Now he stood with bare feet planted on his study floor, hands fisted behind his back, and temper precariously controlled.
Georgiana, primly dressed with a book in front of her, sat at his worktable. Her self-possession inflamed his already hot anger. She may be made of ice, but I certainly am not. The memory of her peeping over the edge of his bed in her ridiculously innocent night rail made him want to haul her back to bed right in front of Harley. This has to stop.
“If it is my thoughtless behavior in the night—”
“Thoughtless? Insane! Your presence here was improper when I was incapacitated—which I wish to make clear I no longer am—and it can’t go on.”
“Andrew, it is too late for those considerations. What difference will a few more days make?”
“Your assistance, my lady, was unsought and unneeded. It is certainly no longer required.” His voice dripped acid as he emphasized her formal title.
Harley’s impertinent amusement began to break into chuckles, exacerbating Andrew’s determination. Black eyes met blue implacably. It took all his will power not to look away from the hurt in her eyes. Long moments passed before he spoke again. The catch in his throat when he did annoyed him.
“If you wish to resume our work, I will thank you to leave me to my peace for one week. Then, if you still want it, we can take it up again.”
Another long moment passed.
“I’m not accustomed to being dismissed.” Her voice had a wispy air as if it came from far away.
A raw sound burst from deep inside him. “You are not being dismissed! Who would dare dismiss the Lady Georgiana Hayden?”
“Who indeed? One person would, and I would like to know why.”
Why again. Why what? She can’t seriously believe this morning’s actions were acceptable.
“That is my condition, Mr. Mallet. If you wish me to go, I will go. Before I leave, however, you must tell me why you left me. Don’t pretend confusion. You know very well I mean before.”
Before? His throat went dry. She can’t mean what happened years ago. He could hardly cope with this morning.
“Spare us both any foolishness, Andrew. Why did you leave me after that night in the Pembrook’s garden? You told me you would call on me the next day. You didn’t. A month, a full month later Richard told me you had sailed to India to join Wellesley. Why, Andrew?”
He stood in mute dismay; silence, thick in the air, weighed down his heart and trapped the breath in his lungs. Her eyes drilled into him; he didn’t speak.
“I thought—never mind what I thought. You said you would call, and you did not.” She paused and waited for an answer. He couldn’t give her one.
“Was I so repulsive that you had to bolt the country?” Her cry of the heart split the air.
Still he couldn’t answer. The vivid memory of her face–young, joyful, and eager–in the dim light of the garden and of the warm spring air, scented with the lilacs, tore at his heart. The hurt in her face lacerated his soul. He swallowed painfully and directed his gaze downward.
Georgiana noticed Harley’s presence–too late in Andrew’s opinion. “Mr. Harley, would you please remove my trunk? It is clear I will be leaving today.” Harley looked like he wanted to refuse, but she stared him down. The man lifted the trunk, shaking his head the whole time, while they waited in silence. When he went through the door and down the stairs, she didn’t follow.
“I will leave when you give me the respect of an honest answer. What happened that night? Was it my father? Spare me the tale of your longing for adventure and the sword, your great ambition for glory. I may have believed it then, but I don’t believe it now. What happened?”
He wavered at last. “No.” His eyes met hers. She looked infinitely sad, gripped by a deep and unfathomable grief. “The army wasn’t my life’s ambition.” He didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, harsh and far away. He turned his head, unable to bear the sight of her sorrow.
“It wouldn’t do,” he began. “You must have realized that. A schoolmaster’s son. Four years your junior. In every way your inferior. No prospects. No funds. I planned to offer.” He was pleading now, looking at her, willing her to understand. “I planned to abase myself before the great Duke of Sudbury.”
She went still. He thought her heart stared out at him through those stormy blue eyes, but she didn’t interrupt.
He swallowed the bitter taste of shame. “God forgive me, I even thought to take advantage of your misfortune. I was actually glad there were no other offers–happy for your great difficulties. God forgive me. No one in your own social class wanted you, and that made me glad. It tempted me to dream that perhaps my suit might be accepted. I sat for hours planning various approaches to convince him.”
“What happened?” she asked in a choked whisper.
“Glenaire knew what had passed between us. I don’t know how. His eyes missed little, even then. He came to my quarters deep into the night, certain he would find me awake. He was reasonable. He was sympathetic–as much sympathy as Richard is capable of–but he was implacable. It would not do.”
He emphasized each of those last four words one by one but didn’t stop. The words poured out of him now. He wanted her understanding, needed it desperately.
“We downed several bottles of the brandy while I ran through every argument, and he … well, he answered every one with the same immoveable fact. His father–your father–would never permit it. He would hound us to the edge of the world. He would make your life hell. By the time the sun came up, I had agreed to accept his help—long since repaid, I assure you—and obtain a commission. You know the rest.”
“Richard? I had thought, that is, I assumed it had to be His Grace.”
He could see into her soul; her brother’s betrayal lay embedded there like a knife.
“Perhaps your brother did your father’s bidding. Perhaps he acted alone.” He took a firm grip on his own emotions and tried to ease hers. “I don’t know. But I know he was right. Your father would have caused you great misery.”
She looked rebellious but didn’t speak.
“He was right, Georgiana. He wished to spare you further humiliation, and he was right. Don’t blame him. I never have. Damn it, Georgiana, he was right!”
Georgiana’s face twisted in anguish. He thought she might break, but she didn’t. She squared her shoulders instead.
“Very well, Mr. Mallet. I asked for an honest answer and, at long last, I have one. Thank you for giving me that much respect.” The air crackled with a slight, very electric pause before she continued. “He was wrong, though. The two of you very neatly decided my life for me that night, and you were wrong. You were both very, very wrong.”
He had no answer to that. “Goodbye, Lady Georgiana.”
“For now, Mr. Mallet.” Her words were clipped. “We have a bargain to keep, and I expect you to fulfill your part of it. One week, sir. I will see you then.”
He should have let her go at that. An old agony worked to the surface and forced its way out. Something ate at him, something he had to know.
“Georgiana?” he whispered.
She looked back at him, a pained furrow between her eyes.
“I thought they would have arranged a suitable marriage.”
Her throat moved as if she tried to swallow rocks or combat tears.
“They did. They offered me to Viscount Pfeil.”
“He was my grandfather’s age!” It was a roar of rage. “Your father is a bigger fool than I thought.”
“He had neither teeth nor manners. The Duchess deemed his title adequate.” She met his eyes and bit out, “No one else cared to offer. I refused, as you can see. I discovered that I value my independence more than any dubious honor marriage or the machinations of men might confer.”
Georgiana returned to the watchful eyes of her servants, the comforts of her well-run establishment, and the sterile silence of her life. No one questioned her absence. No one at Helsington Cottage e
ver contradicted her. No one ever shared her thoughts. No one spoke to her at all beyond “Yes, my lady,” not even Eunice. The week became an eternity.
Her time came again and passed after four mildly uncomfortable days; her energy returned immediately. Mr. Peabody’s regime continued to improve her condition, but to what purpose she couldn’t say. Attempts to work were desultory; walks in the garden were frequent but inevitably brief.
On the fifth day, a missive arrived from Little Saint Mary’s Lane. It relieved her fear that he would find an excuse to abandon their bargain. He would come.
Lady Georgiana,
As we agreed, I will take up our work in three days hence. I will call upon you at Helsington Cottage at one o’clock that day. I will bring the material of our current project. The rest of your materials will be returned to you as soon as may be possible.
Yours Respectfully,
A. Mallet
She wasn’t to be seen in town again. She doubted that a change in their work habits would quiet gossip. She didn’t care; he might. She placed the missive on the mantel in her sitting room.
At least the work was to continue. The thought no longer filled her with contentment, and she couldn’t say why. Work, Georgiana. It is about the work.
She called for Chambers, her capable butler, and gave him instructions to sort out space for their work in her home. Her dainty upstairs sitting room wouldn’t do. They would find a place on the ground floor.
On the sixth day, an unexpected visitor broke the silence of Helsington Cottage. Jamie Heyworth might be shallow and drink too much, but his charm and thorough knowledge of everyone in the upper ten thousand never failed to amuse. Once she would have welcomed him gladly.
Now, however, she glowered at him over her tea and his sherry. He came as Richard’s emissary. She couldn’t forget that Jamie served as Richard’s eyes and ears in Cambridgeshire.
The charming wastrel pretended not to notice her mood. He managed a smooth flow of conversation in spite of her monosyllabic answers. “On m’way to Newmarket,” he said. “Hoping to make a few quid on a sweet goer I saw run in a challenge race a while ago. The race is in three days, so I thought I would pop in and see how you go on.”
Georgiana’s thoughts were as sour as the lemon with which she flavored her tea. She wouldn’t have believed such a clunker even before Andrew’s revelations about her brother. No man about town, least of all the newly titled, though utterly poverty stricken, Jamie Heyworth, Baron Ross, would admit he had nothing else to do but “pop in” on the spinster sister of a friend in her maiden household.
“I take it my brother is still too busy at Whitehall to come himself.” Her sharp eyes dared him to contradict her.
Jamie colored but didn’t deny it. “He worries about you, Lady Georgie, alone here. Says you never have visitors. I know Her Grace doesn’t like to leave London, especially during the Season.”
“And you know perfectly well she prefers her embarrassingly gauche and sharp-tongued elder daughter stay buried in Cambridgeshire, particularly during the Season. Let us spare ourselves some effort and take care of business. What exactly are you here to find out?”
He looked away first.
“Are you well, Lady Georgiana? He wishes to know if you are well, and I do too. The last time I came here and the last time Glenaire visited himself, you were pale and ill. It worries him. It—it worried me too.” His handsome countenance, no longer youthful and untouched, looked sincere enough. “You look better, I must say. Color in your cheeks, all that, but looks deceive.”
“Not this time. Your observations are correct. I am somewhat better. You may thank my brother for his kind referral. His Mr. Peabody treated me every bit as well as Richard expected him to. I told him that myself when I wrote.” She paused and sipped her tea. “What else, Jamie?”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“What else does Richard want to know, Jamie? Come, come, let us come to the end of this farce.”
“He asked after your work. Have you been able to find assistance?” Heyworth schooled his features in a look of innocence.
“Richard never asks about my work and has no interest in what sort of help I might need. What did he tell you to find out, Jamie?” She stared him down again, but this time he didn’t speak. “It isn’t your fault, you know. I am aware you have to do his bidding.” She went on relentlessly, no longer attempting to spare his feelings. “Obviously the Hayden family honor holds his great interest. What is it you are required to find out? I would much prefer that you do not question my servants.”
He couldn’t stand against the force of her determined assault. “Andrew,” he said at last. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
He waited for more. She allowed the silence to stretch.
“I’ll thank you to leave now,” she said as she rang for the footman. She turned. “Jamie, there is one more thing.”
“For you, Lady Georgie, anything.” His practiced smile melted away under the determined glare of her direct gaze.
“Andrew’s face. What happened to it?”
All pretenses fled. His eyes flew open. “He prefers not to talk about it.”
“I know that. And now I know that you know the answer. What happened?”
Heyworth colored. “I may dance to the Hayden family tune, but this time you have to ask the man himself if you want an answer.” He blustered, but she didn’t back away. “I will tell you this much. The French held Andrew prisoner for months after Salamanca. Glenaire got him out on a sliver of luck. He never talks about it to any of us, at least not when he’s awake.”
“I have nightmares? Did I speak?” She remembered the fear in his voice when he said it.
Jamie shook his head when she continued to watch him, and her mind raced to form questions. “No, you don’t. No more questions. Isn’t mine to tell.”
“Just one. When the French captured him, was he doing Richard’s bidding?”
“Not mine to tell.” He repeated, determined not to speak this time. She couldn’t tell if he shook his head in denial or disgust.
She remained seated when he left the room.
“Damn you, Richard!”
Chapter 13
Andrew Mallet, man of his word, appeared at exactly one o’clock at the formal entrance to Helsington Cottage in spite of his conviction that he would soon regret doing so.
Chambers took his hat and showed him into the sunny breakfast parlor at the back of the first floor with a minimum of respect and no comment. Furniture had been removed and extra tables and bookshelves brought in. From the looks of them, they were from the Helsington attics.
Andrew had eyes only for Georgiana. She sat at a worktable next to wide windows overlooking a garden and lawn that rolled downward toward the River Cam. The light, perfect for an afternoon’s work, glowed around her like a halo. She took his breath away. All thoughts of work fled. He could cross the room in two steps and have her in his arms. He could kiss her senseless. He did neither.
“Good day to you, Mr. Mallet.” She tilted her head and looked past him. “I see my material has returned with you.”
Harley, his habitually inappropriate expression distorted in irritation, brought boxes into the workroom assisted by two of Helsington’s sturdier footmen.
“I reviewed our progress to date with Korinna,” she said, ignoring the bustle. “I attempted, as you encouraged, a less formal translation of the Asopos fragment. I should like your judgment of it.” She waited, chin high, all business.
Her armor was on. Good, Georgiana. Keep it there. You need it. I need it. He reached for the book containing the Korinna original and for her translation and began to review them without speaking.
Many of the poem’s images had multiple meanings, and many of those meanings were subtly erotic or, at the very least, improper. He wondered if she had known that. Andrew groaned inwardly. There were others in her collection likely to prove worse. Dangerous works indeed. Ho
w did I let myself get drawn this? I am mad to continue.
He extended his hand with a sigh of resignation. “Do you have your first version at hand?” She rose and went to a box labeled with the poet’s name. “Your first version was correct to a great extent. I want to compare your choice of words in that one with this one.”
The teacher read, compared, and reviewed in silence. The student sat in stiff attention. She wouldn’t be amused if she knew how obvious the high cost of her restraint was to him. Awareness of every fleeting expression, every breath she took, made reading difficult. He read the pieces over and over, as slowly as he could, put the paper down even more slowly, removed his spectacles, and rubbed the space between his eyes.
When he looked up, he saw trepidation in her transparent eyes and color rising up her neck. The fragment she had translated described the fruitful results of the nine daughters of Asopos who had been carried off and “taken” by various gods and heroes, often two or three to a hero. The better she understood the implications, the less confident he expected her to be about the English translation. He found it easier to obfuscate, glossing over the action in the poem, rather than to find words to describe what Georgiana may not be able to imagine.
“Better,” he said at last.
“Better. Is that all?” She was outraged.
“Better. ‘Better’ indicates progress since last we met. Isn’t progress the nature of education? Lay this aside for a day and move on to the second fragment, the mountain lyric. Have you reviewed your earlier work?”
“Must we?”
“We must.” He needed time to give his peace of mind an opportunity to reassert itself.
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