by Nina Mason
Dismayingly, it seemed quite probable. Not that she would mind so very much being poor if Christian were not also facing incarceration. But, alas, he would go to debtor’s prison—and she knew not how she would manage without him for as long as it took to pay off his creditors.
How long that might be, there was no way of knowing. And with her bad luck, he would die before he got out, as so many other poor souls had done. The thought raked her heart, so she flung it away, telling herself not to let her anxieties get the better of her. What would be, would be, and she’d simply have to make the best of whatever came to pass.
At the same time, she was hardly a fatalist. Had she believed her future predetermined, she would never have written to Christian’s father. Instead, she would have stood aside, resigned to her disappointment. Just as Elinor Dashwood had so saintedly done.
Oh, yes. She had indeed been wrong to dismiss Elinor’s impeccable conduct so hastily … and even more in error to have welcomed the suit of a man already affianced.
Heaving a sigh, Georgie rolled onto her side and tucked a hand under her pillow. She was also beginning to seriously regret her decision to interfere. Had she not, Christian (with God’s help) might have found a way to break the betrothal without risking a lifetime of poverty and imprisonment.
Racked with guilt and regret, Georgie closed her eyes. Just as she finally drifted off, a rap sounded upon her bedchamber door. Disturbed by the sound, she came awake at once. Presuming it was Christian (who else would disturb her slumber at such an ungodly hour?), she lit her bedside candle and climbed out of bed. Pulling on her dressing gown, she crossed to the door. Her heart got a shock when she found, not Christian, but Miss Stubbs on the other side.
Perturbed and a little afraid, Georgie lashed out. “Do you have any idea of the time? Or how ill-mannered it is to disturb someone’s sleep?”
Miss Stubbs’ whole being radiated resentment. “You dare speak to me of bad manners, after what you have done?”
Georgie had no idea to what she referred, until she saw the letter in her hand. Suspecting what it was, she moved the candle closer, trying to make out the address. Seeing little more than that the handwriting was unknown to her, she said impatiently, “If you have something to say, then say it. Otherwise, go to bed and leave me in peace.”
“I have much to say, Miss Bennet,” the lady returned with undisguised rancor. “On the subject of my betrothed—and your despicable campaign to come between us. Not only with your whoring ways, but also by writing to my future father-in-law, who, according to this letter, will be paying us a visit very soon.”
Her statement confirmed Georgie’s suspicions. The letter in her hand was indeed the one she’d been waiting for from Christian’s father. Furiously she cried, “If one of us is a conniving minx, I daresay it is you and not me. How dare you steal a letter addressed to me! I’ll have you know that reading another person’s mail is a criminal offense—not to mention, a gross invasion of privacy.”
“If the content was so very private, the Earl should have written to you in cipher.”
Georgie scoffed. “What a ridiculous notion! Had he done so, how was I to have deciphered his message without an agreed-upon key?”
“That is true, I suppose,” said Miss Stubbs, narrowing her eyes, “but it really is the only way to protect the confidentiality of one’s correspondence, when letters can so easily fall into the wrong hands.”
“As in this case,” Georgie bitingly replied.
“Indeed, Miss Bennet. This instance serves as a prime example.”
“May I see the letter? It is addressed to me, after all.”
“I think not,” said Miss Stubbs, pressing the letter more firmly to her breast. “It might be addressed to you, but it is in my possession.”
Georgie, fuming with rage and indignation, shot out her hand to snatch the letter away. Anticipating her intention, Miss Stubbs stepped back, out of reach.
“Hand it over, you thieving little wretch,” she hissed, holding out her hand, “before I scream and awaken all in the house.”
“Scream all you like,” Miss Stubbs replied with defiance. “And when they come, your sister particularly, I shall show her the letter so she knows the lengths to which you have gone to put an end to my engagement.”
Georgie, unaffected by the threat, lunged at the girl. Catching Miss Stubbs off-guard, she pinned her against the opposite wall and tore the letter from her grasp. Then, before the thief could regain her senses, Georgie dashed into her room and slammed the door behind her. Heart pounding, hands trembling, she frantically fumbled to turn the key in the latch.
Only after locking the door did Georgie realize she’d dropped her candlestick in the hallway. Meanwhile, Miss Stubbs was pounding on the door while shouting, “Open up this instant, you interfering little whore. I’m not yet finished with you. Not by half.”
Over the blood-thunder pounding in her ears, Georgie could hear doors opening and people murmuring alarmedly. Hurrying to the desk under the window, she hurriedly lit the candle provided to melt her sealing wax. Then, leaning nearer the flame, she unfolded the letter, eager to read what Christian’s father had written. It was dated yesterday.
My dear Miss Bennet,
I am in receipt of your letter of the eighth and, as you no doubt anticipated, I was shocked and dismayed by the news it conveyed. Though I have long been aware of my eldest son’s dissolute ways, I never believed he would stoop as low as engaging himself to a common actress. I cannot, of course, allow them to marry; but neither do I desire that he be the butt of the satirists, as were Lord Derby and the former Miss Farren during their much-lampooned courtship.
I feel obliged, therefore, to offer my assistance. If, as you say, the lady is only after his legacy, I shall know what to do; not, however, by way of anything as impersonal as a letter. I will, therefore, make a visit to Much Wenlock, so that I may communicate my decision to my ne’er-do-well son face-to-face.
I expect to arrive no later than Christmas Eve. Until then, I am yours, most sincerely,
Percival Churchill, Earl of Wingfield
P.S. I knew your late father, my dear, but shall not hold that against you!
Disappointment and frustration besieged Georgie’s heart. The letter told her almost nothing, while, at the same time, conveyed a great deal to Miss Stubbs. That the communique had fallen into her hands, therefore, was most unfortunate. For the conniving little trollip now knew the Earl’s purpose in visiting. Thankfully, he’d mentioned nothing about Georgie’s interest in marrying Christian once Miss Stubbs was out of the way.
Not that the tart was incapable of reading between the lines. She might be uneducated, but she was far too devious to be stupid. Georgie, therefore, must be on her guard at all times, lest the girl attempted another attack on her person.
For the moment, at least, she’d stopped pounding on the door—a small consolation, given the shouting match now taking place in the hallway.
“What does he mean to do when he comes?”
“Upon my word, I have not the slightest idea.”
“Did you know your whore had written to him?”
“Mind your tongue, Miss Stubbs,” he warned. “For Miss Bennet is not my whore—or a whore at all, for that matter. Rather, she is a fine lady, which is more than can be said of you.”
“That may be so,” Miss Stubbs returned contemptuously. “But when I am a Countess, I shall vastly outrank her in social standing.”
“That is unlikely.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Miss Bennet is a gentlewoman, which you can never be, however well you marry or act the part.”
“You are wrong,” the tramp insisted. “For birth made no difference in Lady Derby’s case.”
Christian released a taunting chuckle. “That shows how little you understand the mindset of the aristocracy.”
“I understand enough to know that those below me in rank will seek to curry my favor,”
she peevishly reposted. “And that is all that matters to me, pertaining to the society of my peers, that is to say.”
“If I were you, I would not count my chickens while they are still in their shells.”
“Because your father plans to get rid of me, I suppose you mean. Well, I have a mind to hold you to your promise, however he might act … if for no better reason than to spite that meddling little Jezebel.”
“Even if he should disinherit me?”
Miss Stubbs was silent for a prolonged moment before asking rather dispiritedly, “Do you believe that is what he will do when he comes?”
To this, Christian replied, “As he is exceedingly proud, I would not be surprised if he did.”
There was another pause before the wench said in an accusing tone of voice, “Ergo, by writing to him of our engagement, Miss Bennet has ruined everything … for both of us.”
Georgie waited with bated breath for his answer, fearing he might secretly believe she had indeed spoiled his prospects.
“On the contrary, Miss Stubbs,” he said at last. “For I would much rather be poor and happy with her than prosperous and miserable with you.”
His response activated a flood of relief in Georgie’s breast.
“That is perhaps,” Miss Stubbs haughtily reposted, “because you do not know what it is like to live in poverty—or the desperation and squalor that so often attends impoverished circumstances. I urge you, therefore, to consider your choice very carefully. If you marry her, you will have a wife you love, but no money … and might soon come to rank the want of creature comforts above mutual affection.”
“That will never happen,” he told her emphatically.
“So you say now,” she replied. “But mark my words: being poor has a way of changing one’s priorities very quickly.”
Was Miss Stubbs right? The idea that she might genuinely know of what she spoke terrified Georgie to the core of her being. Would the scarcity of funds prove as challenging for them as it had for the Dashwood women? Would they be too poor to afford sugar, tea, and beef? Would he come to resent her in time for his reversal of fortune?
He said not, but how could he know for certain? Alas, he could not, having never hitherto suffered the indignities of destitution. Dear me. Was she wrong to have written to his father? Was she wrong to believe in the power of love to overcome all obstacles? She wanted to believe not, but how could she be sure?
She could not. No, indeed.
And now, because of her meddling, their fates were sealed, as the letter in her hand made clear. The earl’s reference to his eldest son’s “dissolute ways” strongly suggested he strongly disapproved of Christian’s conduct and might well, therefore, feel no scruple in settling his legacy upon his second son.
* * * *
Christian could not rest until he knew what the quarrel between Georgie and Jinny had been about, so he waited in his bedchamber until the house was again still and quiet. Then, wearing only his nightshirt and dressing gown, he slipped out of his room and crept down the hall toward Georgie’s bedchamber.
He could reasonably presume their altercation had to do with him. But which incident in particular had provoked it? Had Miss Stubbs somehow learned of his father’s impending visit? Or, heaven forbid, had grown wise to Georgie’s nocturnal visits to his chambers? In either case, Jinny could only have had the information from Benedict, who Christian intended to question in the morning ... depending, of course, on what he learned tonight from Georgianna.
Very softly, he rapped on her door and waited. Hearing no stirrings from within, he knocked again, slightly louder this time. At length, she opened the door, but only a crack. In the light of the candlestick he carried, he could see she looked sleepy and surprised to see him, but also somewhat relieved. Before she could say anything, he blurted, “I know we agreed not to meet like this again, but I had to see you … to find out what the earlier disturbance with Miss Stubbs was about.”
“It was about my letter from your father,” she bluntly told him.
He furrowed his brow in confusion. “But … I thought you’d had no response from my father.”
“So did I,” said she, “until Miss Stubbs knocked upon my door.”
He squinted at her, still confounded. “What the devil has Miss Stubbs got to do with it?”
Georgie pulled the door open wider. “Come in, and I shall explain.”
He crossed the threshold, the guttering flame of his candle providing the only light in the darkened room. It felt unbearably intimate to be alone with her in naught but their nightclothes. Seeing nowhere to sit apart from the bed, he chose the safer environs of the fireplace.
She stepped out of the small circle of light, toward the desk beneath the window. He heard the soft rustle of paper before she returned to him with a letter. Holding it up to the candlelight, he recognized the penmanship at once as his father’s. As curious as he was distressed, he read what was written. When he’d finished, he turned to her, no more enlightened than when he’d knocked on her door.
“When did it come?”
“Yesterday, apparently.”
“And, again … what the devil has Miss Stubbs to do with it?”
“She had it with her—the letter, I mean—when she knocked on my door tonight. She’d stolen it, you see, from the letter tray, I can only presume, without my knowledge.”
Dread coiled in the pit of Christian’s stomach. “So, she knows all about it then.”
“She knows only what can be deduced from what your father wrote to me,” Georgie clarified. “For, I promise you, I admitted nothing else.”
“Good,” he replied before taking a breath. “And, now that you’ve read his response, what do you make of it?”
“That he means to help you seems clear. But the method by which he will accomplish his ends is less so.”
“I agree,” he said with rising distress. “Though, I am inclined to believe he does indeed have in mind to disinherit me.”
Georgie got quiet and turned away. Then, she timidly said, “I should tell you I overheard you and Miss Stubbs speaking in the hallway just now.”
He cringed, recalling that Jinny had called her a whore. “I’m so sorry, Georgie. Her conduct toward you has been unpardonable.”
“And mine toward her has been equally so,” Georgie admitted, clearly ashamed of her conduct. “But that is not what concerns me.”
“Then, pray, what does?”
“What she said about living in poverty.” She looked up at him with eyes that seemed to see straight into his soul. “Are you absolutely certain you will not regret choosing me over your legacy?”
“Dearest Georgie,” he said, melting under her heated gaze. “How can you doubt it?” Wrapping his arms around her, he set his jaw against her hair, breathing in her rose-water scent. “I meant it when I said I’d rather be poor and happy than wealthy and wretched. And we cannot be certain disinheritance is my father’s intended course of action.”
“No, indeed.” She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with irresistible vulnerability. “We cannot.”
He’d not come here tonight to make love to her, but she looked so lovely in that moment, so lovely and desirable and fragile, his thoughts now turned down that perilous road. Stooping slightly, he covered her mouth with his. To his great delight and relief, she did not withdraw. Instead, she slipped her arms around his waist and parted her lips invitingly.
Her compliance kindled a fire in his groin. There was something purposeful, and possibly desperate, in the way she clung to him. With similar intensity, he ran his tongue around the inner rim of her lips.
Her mouth opened wider as her tongue met his with a sensual swipe. Gliding his hands to her rear end, he took hold, pulling her body against his. With a groan of satisfaction, he suckled her tongue as he kneaded the flesh of her buttocks.
Thin though the fabric of her nightgown was, he wanted it gone. He wanted his own clothes gone, too. Let there be nothing between
them, be it muslin, cambric, or … reservations. “Georgie,” he said huskily, moving his mouth to her ear. “I will never regret you. Not even if we end up in the most squalid tenement in London.”
“As wretched as that would be,” she said, setting her head against his collarbone, “I am far more afraid of us ending up apart, with you in debtor’s prison … and me at Craven Castle because I lack the funds to support myself. And, if we should have children …” She heaved a shuddering sigh. “Oh, Christian. How shall we manage?”
Her concerns were a torture to his soul, mostly because they were valid. “I wish I could promise you all will be well, but the sad truth is, things might be decidedly otherwise if my father does indeed disinherit me.”
“Oh, Christian,” she sobbed into his nightshirt. “What have I done?”
“Nothing, dearest, apart from trying to free me from my shackles.”
She looked up at him with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Only to fit you with even heavier irons.”
“Do not say such things,” he said, brushing away her tears with his lips. “Or even think them. For we have not yet heard what my father has to say on the subject of my unfortunately betrothal.”
“You are right,” she said with a withering smile. “And we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves ... or borrow troubles we do not yet have. For you believe your father to be a compassionate person, do you not?”
“Toward the downtrodden, he is indeed. But toward his wayward son? Well … we will know the answer soon enough, I suppose.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Now, with regard to tonight, shall I stay? Or would you rather I go?”
She hesitated a moment before saying, “While my good sense tells me to send you away, my heart, I confess, is rather differently inclined.”
Similarly torn, he looked into her eyes. “And which will you choose to obey, my love?”
She answered him with a kiss that breathed new life into the dying embers of his desire. Encircling her with his arms, he kissed her passionately before picking her up and carrying her to the bed. Setting her on the counterpane, he started to lie beside her before his better sense prevailed.
