t apply in your case.”
He could argue with her. But what was the point? If a woman didn’t think you were a man, if she thought you were still a boy, then she didn’t respect you. And if there was one thing he knew from working with animals—and people—it was that respect could not be demanded.
He’d encountered plenty of people who didn’t respect him. Who thought he was coarse and foolish because he didn’t care to dress in brocades and silk, who thought he was stupid to ignore his seat in Parliament, who didn’t understand how he could enjoy getting sweaty and filthy working with horses.
Not a single one of them had thrust a dagger in his heart like this.
Georgina didn’t respect him.
He nodded.
Then he went over and picked up her hat. Took a deep breath, put a smile on his face, and turned around. “Right,” he said, drawing on years of putting on a cheerful face before his sisters. “Let’s go on to the village, shall we?”
“Hugh,” she said, when he was on her side of the wall again. He could tell from her voice that she was distressed.
He forced another smile but didn’t quite meet her eyes. Instead, he put her up into her saddle and fetched Richelieu. His mount realized immediately that all the fun was over and paced down the road like the intelligent, well-bred horse that he was, and would be.
Hugh forced himself to think of that, not of the woman riding next to him. He’d get over this. Of course he would. It was like a firestorm that had blown over him, like a dream in the night, and with the same substantiality. A quick, bright thing that was meant to come to nothing.
Georgie tried to say a few things, so finally he took hold of the conversation and turned it firmly to horses. Since she had little to say about that, he told her about all the bloodlines in his stables, even those in Scotland.
The village of Parsley had one main cobbled street, and it was thronged from top to bottom with happy, shouting people. Carts lined the side of the street, selling everything from puppets to meat pies.
Hugh pulled up. “The fair is in full swing. Every farmer within two hours must be here.”
“Where shall we find the players?”
“The pub,” he said. “When players aren’t
acting, they’re drinking. Besides, I didn’t have breakfast, and I’d love a few rashers of bacon.”
“Neither did I, actually,” Georgie confessed.
“We’ll have to lead our horses, given the crowd.”
“Do you know where the inn is?”
He reached up to bring her down from her horse, dropping his hands from her waist instantly. “I’ve been here a few times with Finchbird. There are only two things in Parsley—the public house and the church. Church is over there. We’ll go in the opposite direction.”
He set off, leading the horses. He couldn’t help but notice as he walked along that women tended to smile at him, their bright eyes inviting. A black-haired wench with a saucy turn to her plump hips actually beckoned to him, and he laughed back at her.
“Are you having fun?” a voice said by his side.
He glanced down at her. Georgie had pinned her hat back on, and he couldn’t see more than the tip of her annoyed nose. Good. It wouldn’t hurt the grand Lady Georgina to learn that other women judged him man enough.
“Yes,” he said, honestly enough. “You made me feel like a boy, Georgie. No more than a green-headed fool. So yes, I am enjoying myself.” And he gave a big smile to a cherry-lipped Jezebel perched on the side of a cart, her legs swinging over the edge. She blew him a kiss and shouted something he couldn’t hear.
“I’m walking next to you,” Georgina said furiously. “As far as that lightskirt knows, I might be your wife!”
“Women are strange that way. They respond to men, not to women. If DuPreye were here, for instance, she wouldn’t care about his marriage—and she would know immediately that he didn’t either.”
“So you are—”
“If I were truly your companion, of course I wouldn’t smile at other women,” he pointed out. “What was Richard like in that respect?”
“He never smiled at other women.”
Hugh could believe that. Georgie’s husband had looked as if milk ran his veins, rather than blood. And now he thought about it, that was probably the sort of man she was looking for this time around as well.
He sighed. Her absurd little feather was brushing his shoulder; he could just see a tumble of red curls; he would give anything to pull her closer and kiss her nose. It wasn’t as if anyone would give a damn. The street was a jumble of people with no interest in a couple of gentry, walking their horses down the street.
“The Black Lion’s up ahead,” he said, nodding at the long, low building.
“What a peculiar emblem they have,” Georgina said.
It looked like a large clothing pin to Hugh. The whole situation was making him feel achy. That wasn’t something men felt, and even if Georgina judged him a stripling, he knew precisely what he was.
A man. A man in need of a foaming mug of ale.
Chapter 22
Georgina was completely confused—and sad. She felt as if a chasm yawned at her feet. It was the same sense of grief that beckoned after Richard died.
And yet she hadn’t really mourned Richard, not the way she would … not the way she would Hugh, if Hugh died. The idea made her feel ill.
Even though she wasn’t Hugh’s wife.
And this fair wasn’t making her feel any better. The screams of hawkers and children were competing. Everywhere Georgina looked there were flags, tents, and people selling everything from gingerbread to rocking chairs. But mostly women smiling at Hugh, she thought sourly.
Richelieu was unexpectedly behaving like one of the most perfectly trained horses she’d ever seen. He picked his way toward the inn, watching the children darting from side to side with all the anxiety of a turtle. The horse who had shied violently at a blue fly a mere half hour earlier didn’t even jump when fireworks exploded somewhere in the near vicinity.
Georgina felt an overwhelming desire to get Hugh to look at her. “Richelieu is acting like an angel,” she called.
He glanced over at her, and his eyes were perfectly friendly, in a brotherly sort of way. “Isn’t he?” he asked genially, giving Richelieu a pat. Her eyes followed the movement, and she realized that Hugh wore no gloves. Now she thought of it, she couldn’t remember ever seeing him in gloves.
His hands were large, twice the span of Richard’s fingers. And they were as strong as his shoulders, hands that had seen hard work and reached out for more. He had already turned away and was bending over, talking to a man lounging in front of the pub. But she couldn’t take her eyes from his left hand, holding Richelieu’s reins.
They were the hands of a man.
Not a boy.
Not those hands. A scar ran across the wrist; she could just see the thin white line in all that bronzed skin.
“What happened to your wrist?” she asked.
He heard her, but he didn’t turn, just kept chatting, before he gave the man a coin and handed him the two horses’ reins.
“Bit of an accident,” he said easily.
It was all gone. All that lovely fire between them, the way he looked at her and made her feel desirable, truly desirable for the first time since her marriage, all that was gone as if it had never existed.
Trailing behind him into the crowded inn, Georgina felt as if she were the tail on a peacock. Every eye turned to glance at Hugh, then stare at her.
There were no other ladies in the pub. “Hugh,” she said.
She hardly heard herself over the clamor in the room, but he turned instantly. “Yes?”
“Won’t we take a private room?”
“Oh, they don’t have that sort of thing here,” he said. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” she said, rather faintly. She had just time enough to realize that she was not only the only lady, but the only woman at all, before he led her over next to a low window, and they sat down.
The table was blackened with age and scratched with people’s initials. It wasn’t particularly clean either. Georgina couldn’t look up because she kept meeting men’s eyes, and that made her uncomfortable. They looked curious. And greedy. Almost as if they thought …
“I do believe they’ve decided you’re my ladybird,” Hugh said cheerfully. “They’re not used to your level of elegance.”
Georgina swallowed.
“Not to worry. No one will address you while I’m here.”
A tapster appeared and gave her the same glance as everyone else, as if she were expensive but available.
“Breakfast,” Hugh said. “Whatever you’ve got. I’m hungry, and I’m sure Her Ladyship is as well. Even more importantly, we need to talk to any players that came along with the fair if they’re on the premises.”
“Drinking in the back,” the tapster said, taking off without another word.
She dropped her eyes and found herself tracing with her finger the lines of a word cut into the table.
“Balls,” Hugh said, leaning over and reading it.
Georgina pulled back her finger as if she were stung.
“Such a lady,” Hugh said, amused.
He wore a plain black coat that strained over his shoulders. He’d taken off his neckcloth, and his throat was open, reminding her of all that golden skin underneath.
Her cunning little habit felt stupid and overtrimmed. She pulled off her hat and put it on the floor by her stool. She gave the tasseled riding crop to a boy riding a wooden broomstick. He shrieked.
She would have taken off the stupid jacket if she could. It was too tight for a matron, for a widow. It probably made her look like overdressed mutton, like an old woman trying too hard to be everything she could never be again.
Richard would have said that. Richard had very firm ideas about what women should and shouldn’t wear. Their best conversations were about women’s clothing, actually. They would go to the theater and whisper through the whole performance, discussing the costumes and the sets. Then they would go home and dissect the clothing worn by everyone in the audience.
Tears stung her eyes, thinking of it. Richard was fiercel
y scornful of women who tried too hard, who couldn’t accept the fact they were getting older.
She could hear him in her mind’s eye, excoriating some poor woman in her thirties with the temerity to wear a low-cut dress. Not that she was in her thirties, but she was a widow. She cringed, thinking what Richard would make of her tight riding habit and the reason she wore it. It was only when she heard Hugh’s voice calling to her that she snapped back to the present.
The innkeeper returned with two plates heaped with eggs and bacon. He put them down before them, and said, “This here behind me’s Mr. Lear, the Player. You’d best let him sit down or he might fall over, to tell the truth. He’s been drinking out back since sunup.”
“Lear?” Georgina echoed.
The man who walked in the innkeeper’s wake hardly seemed, at first glance, to fit his Shakespearean name. He was wearing ragged leather with great boots turned over at his knee. But then … he wasn’t one to be underestimated either. He smiled, and he gave the impression of being someone who could kill while smiling.
“Aye, Lear, as in the greatest of the great tragedians,” the player said, taking the seat that Hugh gestured toward. “I thank you kindly for that, my lord. Now I’ll tell you before you ask me, my lady, that I borrowed the name from a king though he was a king who mightily enjoyed acting, I might point out. As an actor, I have no real reason for a name of my own, as I spend most of my time being someone else, so why not choose a name of my own liking?”
He was drunk. Charmingly, probably habitually, drunk. His speech was just a trifle slurred, and he sat at the table with a kind of loose-limbed freedom that suggested he was three sheets to the wind. Still, he was beautiful, even at fifty-odd years, with high cheekbones and eyes like slumbering jewels.
It occurred to Georgina that this was probably what kings actually looked like: haunted, tipsy, and tired.
“Do you know what time Finchley wanted the performance?” Hugh asked her.
She put down her fork. The breakfast might not be elegant, but the bacon was excellent. “Eight o’clock. Would that be agreeable with you, Mr. Lear?”
“You catch us at the very point of decadence,” Lear said, a lazy mock in his voice. “We grow rusty and forget our lines. But surely you can expect no better of a troupe whom you come across in a dog’s bollocks like Parsley.”
