Courting the Forbidden Debutante

by Laura Martin

  ‘Mr Robertson, what a surprise to see you here,’ she said drily.

  ‘You think I’m following you?’ he asked, a smile forming on his lips, revealing surprisingly white teeth contrasting against his bronzed skin.

  ‘It is rather a coincidence...’ she said, even though she’d convinced herself this was nothing more than chance. Or fate. As she looked at him she tried to limit her admiration to the easy way he sat on his horse, his good posture and clearly excellent riding skills, but she found her eyes roaming over his body. It was hard not to notice the sculpted muscles under his riding garb and the tanned skin that spoke of his time under the blazing sun... Quickly she snapped her eyes back to his and tried to focus.

  ‘I suppose I did follow you from the ballroom last night,’ he said, ‘but even I wouldn’t dream of ambushing a young lady while she’s out riding for pleasure.’

  ‘And you? Are you out riding for pleasure?’ Georgina asked.

  Even though she knew very little about Mr Robertson she did know quite a lot about how society worked. A man newly arrived in London, with few family connections, would struggle to easily find a horse to ride. To want to hire one for the Season showed either a deep love of riding or a view that all gentlemen should have access to a mount at any time. Given what she’d seen of Mr Robertson so far it seemed far more likely to be the former than the latter.

  ‘Indeed. Back home I’m in the saddle at least five hours a day. Riding for pleasure isn’t quite the same, but it is better than the alternative of not riding at all for months at a time.’

  ‘Back home?’ Georgina asked, trying to make her question sound casual.

  He regarded her for a moment, and she wondered if he would once again dodge the question about his origins. ‘Australia,’ he said eventually. ‘The Eastern Coast.’

  Where they transported convicted criminals.

  Telling herself not to be foolish, Georgina found her imagination running away with her. Thoughts of brutal criminals, men in chains, toiling away under a baking sun filled her mind. She’d never even seen a picture of Australia, but in her imagination it had sands the colour of amber and harsh conditions.

  She felt her mouth go dry as the unbidden image of Mr Robertson shirtless, toiling away in a chain gang, popped into her head. She’d felt the hard muscles of his chest the night before, muscles made strong by manual labour. Quickly she reached for a question, any question, to distract herself from the image.

  ‘What’s it like?’ Georgina asked.

  Mr Robertson laughed softly. ‘Like nothing you could ever imagine.’

  She didn’t think he was going to say any more, but after a moment he continued.

  ‘It’s nothing like England,’ he said, ‘In any way whatsoever. The people are coarser, no time for these customs or manners that matter so much in London. The land is beautiful, but harsh. I’ve known many a man go wandering off into the wilderness never to be seen again.’

  ‘That wouldn’t happen in Surrey or Sussex,’ Georgina murmured.

  ‘But despite all the trials it throws at you there’s something rather enchanting about it. I’ve never seen such blue sea or golden sands. Or such vast expanses of land where there’s not a single sign of a settlement.’ He was staring off into the distance as if remembering fondly. ‘I suppose that’s how you feel about your home, wherever it may be.’

  ‘You were born there?’ Georgina asked.

  He looked up abruptly, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘No,’ he said brusquely.

  They rode in silence, side by side, for a few moments, Mr Robertson clearly still deep in thought, reminiscing about the land he seemed to both love and fear a little.

  ‘You were born in Hampshire,’ he said after a few minutes.

  ‘You’ve been enquiring about me?’

  Shrugging, a gesture not normally seen among the men of the ton, he grinned. ‘I’m residing with Lady Winston. She seems to know everything about everyone.’

  ‘That’s how it is,’ Georgina said, almost glumly. There was no mystery among the ton. Those whom her mother deemed to be suitable friends or companions for Georgina numbered very few and her social circle was small. The wealthiest members of society, those with the oldest family names and largest estates, only socialised with people of a similar position, meaning even if you didn’t like someone very much you ended up spending rather a lot of time with them.

  ‘Are you related to her?’ Georgina asked as they neared Hyde Park Corner, turning their horses for another lap of Rotten Row.

  ‘Not exactly...’ He paused. ‘I’m in England with two good friends, Mr Sam Crawford and Mr George Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald is Lady Winston’s nephew.’

  It was a strange way of putting it, not exactly, but she supposed some people had friendships that were as close as family ties. It might be that he considered these two men his brothers and as an extension Lady Winston as a relative as well. In a way it was only like her considering Caroline a sister.

  Georgina was about to open her mouth to ask another question, when she heard a shout in the distance. She saw Mr Robertson turn his head and focus in on the cry, and followed the direction of his gaze to do the same.

  Hurtling towards them, although a good few hundred feet away, was a riderless horse. The groom who had been exercising the spirited animal had been thrown to the ground and was now struggling to rise. The horse seemed petrified of something, nostrils flaring and head thrashing from side to side, and as they watched, it showed no signs of slowing.

  ‘Stay to one side,’ Mr Robertson ordered, gripping her horse’s bridle and guiding her next to the fence. Here she was in very little danger, a good few feet away from the main path, but Georgina knew better than to move at all. She had a great respect for horses, knew the damage they could do by throwing a rider, or worse stampeding.

  As she watched Mr Robertson narrowed his eyes as if trying to work out something, then urged his horse forward into a canter, heading away from her and the runaway beast. At first she wondered if he was fleeing, but quickly dismissed the idea. Of the little she knew of the mysterious Australian, she could tell he wasn’t one to shy away from a little danger.

  The runaway horse was gaining on him and Georgina watched as slowly he picked up the pace, so that by the time the riderless horse was level with him he was travelling more or less at the same speed. They were running out of path and if he didn’t do something soon the horse would escape into the rest of Hyde Park where it could injure an unsuspecting person out for a morning stroll, or even worse dart onto the street, causing an accident.

  Just as she thought there was no hope she saw Mr Robertson lean across and take the horse’s bridle, then in one swift manoeuvre he leapt off his horse’s back and onto the runaway animal’s. The horse bucked, but after a few seconds seemed to settle and within half a minute was wheeling round in a gentle trot.

  As Georgina watched Mr Robertson dismounted, caught his own horse and began leading both animals back up towards her and the amazed groom. She could see him muttering soothing words, all the time working to keep the animals calm.

  ‘Thank you,’ the groom said, his cheeks red with embarrassment at having to be saved in such a fashion.

  ‘Spirited beast,’ Mr Robertson said, almost admiringly, handing the reins back over.

  ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Georgina asked when they were once again alone, although receiving curious looks from all the other grooms out exercising their master’s horses.

  ‘It’s what I do,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I own the largest stud in Australia.’ He grimaced. ‘More or less the only stud in Australia.’

  ‘You breed horses?’

  ‘Breed them, raise them, train them and sell them.’

  Not a life of crime, then. Georgina sighed—he was probably very wealthy, although she wasn’t sure how the income of Australian la
ndowners compared with English ones. Not that it would matter to her parents. They were destined to disapprove of him immediately. He was new money, someone who had raised themselves up and made their fortune through hard work. Although some might think it admirable working to make their legacy, her parents certainly did not agree with that opinion. To them the only people who mattered were those who had been born into money, preferably a very long line of it.

  With a glance sideways she wondered if this was why she felt an irresistible pull whenever she thought about Mr Robertson. He was handsome in a rugged way, certainly had a good physique with broad shoulders and hard muscles in all the right places, but Georgina thought it was more than a physical attraction. She knew some young women flirted with and pursued the wrong sort of men, exactly because their parents wouldn’t approve of them. She’d never thought herself to be that rebellious, or that shallow, but here she was wondering how she could spend more time with Mr Robertson, even when she knew nothing could ever happen between them.

  ‘I should be getting home,’ Georgina said, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable. If she had any sense she would break off their connection immediately and resolve never to see this man again.

  ‘Would you like me to escort you?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, far too quickly, earning herself an amused grin from Mr Robertson. ‘Thank you, but, no,’ she said, forcing the words to come out at a more normal speed.

  ‘But you will allow me to call on you later, as we agreed?’

  She should say no. Find some excuse, but silently she nodded.

  ‘And you will accept my call?’

  It was custom for callers to be screened before being admitted to the house and Georgina had on occasion informed their butler to tell the caller she was out. She hated doing it, though, hated to think someone had made the effort to visit and she wouldn’t deign to see them.

  ‘I will,’ she said.

  ‘Until later, Lady Georgina.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Robertson.’

  Chapter Four

  With practised discretion Georgina stifled a yawn. The poem Mr Wilcox was reading must have been three pages long and they were still on the first page. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t entertaining, and really she was trying not to listen to it out of fear she might laugh. And that would be rude. Mr Wilcox was a nice enough young man, persistent in his courtship despite not receiving any signs of encouragement from Georgina, and she really didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but the poem was truly terrible.

  If I could liken your skin,

  To the creamy plaster of a fountain.

  I would liken your lips

  To the red rose that grows beside it.

  She wasn’t even sure if fountains were made from plaster. All the ones she could think of were stone.

  ‘Mr Robertson to see Lady Georgina,’ the butler announced, directing his words towards Lady Westchester, who glanced enquiringly at Georgina.

  ‘I made his acquaintance at the ball last night,’ she said, trying not to meet her mother’s eye. ‘He is related to Lady Winston,’ she fibbed.

  ‘Show him in.’

  Georgina studied the needlework in her hands, trying to compose herself for the minutes ahead. Her mother would immediately disapprove of Mr Robertson, that much she was sure, even without knowing about his questionable background. He was too different to the other men they socialised with for her mother not to notice.

  ‘Lady Georgina,’ Mr Robertson said, bowing in her direction as he entered the room.

  ‘My mother, Lady Westchester.’

  Another bow. ‘Lady Westchester.’

  ‘And I think you met Mr Wilcox last night.’

  Mr Wilcox certainly remembered Mr Robertson—his eyes narrowed and his lips trembled a little in indignation. Too late Georgina remembered it was Mr Wilcox who’d lost out on the promised dance when Mr Robertson had whisked her on to the dance floor.

  Once everyone was seated Lady Westchester fixed Mr Robertson with a piercing stare.

  ‘I do not know you, Mr Robertson. Who are your people?’

  Georgina felt like burying her head in her hands. Normally her mother waited for at least a few seconds before the inquisition began.

  ‘My people?’

  ‘Your family? From where do you hail?’

  ‘I was born and raised in Hampshire, my lady.’

  Georgina frowned, wondering why Sam hadn’t mentioned it when they had discussed her childhood before. ‘Hampshire, how delightful, that is where our primary estate is situated. Perhaps we know your family.’

  ‘I doubt it, Lady Westchester,’ Mr Robertson said. ‘My parents died when I was young and I was fortunate enough to be taken in by a kind and wealthy benefactor. I have not set foot in Hampshire for many years.’

  ‘How unfortunate.’

  ‘Shall I continue with my poem?’ Mr Wilcox asked.

  Georgina had quite forgotten he was in the room. She shot a glance at Mr Robertson, who had settled back into an armchair. If he felt at all uncomfortable or out of his depth he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘Please continue,’ Georgina said, forcing a smile on her face.

  ‘Your eyes compare to the starry sky—’

  ‘Lady Westchester, there is an urgent note from Lady Yaxley,’ the butler interrupted.

  Georgina watched as her mother weighed up the situation. She could hardly ignore an urgent note from her dearest friend, but equally she was responsible for Georgina’s reputation. She held out her hand for the note, read it quickly, then stood.

  ‘I shall be back within a few minutes,’ she said, leaving the room quickly.

  ‘I brought you a gift,’ Mr Robertson said, rising immediately and moving to take up a position next to Georgina on the sofa.

  ‘I say,’ Mr Wilcox said, ‘I was just reading Lady Georgina a poem.’

  Mr Robertson raised an eyebrow, but to his credit his lips didn’t even twitch into a smile.

  ‘I find poetry to be a quite personal, intimate thing,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is better saved for when it is just the two of you. I wouldn’t want to kill the mood and ruin your poem.’

  Mr Wilcox opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to consider what the other man had said.

  ‘Well, I suppose you’re right,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Perhaps you could even make a copy for Lady Georgina, something she can keep and look at in her own time.’

  ‘That’s a rather good idea,’ Mr Wilcox said, looking down at his handwritten poem. ‘I’ll get to work on it this afternoon, Lady Georgina.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wilcox.’

  ‘It’s only something small,’ Mr Robertson said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a handkerchief. Georgina watched with mounting anticipation as he unfolded the square of material and reached inside. ‘It’s a flower from the tea-tree plant.’

  Pressed and perfect, it had whitish-pink petals and a vibrant pink centre and was by far one of the most beautiful flowers she’d ever set eyes on.

  ‘They’re everywhere in Australia,’ he said. ‘All different varieties and colours.’

  ‘You brought it all the way over here?’

  ‘By accident,’ he admitted. ‘So many things are undocumented in Australia. My friend, George Fairfax, is keen on cataloguing wild plants and animals, so when I’m out and about I pick anything interesting for him to have a look at.’

  ‘And this one found its way to England.’

  ‘I must have left it in a pocket.’

  Georgina was no stranger to gifts from her suitors. Many of the men came armed with huge bunches of flowers, or expensive delicacies, sometimes even intimate items such as a new pair of silk gloves, but most were extravagant, aimed at showing their wealth and status. This was a much more thoughtful gift, a little insight into a world Georgina
would never know.

  ‘I love it, thank you,’ she said, looking up into his eyes. They were startlingly blue, a vibrant dash of colour in his tanned face. For a moment she forgot Mr Wilcox was in the room with them, so mesmerised was she by the man in front of her. She felt a hot flush take over her body as she imagined him wrapping those strong arms around her and not for the first time she felt her eyes flicker to the crisp white of his shirt, imagining once more what his body looked like underneath.

  ‘I’m sure your mother will be back shortly,’ Mr Wilcox said, with a polite little cough. He looked pointedly at the position Georgina and Mr Robertson were in on the sofa, far too close for propriety, and hurriedly Georgina moved away. She felt hot and bothered. Mr Robertson only had to look at her and she felt her pulse quicken, and Georgina didn’t like not being in control of her own body.

  ‘I hope whatever called your mother away is nothing serious,’ Mr Robertson said, not acknowledging Mr Wilcox’s pointed stare. ‘Is your father at home?’

  It was a nonchalant enquiry, slightly too casual, and immediately it sparked Georgina’s interest. Men often wanted to see her father to curry favour with one of the most influential men in England, or, on the more worrying occasions, to ask for her hand in marriage, but she hadn’t expected Mr Robertson to want either of those things. Perhaps she had misjudged him, perhaps he was looking for a boost up the social ladder and was hoping an acquaintanceship with her, and by extension her family, would help him on his way.

  ‘Father rarely comes to London these days,’ Georgina said. ‘He prefers to stay in the country, unless his commitments demand his presence in the city.’

  She watched Mr Robertson’s face intently, but could see no hint of disappointment. Either he was a talented liar, or he had only been enquiring about her father for politeness’ sake.

  ‘He remains in Hampshire?’

  ‘Yes, for the foreseeable future at least. He will come up once the Season is properly underway I’m sure, to attend to his political commitments, but he doesn’t like to arrive too prematurely.’