“As my lady commands,” he murmured. “Ladies.” He bowed and strolled slowly toward a long table laden with various pastries, cold cuts, cheeses, and other savories. A footman behind the table pointed at various items and added them to a plate as Lady Georgiana nodded. When he offered to do the same for him, Ethan shook his head.
“No raspberry tarts?” he inquired as they retook their seats at the front of the room.
“Lord Dedham’s cook is not known for her baking skills. Fortunately, I have an abundance of raspberry tarts at home.”
“A gift from one of your many admirers, no doubt.” Ethan plucked a small wedge of cheese from her plate and popped it into his mouth.
She swatted at him half-heartedly. “We shall see,” she replied, echoing Sir Stirling’s words. Her fork clinked softly on the thin china plate as she pushed her selections about aimlessly.
“You did not introduce me to your friends.” He rescued a crab puff from her wandering cutlery and bit into it. The earl’s cook might not have a way with baking, but the woman was an artist with crab.
“If you truly wish an introduction—”
“I don’t. I may not be a gentleman, but I do know a lack of manners when I see it. I’ve encountered a school of sharks with more warmth.” He placed his arm across the back of her chair and allowed the tips of his fingers to trail along the curve of her neck, exposed by the intricate upsweep of her coiffure.
“They all declared you quite handsome.” She shivered, but did not pull away.
“My nephew considers a box of marzipan candies quite handsome, but the candies don’t last very long around him.”
“Do you consider yourself a piece of marzipan, Captain Dorrill?” She handed the plate to a footman who patrolled the drawing room in aid of announcing the end of refreshments and the continuation of Mrs. Wells’ singing.
Ethan suppressed a shudder before he answered, “I would much rather know if you consider me a piece of marzipan. And if you have fondness for it. The marzipan, that is.”
She did not reply.
Guests began to return to their seats. Lord Dedham stood at the front of the room, next to the dais, head bent in deep conversation with the soprano.
“They are not my friends,” Lady Georgiana suddenly muttered.
Ethan allowed her words to wander around his mind until they settled into some semblance of order. The ladies. Not her friends?
“I could not introduce you. They would have deemed it inappropriate,” she continued, tilting her head just enough to keep the conversation between them.
“Because I am a pirate?”
“Because you are in trade with no pedigree, and no consequence, and no connections.” A flush of red splashed across her cheeks.
“How dare I,” he replied with mocking sincerity. “I should have shopped for better parents.”
“They seek me out because of my father. He is—”
“A duke. He assures me your mother counts herself most fortunate to have married him, though her grandfather was an earl.” The memory of his conversation with the duke brought a bitter taste to Ethan’s mouth.
“I should have known Papa would acquaint you with my pedigree.” Georgiana sat up straight, moving her soft skin out of the reach of Ethan’s fingertips. “Isn’t that what a gentleman wants most to know when purchasing livestock—the bloodlines for which he is paying?”
The cadaverous pianist collapsed on the velvet squabbed chair before the pianoforte keyboard and hunched over the ivory keys like a vulture at the edge of a desert. Lord Dedham escorted Mrs. Wells to her place at the center of the dais. Ethan drew his fingers across the bare flesh at the back of Lady Georgiana’s gown as he returned his hand to his side. She shot him an indignant glare.
“I am not a gentleman…Georgiana. I wouldn’t hand your father a farthing at gunpoint. And your pedigree is the very last thing I am interested in.”
Her face softened the tiniest bit. She studied him. Carefully. Puzzled. “I don’t—”
Lord Dedham retook his place next to Ethan. “Shhh!” the old gentleman chastised. “My dove is about to regale us once more.”
Ethan brought his head close to Georgiana’s. “Do you have a gun in that reticule?” He tapped the little jeweled bag on her wrist.
“Of course not. Why?”
The pianist began his attack on the keyboard.
“Surely to God, it is dove season somewhere.”
Chapter Four
At the duchess’s charity Venetian breakfast, Georgiana stood beneath the trees at the edge of the Duke of Mitford’s immaculately groomed gardens and, for a moment, reveled in the false sense of belonging her attendance afforded her. Scattered across the lawn beneath delicate parasols, the women of the ton were far enough away that she need not see the disdain in their eyes when they looked at her. Yet, they were close enough that their proximity lent a certain caché to Georgiana’s presence in their sphere. The clusters of gentlemen gathered about the tables set for the al fresco meal and knotted in groups of three and four along the garden paths had avoided her for years. Just as she preferred.
Even better, the approach of Lady Arthur Farnsworth and her mother-in-law, the Duchess of Mitford, flanked by Mrs. Eleanor Dorrill and Georgiana’s own sister, Abigail McCormick, ensured she would not have to participate in the empty smiles, emotionless kisses, and cruel gossip necessary to gain entré into the more rarefied circles of guests milling about congratulating themselves on their charitable endeavors. Helpful beyond measure. After the sleepless night she’d spent, Georgiana hadn’t the strength for any smug congratulations and false flattery.
“Lady Georgiana, I simply must know,” the Duchess of Mitford said as she and the other ladies joined her under the trees. “Did you truly laugh out loud whilst that horrible woman Lord Dedham keeps was singing?”
Georgiana dipped a curtsy, which the duchess waved away, and glared at her three friends. “I was provoked, Your Grace. Otherwise, I would never have been so rude as to—”
“Pssht!” The duchess perched on a pretty bench beneath an ancient oak tree. Georgiana and the others settled onto the chairs arranged close to it by the obliging liveried footmen who had been appearing as if by magic since Georgiana had arrived. “Her singing has provoked peers of the realm to escape out windows, dogs to howl, and horses to bolt these five years. She probably didn’t even notice.”
“She may not have, but half the room did,” Georgiana muttered.
“They’d have applauded if they’d but had the courage,” her sister Abigail assured her.
“I am more interested in this provocation,” Lady Arthur said and surreptitiously pointed her fan toward a lone figure standing before the large fountain at the front of the London mansion that was Mitford House.
The duchess raised her lorgnette. “Hmm,” she mused. “Provocation, indeed. Is that your brother-in-law, Mrs. Dorrill?”
“He is indeed, Your Grace. Captain Ethan Dorrill. He is Lady Georgiana’s escort for the day.” Eleanor glanced at Georgiana and winked. Georgiana rolled her eyes.
“I do love a man who knows how to fill out his buckskins and boots,” the duchess declared even as she motioned the footman who had stopped several feet away in deference to their conversation.
“Your Grace!” Abigail gasped in mock horror.
“I am old, my dear, not dead.” The duchess took the note the footman handed her. “That is a fine figure of a man you have there, Lady Georgiana.”
“I don’t have any man, Your Grace,” Georgiana declared.
The duchess rose and took the footman’s arm. “Then I suggest you snap that one up. Cold weather will be upon us before you know it. He appears quite capable of keeping a lady warm. I must attend my other guests. Enjoy the buffet, ladies, my Cook worked very hard to prepare it. We’ll go by the fountain, John.”
The footman nodded and escorted the duchess slowly across the lawn. When she reached Captain Dorrill, she tapped him on the shoulder wi
th her fan. He turned and offered her an elegant bow. She spoke to him for a moment and glanced over her shoulder, directly at Georgiana. The captain bowed his head to listen to the duchess and then threw back his head and laughed. The gentle breeze stirred the leaves overhead and carried the scent of the duchess’s rose garden and the gaiety of his laughter across the expanse of green lawn.
Oh, for the love of—
“What possessed you to invite Ethan to Lord Dedham’s musicale?” Eleanor demanded.
“He wants to court me. A musicale seemed a proper courtship entertainment.” Three sets of discerning eyes stared at her in disbelief.
“Entertainment?” Lady Arthur, who insisted everyone called her Emmaline, said, punctuated by a noisy snort. “Lord Dedham is deaf and more interested in Mrs. Wells’ bosom. What could you possibly find entertaining about the singing of a soprano who was mediocre in her prime and is catastrophic ten years past it?”
“Oh, come now, she isn’t that bad,” Georgiana said feebly.
“You laughed because your escort threatened to shoot her,” Eleanor reminded her.
“I don’t think he would have shot her. He was simply—”
“Desperate,” Emmaline suggested with a snicker.
“Ready for Bedlam,” Eleanor offered, fighting laughter herself.
“Miserable,” Abigail said darkly. “Just as Georgiana intended. Which is the same reason she asked him to escort her today.”
Eleanor’s and Emmaline’s smiles faded. They turned their gazes on Georgiana—curious, confused, and oddly encouraging.
“Why would I do that, Abigail?”
“An excellent question, sister.” Abigail glanced over her shoulder to where Captain Dorrill still stood. Alone. “Why would you ask your suitor to escort you to the most infamous musicale of the year and then to today’s event where you had to know not a soul would deem him worthy of inclusion?”
Seated on the bench the duchess had vacated, Georgiana had a clear view of Captain Dorrill, of Ethan, as he continued to admire the fountain. He’d made her laugh last night. Damn him. And then had tried to cover her outburst with a coughing fit certain to put a dying consumptive to shame. Lord Dedham, bless him, had slapped her unwanted suitor so hard across the back it had nearly thrown him from his chair. Ethan understood precisely why she’d ask him to escort her to the musicale. Yet, he’d accompanied her home, engaged in polite conversation the entire way, and bowed over her hand in the foyer before taking his leave.
“You do not wish him to court you,” Eleanor finally said, a disappointed tint to her tone.
“I do not wish any man to court me.”
“Georgiana—” Abigail started.
“No, Abby.” She reached across to squeeze her sister’s hand. “It has nothing to do with Daniel marrying you. He is perfect for you and I am so very happy you two found each other. I simply do not care to marry. Is that so terrible?”
“Not at all,” Emmaline said. “Have you told him you do not wish to be courted?”
“Yes. He refused to listen.”
“Of course, he did. The Dorrill men are nothing if not stubborn beyond reason,” Eleanor assured them. “I struggle to manage two of them every day.”
“Bless you,” Emmaline and Abigail intoned solemnly.
“He is in London but a few weeks, appears at a ball, asks me to dance, and after a conversation with my father the next morning, announces his intention to court me. Does that not strike you as odd?” A few groups of young ladies began to move toward the fountain. The wind turned a bit chill and Georgiana fought the urge to hurry to Ethan’s side.
“He is a man and a seafaring man, at that,” Emmaline said. “Arthur met me in a cemetery and showed up on my doorstep a day later proposing marriage. They’re used to making a decision and having everyone snap to and with a will.” The last was delivered in an imitation of a man’s voice, her husband’s no doubt. They all laughed.
“You wish to put him off,” Abigail suddenly said. “We’ll help you.”
“We will?” Eleanor and Emmaline exchanged glances with Georgiana’s sister.
“Of course, we will. Hercules had ten labors. I suspect we can get rid of Captain Dorrill in less than five.” Some sort of wordless conversation went on between Georgiana’s three companions, the only women she truly believed might be her friends. Her friends who might very well be up to something. It didn’t matter if they intended to help her.
“Shall we discuss it over a plate of Her Grace’s cook’s efforts?” Emmaline suggested as she rose and took Georgiana by the arm.
Abigail and Eleanor linked arms as they made their way to the tables with the rest of the duchess’s guests.
“Trust me, she has not exaggerated the woman’s talents.”
Georgiana peered over her shoulder from time to time as they crossed the lawn. Two young ladies and a more mature woman she’d seen at several balls during the Season had broken away from their companions. The younger two appeared to be daring each other, pushing and laughing. The other lady, the wife of a viscount, if Georgiana remembered correctly, brazenly strolled up to Ethan, who had turned to greet them, and possessively linked her arm through his.
“It appears, Eleanor, not everyone deems your brother-in-law unworthy of conversation,” Emmaline observed as she and Georgiana’s other companions reached a round, beautifully appointed table and settled into the chairs held for them by more of the Duchess of Mitford’s footmen. More footmen appeared and positioned plates laden with every sort of tempting savory imaginable.
“That is Viscount Lyle’s wife, is it not?” Abigail asked.
“It is,” Eleanor replied. “She tried to engage Lord Arthur in conversation not long after you married, did she not, Emmaline?”
“She did,” Emmaline said. “Thank you, Thomas.” She took a glass of wine from the tray the footman offered her. “I ended the conversation.”
“How?” Georgiana asked as she pushed her chair back and stood.
“Stabbed her hand with a fork. Accidently, of course.”
“Oh!” Georgiana blushed. “Of course.” She didn’t know if she was more horrified or awed by Lord Arthur’s wife. Worse, Georgiana did not know what force pulled her toward Captain Dorrill as if to rescue him from danger.
“The hand she had on my husband’s arse.” Emmaline placed an antique shrimp fork which bore the Mitford family crest into Georgiana’s outstretched fingers as Georgiana walked past her.
Some unseen something moved her steps down the slight slope to where the two giggling girls in white and the viscount’s wife in a garish yellow, better suited to a much younger woman, plied Ethan with questions.
“Is it true you are a pirate?”
“How many men have you killed?”
“Is your house full of treasure?”
“What entertainments will you attend this evening, Captain?”
Georgiana resisted the urge to roll her eyes and stopped directly in front of him and his newly acquired admirers. “Ethan,” she said, deliberately using his given name, “Lady Arthur is most anxious to have your opinion of the crab cakes. You are acquainted with Lady Arthur, are you not, Lady Lyle?”
The viscount’s wife blanched and dropped Ethan’s arm as if it were on fire. She hurried up the hill without another word. The two ridiculous girls offered half curtsies and fled in her wake. How they managed to do so whilst craning their necks to look back at Georgiana and Ethan, she did not know.
“Crab cakes?” Ethan inquired as he escorted her to the table just beyond the trees.
“You are fond of them, are you not?” Georgiana despised the little thrills that coursed through her body where her side pressed his. He covered her hand wrapped around his bicep. Heat from his ungloved hand surrounded hers, also ungloved, as she’d removed them to eat. “Or, perhaps you prefer I return you to the tender mercies of Lady Lyle?” Her stomach did a tight little lurch.
“Cruel woman,” Ethan said and leaned down to w
hisper, “These new breeches provide little protection from the pinching fingers of a viscount’s neglected wife. My fundament is no doubt black and blue.”
“I will take your word for it,” Georgiana whispered back, though a tiny smile flitted about her lips. She fought to draw her mouth under control.
“Pity, that. I am more than willing to provide you with evidence of her predations.” His breath, hot and scented with mint and brandy, caressed her ear and played down the side of her neck.
“The rules of a proper courtship do not provide for the examination of one’s suitor’s fundament.” Dear Lord, if he continued to speak in this vein, she’d be forced to glance behind him. The Duchess of Mitford was not the only one who esteemed how well this man filled out his buckskins and boots. Demanding he change his wardrobe was a mistake. A huge mistake.
“What are you two discussing so intimately?” Abigail asked. Georgiana settled into the chair Ethan pulled out and kicked her sister beneath the table. Abigail kicked her back.
“The rules of courtship,” Ethan replied as he folded his tall, lean body into the dainty chair beside her.
“And they are?” Eleanor inquired.
“A damned nuisance,” Ethan muttered and stuffed an entire crab cake into his mouth.
“Do they not use forks at sea?” Georgiana chided.
He swallowed, took a sip of wine, and made a face. “Forks tend to spend more time on the floor than on the table. Ships at sea move around from time to time. Am I expected to use all of these?” He waved his hand over the place setting, replete with knives, forks, and spoons for every course.
“Of course not, my good man,” a nasally, abrasive voice announced from behind them. “We can hardly expect a man such as you to bother with cutlery.”
Everyone at their table turned to find three overdressed young dandies had strolled up, uninvited, to join their conversation. Georgiana placed her hand atop the captain’s forearm, which rested atop the table. A powerful shudder raced beneath her palm, unguarded by the thin veil of wool and linen clothing. She gave his arm a slight squeeze.
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