by Julia Quinn
In Edinburgh he was his own man.
He was still learning, of course. Nicholas was not so conceited to think that the breadth of his knowledge exceeded that which was left to learn. He doubted he’d ever know more than what was left to learn. It was part of why he so enjoyed the pursuit.
He looked past Georgie toward the head of the table. Violet was chatting with Billie, but Edmund’s attention was not hard to catch. “How is Anthony’s—”
He looked to Georgie.
“Hand,” she supplied.
“Hand,” Nicholas repeated. “Georgie said he needed stitches?”
“All healed,” Edmund said with a grin. “Or at least I assume so. He tried to take a punch at Benedict yesterday and it didn’t seem to bother him to make a fist.”
“Nor when you grabbed said fist to put a halt to the altercation,” Violet said with the sort of smile exclusive to mothers of boys.
“I’ll give it a look tomorrow if you like,” Nicholas said. “There can be less obvious signs of infection.”
“I’m fairly certain he’s healthier than a horse,” Edmund said, “but by all means.”
“It’s so lovely to have a doctor in the family,” Violet said to no one in particular. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“It would have been helpful back when Billie was small,” Lady Bridgerton said. “She broke both her arms, you know.”
“Not at the same time,” Billie said, with just enough amused boredom to remind everyone that this was not a new exchange.
“Have you set any bones?” Georgie asked him.
“A few times,” Nicholas said. “We are all required to learn. But it’s not like reading philosophy where one can open a book and study. We can’t go about breaking bones just so we can learn to set them.”
“That would be splendidly gruesome,” Georgie murmured. Her eyes narrowed, and Nicholas allowed himself a moment just to watch her think. He’d long suspected she had a devious streak.
“What?” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re looking at me.”
“You’re sitting next to me. Where else am I to look?”
“Yes, but you were—” Her lips pressed together. “Never mind.”
He felt himself smile, but waited until after the footmen had removed the soup bowls before saying, “You were trying to figure out how to break a bone, weren’t you?”
Georgie’s eyes lit with surprise. “How did you—”
“Oh, please, it was obvious.”
“What are the two of you talking about?” Nicholas’s mother trilled.
He gave her a look. He knew that tone. He’d heard it employed with his older siblings. And Georgie’s older siblings.
His mother was playing matchmaker, but she was also trying to avoid the appearance of playing matchmaker. Trying, but failing, because she was too curious to hold her tongue when she thought she saw something happening. Because what if she could intervene and make things better?
He knew his mother. He knew his mother well.
“We’re talking about how to break bones,” Georgie said plainly.
Nicholas didn’t bother to hide his grin.
“Oh.” His mother looked disappointed. And perhaps a bit queasy.
“I recommend falling from a tree,” Billie said. “Twice if you can manage it.”
“But not at the same time,” her mother said.
Billie turned to her with some exasperation. “How would one fall from two trees at the same time?”
“If it can be done, I have every confidence that you will be the one to figure out how.”
“Such faith in your eldest daughter,” Billie said in a dry voice. “It is positively uplifting.”
Conversation slowed when the next course was served—rack of lamb with mint jelly, herbed potatoes and French beans with butter, and duck terrine with courgettes.
Georgie turned to Nicholas with a look of pure camaraderie. “Toasted cheese and rack of lamb. We are outdoing ourselves tonight.”
Nicholas nearly groaned with pleasure at the first bite. “I can’t remember the last time I had such a good meal.”
“Is Scottish food so very dreadful?”
“The Scottish food in my rooming house is.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Did you think I traveled with a chef?”
“No, of course not. I thought—well, to be honest, I don’t think I did think about it.”
He shrugged. He would have been surprised if she had.
She cut her meat slowly, then used her knife to add a bit of jelly. But she had a faraway look in her eyes and did not bring the food to her mouth. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she said.
His own fork paused about two inches above his plate. “My gustatorial deprivations?”
“No, of course not. That’s just poor planning on your part. I’m still stuck on the broken bones.”
“Why does this not surprise me?”
“As you said, one can’t just open a book in the pursuit of medical inquiry.”
“We do, actually, for much of it.”
“Yes, but there must come a point when practical knowledge is required. As you also said, you can’t go around breaking people’s arms. You have to wait for it to happen.”
“True, but there is rarely a shortage of ill and injured patients.”
She seemed somewhat impatient with this explanation. “But what if they are not ill or injured in the way you need?”
“Will I regret it later if I ask what you mean by that?”
She waved off his (mostly) rhetorical question, and said, “It’s such an interesting ethical dilemma.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“What if you could break someone’s bones?”
“Georg—”
She cut him off. “For the pursuit of knowledge. What if you offered to pay?”
“Pay someone to have his bones broken?”
She nodded.
“That’s inhumane.”
“Is it?”
“Certainly unethical.”
“Only if you do not have their consent.”
“You can’t ask someone permission to break their arm.”
“Can’t you?” She cocked her head to the side. “Consider this example. Imagine that I am a widow. I don’t have very much money. In fact, I have almost none. And I have three children to support.”
“Your life has turned very grim indeed,” Nicholas murmured.
“I’m trying to make a point,” she said, visibly peeved.
“My apologies.”
She waited a beat, presumably to be sure he wasn’t going to interrupt again, then said, “If a doctor offered me enough money to break my arm and then set it, I would do it.”
Nicholas shook his head. “That’s madness.”
“Is it? I’m a penniless widow with three hungry children. It sounds to me as if my only other option is prostitution. Frankly, I’d rather have my arm broken.” She frowned. “Although it would make it more difficult to care for my children.”
Nicholas set down his fork. “Prostitution is not your only other option.”
“What are you talking about now?” his mother asked. She looked very concerned, and Nicholas suspected she’d heard the part of the conversation that included the word prostitution.
“Still on the broken bones!” Georgie said with a sunny smile.
Which slid right into a steely stare when she turned back to him. “It’s easy for you to say that prostitution is not my only option. You have an education.”
“So do you.”
She snorted. “From my governess. It does not compare, and frankly I’m insulted that you’d even imply that it did.” She stabbed a potato with enough force that Nicholas winced in sympathy.
“I beg your pardon,” he said politely.
She waved this off, leaving him to wonder if she found this, too, to be mostly rhetorical.
�
��It doesn’t matter, anyway,” she said, “because we are talking about hypothetical me, not real me. Hypothetical me does not have the support of a loving and wealthy family.”
“All right then.” He could play along. “Hypothetical you has three children. Are they old enough to work?”
“Not old enough to earn a decent wage. Unless I send them into the coal mines, and frankly, that seems worse for their health than a broken bone.”
“What are you talking about?” Edmund asked.
Nicholas ignored him. “Wait, so are you now saying you want me to break your children’s bones?”
“Of course not. Not if you can break mine instead.”
“This is precisely my point. You would never allow me to do such a thing if you were not being paid.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Just desperate.”
Something flashed in her eyes, something pained. Wounded.
“Hypothetical you is desperate,” he said softly.
She swallowed. “It isn’t pleasant to be without choices.”
“No.” He brought his napkin to his lips. He needed a moment. He wasn’t sure what they were talking about any longer, or even if they were talking about the same thing.
“This is why you cannot pay someone to do something like this,” he said quietly. “Consent can be coerced. Hypothetical you says she agrees to have her arm broken in exchange for money to feed her children. But is that really consent if your only other choice is the sale of your body?”
“Some would say that it’s the sale of my body either way.”
“Touché,” he admitted.
“I understand your point,” Georgie said. “I even agree with it a little. There are some things in life that ought not be for sale. But on the other hand, who am I to decide that for another human being? It is easy for me to condemn a decision I would not make, but is it fair?”
“Are you still talking about broken bones?” Violet asked. “Because you look very serious.”
“Our conversation has taken a turn for the philosophical,” Georgie told her.
“And the morbid,” Nicholas added.
“We can’t have that.” Violet nudged her husband. “They need more wine, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.” Edmund nodded to a footman, who immediately refilled their glasses.
Not that there was much to refill, Nicholas noted. He and Georgie were both staggeringly sober.
“I am not sure,” he said slowly, and in a tone only Georgie could hear, “if we have the right to condemn people for the decisions they make if we ourselves are never forced with a similar choice.”
“Exactly.”
He was quiet for a moment. “This has taken a turn for the philosophical.”
“And are we in agreement?”
“Only in that there is probably no answer.”
She nodded.
“Now the two of you look like you’re going to cry,” Violet protested.
Georgiana recovered first. “Philosophy does that to me.”
“I concur,” Edmund said. “My least favorite subject by far.”
“You always did well in it, though,” Nicholas said.
Edmund grinned. “That’s because I can talk my way out of almost anything.”
Everyone rolled their eyes at that. It was the absolute truth.
“I think baby Colin takes after you in that way,” Georgie said.
“He’s four months old,” Edmund said with a laugh. “He can’t even speak.”
“There’s something in the way he looks at me,” Georgie said. “Mark my words. That boy is going to be a charmer.”
“If he doesn’t explode first,” Violet said. “I swear, all that baby does is eat. It is unnatural.”
“What are you talking about now?” Lady Manston asked, clearly exasperated by a seating arrangement that kept leaving her just barely out of earshot.
“Exploding babies,” Georgie said.
Nicholas nearly spit his food across the table.
“Oh.” His mother placed a hand over her heart. “Oh my.”
He started to laugh.
“One baby specifically,” Georgie said, elegantly flipping her wrist with perfect sardonic punctuation. “We would never talk about exploding babies in the general sense.”
Nicholas started to laugh so hard it hurt.
And Georgie . . . Oh, she was in fine form. She didn’t even crack a smile as she leaned ever so slightly in his direction and murmured, “That would be tasteless.”
His laughter turned silent, the kind that shook the room.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” his mother said.
Which nearly made him fall out of his chair.
“Do you need to excuse yourself,” Georgie said behind her hand. “Because I know when I laugh that hard . . .”
“I’m fine,” he gasped. In fact, he was better than fine. His ribs were sore, and it felt good.
Georgie turned to answer a question her sister had asked her—presumably something about why Nicholas was acting like a loon. He took the moment to catch his breath and also to think about what had just happened.
He’d forgotten, for a moment, why he was here.
He’d forgotten that his father had summoned him home, all but ordered him to marry a girl he’d known all his life and never shown a whit of romantic interest in.
To be fair, she’d never displayed a whit in his direction, either.
But that hadn’t mattered. Not while he was laughing so hard he probably should have taken Georgie’s advice and excused himself. Now all he could think was—this wasn’t bad at all.
Maybe he could marry her. It might not be love, but if this was what life with Georgie would be like, it was a damn sight better than most people had.
She laughed at something Billie had said, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. She was looking at her sister, but she was still enough in profile that he could see the shape of it, the fullness and curve of her lower lip.
What would it be like to kiss her?
He had not kissed many women. He’d usually chosen to study while his contemporaries caroused, and the one man—Edmund—with whom he might have gotten drunk and made foolish decisions had married young. No sowing of wild oats there.
Then he’d started his medical studies, and if ever there was a hard and fast lesson on why a man should keep himself in check, that was it. He’d told Georgie that there was rarely a shortage of illness, and that was true. He’d seen enough syphilis to curdle his brain.
He’d seen how syphilis curdled other men’s brains.
So no, he did not have a wide range of sexual experience.
But he had thought about it.
He’d imagined all the foolish decisions he could have made, the things he might have done if he’d met the right woman. Usually the women in his fantasies were nameless, maybe even faceless, but sometimes they were real. A finely dressed lady he’d passed on the street. The woman serving ale at a public house.
But never, never Georgiana Bridgerton.
Until now.
Chapter 6
Crake House, later that night
By any standard, Nicholas’s first non-platonic thoughts about Georgiana Bridgerton were disconcerting.
Almost to the point of bewilderment.
She was certainly pretty—he’d never have said otherwise if asked—but he’d also never really looked at her beyond her just being . . . her.
She was Georgiana Bridgerton, and she had blue eyes like her mother and gingery hair like no one else in her family. And that was the extent of what he’d noticed.
Wait. No. Her teeth were straight. He supposed he’d noticed that. She was of average height. He hadn’t really noticed that, but if someone had asked him how tall she was, he could have made a reasonably decent estimation.
But then they had joked about exploding babies and she’d done that little twist with her hand. His gaze had fixed inexplicably on her wrist.<
br />
Her wrist.
He had been laughing, and looking at her, and she’d done that thing . . . A curve, a flip, a sweeping gesture—whatever it was that women did with tiny movements that spoke volumes and seemed to envelop them in a fine mist of Pretty. It was an innocent enough move, clearly executed with no coy forethought, simply done to punctuate her dry humor.
Simple, innocent.
And if his father had not suggested they marry, Nicholas was sure he’d never have looked at the inside of Georgie’s wrist, much less noticed it.
But then he’d moved his gaze from her wrist to her face.
And he’d thought about kissing her.
Georgie.
Georgie.
He couldn’t kiss Georgie. It would be like kissing his sister.
“Sister? No,” he said to the nighttime air. He was sitting by his open bedchamber window, staring up at stars he could not see.
It was a cloudy night. The air was turbulent.
Georgie was not his sister. Of that he was certain. The rest of it, though . . .
Thinking about exploding babies felt a whole lot safer than thinking about Georgie’s wrist. Or to be more precise, thinking about laughing about the ludicrousness of exploding babies felt safer than thinking about turning Georgie’s wrist upward and pressing his lips to it.
Could he kiss her? He twisted one of his own hands palm up—or rather, fist up; he wasn’t feeling terribly relaxed—and stared down at the inside of his own wrist.
Yes. Of course he could. But did he want to?
He looked into the night. Could he spend day after day and year after year with her? At her table, in her bed? Nothing in the stillness of the night assured him that this was anything but an impossible question, and yet again he felt the acuteness of time. Not of the seconds ticking but the hours, the days that led to her more permanent ruin.
He could not tarry much longer. His father spoke of Georgie’s ghoulish schedule, of the husband she needed to find if he did not step forward for the position. But Nicholas, too, had a calendar he must keep. Even if he set out for Scotland the very next day, he’d have been away nearly a month. A month of classes, of missed exams. By his estimation, he could stay in Kent only a few days more—maybe a week—before he would fall too hopelessly behind to make up the material.