by Julia Quinn
He needed to make a decision.
He looked at his bed. He could not picture her there.
Not yet, the night seemed to whisper.
Her profile and lips and her wrist—it all flashed in his brain. But when he tried to hold on to them, to keep these images still and in focus, it was the laughter he felt.
With his gaze still on the bed he couldn’t picture her in he murmured, “I just don’t know.”
A breeze cooled his skin and he shivered.
Yes, you do.
He stood, giving his back to the night. It was time for bed.
Remarkably, he slept.
By morning he had accepted his fate.
Which sounded a lot more dramatic than it actually was. But given the events of the past twenty-four hours, he rather thought he’d earned a touch of self-serving hyperbole.
He’d borrowed his brother’s valet for a good shave, made himself eat a hearty breakfast, and sent a footman to the stables with a request to ready a horse. He would go to Aubrey Hall, find Georgiana, and ask her to be his wife.
It wasn’t his fault that Georgie had found herself in such dire straits. But it wasn’t her fault, either, and he honestly wasn’t sure he could look at his own face in the mirror knowing he’d abandoned her to an uncertain future.
It was actually rather simple: He had the means to make things right. He could save her. Wasn’t that what he’d devoted his life to? Saving people? Surely such benevolence ought to start at home. Or in this case, at the rather stately home three miles down the road.
When he reached Aubrey Hall, however, he was informed by one of the footmen that Georgiana was not in; she had taken her nephews out for a walk. Anthony and Benedict Bridgerton did not strike Nicholas as the most romantic of props for a proposal of marriage, but then again, this would not be a particularly romantic proposal.
He could try, he supposed, but she’d see through that in a heartbeat. She knew he didn’t love her. And her circumstances being what they were, she’d know exactly why he was proposing.
No one seemed to know exactly where Georgie and the boys had gone off to, but the lake seemed the most obvious spot. The bank was wide and only slightly sloped, perfect for an adult who wished to sit comfortably on a blanket while keeping an eye on two boys running about like berserker knights. The gentle incline also meant it was almost impossible to fall in.
Or if not impossible, then at least highly unlikely. Nothing was impossible when young children were determined to get wet, but if one wanted to actually dunk one’s head beneath the surface, it required some forethought.
You had to climb a tree, Nicholas recalled. Climb a tree and crawl out along a horizontal limb until you were far enough out and then—Plop! That was how you did it.
But hopefully Anthony and Benedict had not figured this out yet.
He headed across the lawn, taking his time as he pondered his imminent task. Should he just come out and ask her? Should he give some sort of lead-in? Talk about how they’d known each other for so long, they’d always been friends, et cetera, et cetera.
Frankly, he thought that sounded like rubbish, and he suspected Georgie would, too, but it did seem like a man ought to say something before blurting out, “Will you marry me?”
He supposed he’d have to figure it out as he went along. It wasn’t his style to do so; he’d always been the sort of student who studied twice as much as he needed to. But there was no preparation for this examination. There was only a question, and an answer, and the answer wasn’t even his to give.
Nicholas kicked a pebble along the well-worn path that led to the lake as he made his way up the slope. He wasn’t sure where he’d look next if Georgie wasn’t there, but sure enough, when he reached the crest of the hill, he saw the three of them by the water’s edge.
By all appearances, they’d settled in for a long spell in the breezy morning sunshine. Georgie sat on a dark blue blanket next to a hamper of food and what appeared to be a sketchbook. The two boys squealed and chased each other back and forth along the narrow strip of dirt that separated the water and the grass. It was a charming scene.
“Georgie!” he called out as he approached.
She turned and smiled. “Oh, Nicholas. Good morning. What brings you this way?”
“I came to see you, actually.”
“Me?” She looked a little surprised, but honestly more amused than anything else. “Poor you.”
“Poor me?”
She motioned to the boys with her hand and the hamper with her head. “There have got to be more exciting ways to spend your morning.”
“Oh, I don’t know. My other option involves my mother, her embroidery, and six different colors of thread.”
“Six you say?”
“Almost a rainbow.”
One side of her mouth made a wry curve. “I tell you this in all honesty, Nicholas. I have never felt so valued.”
He choked out a laugh as he sat down beside her, stretching his legs straight and long in front of him. It was remarkable how at ease he felt now that he’d made up his mind to marry her. All of the angst and awkwardness of the previous night was gone, replaced with what had always been there—the familiarity and ease of lifelong friendship.
“Were you sketching?” he asked.
“Jabbing blindly with pencil at paper is more like it,” she said. “I’m a terrible artist.”
There were several loose sheets of paper tucked under the sketchbook, and Nicholas sifted through these, stopping on one of a bird in a tree. It was done in pencil, but somehow Nicholas could tell that it was a red-breasted robin, and not just from the shape of it. “I like this one,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Benedict drew that.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
She gave a wave, clearly unperturbed by her own lack of talent.
“It’s really quite good.” Nicholas gave it a closer inspection. “How old is he?”
“Just five.”
Nicholas felt his eyebrows rise. “That’s . . . remarkable.”
“I know. The boy has talent, although I think right now he’s much more interested in torturing his brother.”
Nicholas watched the two boys for a moment. Anthony was holding Benedict upside down by his ankles.
“Or trying to avoid being tortured,” Georgie said.
“If that’s the case, he’s not doing a very good job of it.”
“No,” Georgie agreed. “Alas, the plight of the younger sibling.”
“We would both know, wouldn’t we?”
She nodded in absent agreement, keeping her eyes on her nephews, presumably to make sure they weren’t about to kill each other. “Actually . . .” she began.
He waited a moment, then prompted, “Actually . . . ?”
She looked over at him with a wry smile. “We’re both a little like onlys, aren’t we?”
“Onlys?”
“You’ve how many years between you and Andrew? Eight? Nine? Did he ever actually bother with you when you were growing up? Pay you any attention?”
Nicholas thought about that. Most of the time his older siblings had ignored him. Or more likely, simply forgotten his existence. “Not really, no.”
“If you asked him,” Georgie went on, “I’d wager he’d say he felt more like a youngest child than a middle one.” She turned, looking at Nicholas over her shoulder. “Which makes you an only.”
She had a point, but he hardly saw how it applied to her. She was one year younger than Edmund and one year older than Hugo, a middle child if he’d ever seen one. “And how does this work for you?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m entirely different,” she said with an offhand wave. “It was because I was always so sick. No one ever treated me like a sibling.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, please. My mother was convinced I would die if she let me play outside.”
“That seems a little extreme.”
“Well, yes, I agree, but tha
t’s what she thought, and there was hardly a way to convince her otherwise. I mean, I suppose I could go outside and not die, but that doesn’t prove much.” She shaded her eyes and frowned. “Not so close to the water, Benedict!”
Benedict pouted, but he stepped back.
“Speaking of going outside and not dying,” Nicholas murmured.
“He can swim,” Georgie said, “but I’m not sure how well.”
Nicholas thought back to his childhood, back to all the times he and Edmund had swum in this lake. Georgie had never joined them. Not once. Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall ever seeing her out of doors. Not in childhood, at least. She was always inside, propped up on a sofa with a book, or sitting on the floor setting up a tableau with her dolls.
“How do you feel now?” he asked. She did not look unhealthy. Her color was fine, and she did not seem to lack energy.
She shrugged. “I’ve mostly grown out of it.”
“Were you really that ill?” Nicholas asked. Because in all honesty he couldn’t recall the details. It seemed odd now, given his choice of profession, but he remembered almost nothing about Georgie’s being sick as a child, except that she was. “You used to have trouble breathing, right?”
She nodded. “But not all the time. Most of the time I was fine. But sometimes . . .” She turned, looking at him more squarely. “Have you ever had difficulty catching your breath?”
“Of course.”
“Imagine that, except that it doesn’t get better. That’s what would happen to me.”
“And now?”
“I can’t remember the last time it happened. Several years, at least.”
“Did you ever see a doctor about it?”
She gave him a look. “What sort of question is that? You know my mother. I saw so many doctors we could have opened up a medical school here in Kent.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “That would have made my studies considerably more convenient.”
“Indeed,” she said with a laugh. “I’m surprised your parents let you go off to Edinburgh. It’s so far away.”
“It’s not up to them to let me or not let me,” he replied, bristling at the remark. “And at any rate, I’m sure it seemed positively local after Edward off and went missing in the Colonies.”
Nicholas had been at Eton when his brother had served in the army, first as a lieutenant and then as a captain in the 52nd Regiment. He had been missing and presumed dead for many months before finally returning home.
“True,” Georgie said. “I suppose that is a convenience of having older siblings. They do ease the way.”
He frowned.
“Oh, not for me,” she said. “Stop breathing just once in front of your parents and it doesn’t matter if your sister broke both her arms and accidentally set someone on fire. My mother didn’t take her eyes off me for three years straight.”
Nicholas leaned in. He’d heard the story many times but never with satisfactory detail. “Did Billie really set someone on fire?”
Georgie laughed with delight. “Oh, Nicholas, I adore that that’s what you want to know more about.”
“It might be the only thing that could have drawn my attention away from the part about your not breathing.”
“Well, you are a doctor. One would hope you’d find the part about not breathing interesting.”
“Almost a doctor,” he corrected. “I won’t be finished for another year. Fourteen months, actually.”
Georgie acknowledged this with a nod, then said, “I’m told she didn’t do it on purpose, but witnesses are few.”
“Suspicious indeed.”
She chuckled at that. “Actually, I believe her account. It happened just before she was presented to the queen. Have you seen the sort of dresses ladies must wear to be presented? Hoops out to here.” She stretched her arm out as far as it went. “Farther, actually. You can’t reach the end of your skirts. You can’t walk through doorways without turning sideways, and even then it’s a close thing. It’s ludicrous.”
“What did she do, knock over a candelabra?”
Georgie nodded. “But the girl she set on fire was also wearing court dress. The candle fell onto the other girl’s hoop, which was so far from her body that she did not immediately realize she’d been set aflame.”
“Dear God.”
“Oh, how I wish I’d seen it.”
“Rather bloodthirsty, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea,” she muttered.
While Nicholas was pondering what that might mean, she flopped onto her back and said, “Keep an eye on them, would you?”
“Are you planning to take a nap?” he asked, somewhat amused.
“No,” she said contentedly. “Just enjoying the sun on my face. Don’t tell my mother. She fears freckles. Says I’m more likely to get them because of my hair.”
Her hair did mark her as a bit of a changeling in the Bridgerton clan. Everyone else he’d met—cousins included—had brown hair, generally somewhere between chestnut and dark. But Georgie was most definitely a redhead. Not that bright orange that stuck out like a beacon, but rather something soft and delicate. People called it strawberry blond, but Nicholas had never liked that term. It didn’t seem at all accurate, and as he stole a glance at her basking in the sun, he marveled at how the light seemed to reflect off each individual strand.
She sighed contentedly. “Have they killed each other?”
Nicholas turned back to watch the boys, which was what he was supposed to be doing. “Not yet.”
“Good. It got quiet there for a moment.” Her expression turned suspicious, even as she lay there with her eyes closed. “Too quiet.”
“They’re just running back and forth,” Nicholas said. “I’m trying to figure out if it’s a game, and if so, if it has rules.”
“There are definitely rules,” Georgie said. “Benedict tried to explain it, but I’m not sure he was speaking English.”
“I bet I could figure it out.”
She opened one eye to give him a dubious look.
“I was a seven-year-old boy once, you know.”
“Obviously.”
“Get up,” he said, nudging her again. “Watch Anthony. See how he’s picking up a rock?”
Georgie sat up instantly. “Anthony Bridgerton, do not throw that at your brother!” she yelled.
Anthony ground to a halt, planting indignant hands on his hips. “I wasn’t going to!”
“Oh, he was going to,” Georgie said.
“I don’t think he was,” Nicholas said thoughtfully. “See, look. He’s making a pile over there.”
Georgie frowned as she craned her neck. “So he is. What’s he building, a cairn?”
“Nothing so organized, I assure you. But . . . Watch Benedict now. He’s trying to get the rocks from Anthony’s pile—”
“Oh, that’s not going to happen,” Georgie cut in. “Anthony has six inches on him. And that boy is strong.”
“He’ll have to be sneaky,” Nicholas agreed.
They watched as Benedict charged his older brother with all the finesse of a wild boar.
Georgie chuckled. “Although brute force is always an option.”
“Always an option,” Nicholas agreed.
Anthony charged back.
“But not a wise one,” Georgie said.
“No.”
She frowned as they watched the boys go down in a tangle of limbs. “Are we concerned?”
“It does look as if it might end badly.”
“But will there be blood? That’s really all I need to know.”
Nicholas took a more assessing look. The boys were making an astonishing amount of noise, but mostly they were rolling around like wet puppies. “Not above the skin.”
She shot him a look. “What does that mean?”
“That’s all a bruise is, you know. Bleeding under the skin.”
“Huh.” She sounded vaguely intrigued. “I suppose that’s right. I hadn’t really thou
ght about it.”
“Well, there you go. We call it an ecchymosis.”
“You can’t just call it a bruise?”
“Of course not. Then anyone would think they can be a doctor.”
He grinned when she batted him on the shoulder, then said, “But to answer your question the way you intended it, I don’t think there will be blood, but they may yet surprise me.”
Benedict made a sound that was not quite a shriek. But it was close. Very close.
“Would blood really be that surprising?” Georgie asked.
Anthony growled, and Nicholas began to reassess. “In what quantities?”
“Quantities that would either worry their parents or reveal me to be a bad monitor of small children.”
“Is this an either/or?”
She shoved him with her elbow.
He grinned. “Sorry, no. I don’t think so. Based upon my copious experience as a former seven-year-old boy.”
“It’s odd how you say that,” she mused, turning away from him to open the hamper.
“What do you mean?”
“ ‘My copious experience as a seven-year-old boy,’ ” she mimicked. “Such a dry tone you used there. As if you didn’t have copious experience.”
“Well, it was a long time ago.”
She shook her head and pulled out a wedge of cheese. “Frankly, I’m amazed any of you reached adulthood.”
“So am I,” he said with all honesty. “So am I. Although it must be said, it was your sister who broke two arms.”
She laughed at that, and they sat in companionable silence, taking turns breaking off chunks of cheese. “I have bread, too,” Georgie told him. She peered into the hamper. “And jam.”
“Strawberry?”
“Raspberry.”
He sniffed disdainfully. “Then I’m not interested.”
She gave him a look, then sputtered with laughter. “What does that mean?”
He grinned again, rather enjoying the feel of it on his face. “I have no idea.”
He was comfortable with her. He could make the sort of stupid comments that were only a little bit funny and made no sense. The kind one made when one didn’t have to weigh every word and worry about judgment or scorn.