Marry in Scarlet

by Anne Gracie

  A bare minimum of politeness obliged Hart to stay at least half an hour at each event, making mindless chitchat until he could escape. They were the kind of insipid events he most loathed, and by the time he left the third one he was fuming.

  Sinc thought it hilarious. “You’re famous for failing to turn up to events to which you’ve been invited. Now the boot’s on the other foot. Sauce for the goose, eh?”

  “Must you witter on, spouting clichés,” Hart told him.

  “If the cliché fits . . .”

  But beneath his bad temper, Hart was starting to get worried. Clearly whatever was keeping her away was more than a headache.

  He called at Ashendon House the next morning and met the Earl of Ashendon himself coming down the front steps. Hart stopped him, saying bluntly, “I’ve come to inquire after Lady Georgiana.”

  “She’s not here.” Ashendon’s curricle was waiting, his groom holding the horses.

  “She’s not ill, is she?”

  “George?” Ashendon snorted. “Girl’s never been ill a day in her life. No, she’s gone haring off to Bath.”

  “To Bath?”

  Ashendon nodded. “She and my aunt. No idea why. Got some maggot in their heads about something and just headed off without explaining a thing—you know how women get.” He climbed into the curricle.

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “No idea. Girl’s got a mind of her own. But don’t worry, she usually comes home eventually. Good day, Everingham.” He gave Hart a brisk nod and moved off at a smart trot.

  Hart stared after him. What the devil did he mean “She usually comes home eventually”? Was he suggesting that Georgiana made a habit of running off without notice? It certainly sounded like it. But why had she “hared off” in the first place? And why Bath?

  Dammit, Ashendon ought to exert better control of his niece. He didn’t even seem to know—or care—why she’d run off.

  Hart cared, rather a lot. Was it something he’d said or done? Or hadn’t said? Or failed to do? Had he not taken into sufficient account the way she felt about the sly and malicious comments that had come her way since the betrothal was announced?

  Had she decided to flee? To abandon him?

  The thought curdled in his stomach. Dammit, no. She would learn that Hart was not the careless protector her uncle was. Georgiana had given him her promise, and Hart would damned well make sure she kept it.

  * * *

  * * *

  George slept badly, her dreams haunted by a dark, saturnine face with chips of ice for eyes and a mouth that for most of the time seemed so severe and yet could cause such . . . turmoil in her. He was such a contradiction. Ice over fire.

  She didn’t understand him, she was sure—well, almost sure—that she didn’t like him. Though that time he’d turned up at the Renwick party and walked her around the room, in a silent challenge to the malicious rumors about her . . .

  She didn’t need his protection; she could handle the toxic tarts of the ton—even hampered as she was by the promise Emm had drawn from her not to hit anyone.

  But it was . . . nice that he’d troubled to turn up and stand by her. It was his fault she was in the situation in the first place, so it was fitting that he had, but he hadn’t needed to. He’d been tactful about it too. For him. In his cold, autocratic duke-ish way.

  How was it that a man that was so wrong for her on so many levels could nevertheless visit such wretchedly carnal dreams on her? Amorous dreams that left her hot and panting in the night. Even now, when he was far away in London, he still managed to affect her. She had no more self-control around him than a . . . a cat.

  When would this period of unwanted arousal—of fervid, sensual, mindless, impossible heat—end? And why had nobody ever warned her about it?

  She wanted her mind back. She wanted the dreams to end. She wanted the torture to stop.

  She would have to ask Aunt Dottie.

  She tackled her that afternoon. Logan was sleeping again and Aunt Dottie had come down for tea and cakes.

  George took a deep breath. “Aunt Dottie.”

  “Yes, dear.” She picked up a cream-laden cake and took a large bite.

  “How long does a woman’s season last?”

  “The season?” Aunt Dottie responded when she’d swallowed. “There’s no set dates, really. It’s tied in part to when Parliament is sitting—”

  “No, not the season, a woman’s season.”

  Aunt Dottie tilted her head curiously. “A woman’s season, dear? I’m not sure what you mean. Unless you’re worried about being left on the shelf, which I’ve always thought a ridiculous analogy. And besides, you’re going to wed that handsome duke, and I do think—”

  “No, I mean a woman’s own personal season. When she goes into . . . into heat.” Her cheeks warmed.

  Aunt Dottie choked on her cake. When she’d finished coughing and taken a good mouthful of tea, she said carefully, “In heat, dear? You mean like dogs and horses?”

  “Yes, and cats—exactly. I suppose there’s a different term for it with people, but I’ve never heard it used. People are so secretive about things to do with, with congress and procreation. It’s ridiculous that girls are kept so ignorant.”

  “But why do you ask, my love?” Her expression was warm and sympathetic.

  George’s face burned. “Because, with the . . . with the duke, I can’t seem to help myself. I don’t want to, to desire him, but I can’t seem to help myself. The moment he touches me . . . And I don’t even think I like him, but . . .” She gave Aunt Dottie a tragic look. “I climb him like a tree.”

  Aunt Dottie laughed. “Darling girl, don’t worry your head about it; feeling like that is perfectly normal.”

  “Is it?” She thought about it a moment. “But I don’t want to feel that way. I need to know when my season will be over. When can I go back to being normal again?”

  “I can’t tell you that, my love.”

  “But—”

  “Because there isn’t any such thing as a woman’s season. I can see why you might think so, of course, but we’re not like dogs or horses.”

  “Or cats?”

  “No. There is no ‘in season’ or ‘out of season’ for women, but . . .” She paused.

  “But what?” George said hopefully.

  “With the right man, my love, a woman is always in season.”

  George was horrified. “Always?”

  “Always,” Aunt Dottie said firmly. “That’s how it is with Logan and me. And always has been.”

  “Since you were fifteen?”

  Aunt Dottie chuckled. “Well I was ready at fifteen, but Logan insisted on keeping us pure—well, pure-ish—until I turned twenty-one.”

  “But you kissed him before that?”

  “Oh, heavens, yes, once I’d had my two seasons—my London seasons, that is—we kissed and kissed and kissed. And how well I remember wanting to climb him like a tree—but he would allow nothing more than kisses. And a little cuddling. The dear boy wanted me to be sure. Noble, but so frustrating.”

  “And now you still . . . um?”

  Aunt Dottie laughed. “Oh, yes, we still very much um. Not as often as when we were young, but it gets better with age. Like fine wine.”

  George couldn’t imagine that terrible out-of-control desperation being anything like fine wine. Though she supposed it might be a bit like being drunk on brandy. Drunk on the duke. Yes, she could see how that could happen.

  “You’ve never regretted not marrying?”

  “Not for a minute.”

  “You didn’t want children?”

  “Oh, yes, I wanted them, and so did Logan. And we had an agreement; if ever I found myself with child, we’d get married and go and live in America. Sadly it never happened.”

  “Why Amer
ica?”

  “Darling girl, we could never live comfortably in England as a married couple. My people would never accept Logan—could you imagine your aunt Agatha sitting down to dinner with him?”

  George tried to imagine it, and wrinkled her nose. “Not unless it was to eat him alive.”

  Aunt Dottie laughed. “I can’t imagine who would be more uncomfortable—Aggie or Logan, or the others sharing the table. And his folk would never be comfortable with me. Logan couldn’t bear the thought of my losing all my friends and the society I was used to, and he had no interest in mixing with them anyway. He knew that in America it would be difficult, but possible—things don’t seem so rigid over there, and nobody would know who we were, anyway.” She spread her hands. “But I never did conceive a child and so the question never arose. And we’ve lived a very happy life together without the outside world gossiping about us and judging us.”

  “Really, nobody knows?” George could hardly believe it.

  Aunt Dottie gave a mischievous giggle. “A few people might suspect—your uncle Cal has given me a few dark looks when I forget myself and call Logan ‘dear,’ but I doubt he has any real notion of the true state of affairs. Our servants live out for the most part, and those few who don’t—well, whatever they know or suspect, they’ve all been wonderfully loyal and discreet. So you see, my love, it’s been a most delicious secret.”

  “And that’s why it doesn’t bother you when Aunt Agatha calls you a failed spinster?”

  Aunt Dottie laughed. “Exactly. Every time she says it, I have a secret little chuckle to myself.” Her soft face sobered. “Poor Aggie, she’s been married three times but has never really been loved. It’s natural that she gets a little bitter at times. But she means well, and will do anything to support the family.”

  “As long as it’s what she wants,” George said darkly.

  “Yes, Aggie usually gets her way in the end.” Aunt Dottie leaned forward and hugged George. “But not always, my love. Not always.” She dusted crumbs off her fingers. “Now, I must go back upstairs. Are you clear about this ‘season’ business?”

  “You’re sure it won’t go away?”

  “Oh, it might, of course. With some people the heat of desire fades after a short time. The honeymoon period, they call it.”

  “Oh.” George brightened.

  “But for the lucky ones, like Logan and me, and your uncle and Emm, it only ripens. It’s a blessing for a lifetime.” She rose and smiled down at George. “I think Lily and Rose have it with their husbands, and I suspect you and your duke might be lucky that way too. I have one of my feelings.”

  George mustered a weak smile. A lifetime of being in heat for the duke? Being like putty in his hands? She couldn’t bear it.

  * * *

  * * *

  Logan was making a good recovery and George decided to return to London the following day. Aunt Dottie would stay in Bath until Logan was fully recovered, but she assured George that she’d be back in time for her wedding. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said.

  George set out the next day, taking Betty’s niece Sue with her. It had occurred to her that she’d need a maid of her own once she was married, and thought Sue might be a possibility—a nice, comfortable ordinary girl, rather than the kind of intimidating dresser that some people—for instance Aunt Agatha—had. She would see how well they traveled together.

  Sue, when asked, jumped at the chance to visit London. It was, she confessed, her heart’s desire; she’d never traveled more than ten miles past Bath.

  They’d made good time and spent the first night in a comfortable inn. Sue’s first time in an inn—she even found the truckle bed brought in for her in George’s room exciting. They continued their journey after a good, early breakfast. The traffic was sparse, the weather was fine and they were making good time. George was gazing dreamily out of the window, thinking over what Aunt Dottie had told her, when a coach-and-four traveling in the opposite direction suddenly veered into the middle of the road.

  The postilion’s shouts alerted George to the problem. The coach-and-four bore down on them. The postilion yelled, the coachman bellowed at him to pull over, Sue screamed and George held her breath helplessly and braced herself for the inevitable crash.

  It didn’t come. At the last minute the coach-and-four pulled smoothly to one side and stopped. The postilion steered his horses onto the grass verge opposite, and dismounted. He stalked toward the coach, yelling furious abuse and waving his whip in a threatening manner.

  George leapt down from the post chaise, determined to give the carriage driver a piece of her mind and to prevent a fight from breaking out. Though seeing that the carriage driver had not left his perch, there was not much danger of actual violence.

  The carriage door swung open and a tall dark gentleman stepped down. “Lady Georgiana,” he greeted her smoothly.

  “You!” She confronted the duke furiously. “You almost crashed into us! Is your driver drunk?”

  “Not in the least. He judged things to an inch.” He strolled forward and murmured a mild apology to her fulminating postilion and slipped something into his palm. The postilion, much to George’s fury, stopped fulminating, pocketed the bribe and with a “No ’arm done, gov’nor, pleasure doin’ business with you,” sauntered back to his horses.

  The duke turned back to George and said, calm as you please, “As soon as I realized it was you in that yellow bounder I told my driver to stop you. So he did.”

  George could hardly believe her ears. “You mean you deliberately forced us off the road? We might have been killed.”

  “I hardly think so. Jeffries knows his business. He’s been with me for years. Besides, both vehicles were traveling at a trot. There was no question of a collision.”

  She glared at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  He raised a sardonic brow. “Looking for you, of course.”

  “Looking for me? Why?”

  A few drops of rain spattered down. He glanced at the sky. “It’s going to rain. Send your maid back to Bath. We’ll continue this conversation in my carriage.”

  She bristled. “Send her back?”

  “She’s not needed now.”

  “You mean I should travel with you, alone?”

  “We’re betrothed, are we not? In ten days’ time we’ll be married.” It started to spit. “Get into my carriage. I’ll speak to the maid and pay off the postilion.”

  “No. My maid, my postilion—I’ll do it.” Furious with his high-handedness George stalked back to the post chaise, spoke to Sue and the postilion, then returned and climbed into the duke’s carriage.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?

  —JANE AUSTEN, LETTER TO CASSANDRA, 1808

  Hart was pleased with her obedience. He wouldn’t have been too surprised if she’d climbed back into the post chaise and driven off. He gave his coachman a signal and the carriage moved off with a slight jerk, turning around to head back to London.

  Georgiana sat opposite him, her arms folded and her chin raised. She was still angry, then. So be it. “Well then, duke? What’s this all about?”

  She never addressed him by name, he noticed. Perhaps that would change after the wedding. “You left London without notice, without informing me, for no reason I could fathom.”

  She gave a careless shrug. “There wasn’t time. It was an emergency. I didn’t even have time to explain to my aunt and uncle—I had to leave them a hasty note.”

  Her apparent indifference annoyed him. “You should have consulted me. Sought my permission. We are betrothed. At the very least you should have consulted me about your plans . . . And your reasons for leaving in such a hurry.”

  “Permission?” Her eyes kindled. “This! This is why I never wanted to get married. This . .
. this right that men seem to think they have to control every aspect of a woman’s life! Or else leave them and their children to sink or swim as best they can. Never anything in between.”

  Hart hung on to his temper by a thread. What the devil did children have to do with it? Or swimming. “What is it precisely you object to, madam? Is it—”

  “Don’t ‘madam’ me!”

  He ignored her. “Is it not my right to be kept informed of my affianced wife’s whereabouts? Our wedding is in ten days’ time and you—you disappear without explanation.”

  “So?” She flung her hands up in outrage.

  “You belong to me, and don’t you forget it.”

  She made a vehement gesture. “No! I don’t belong to you or anyone else. I belong to myself. I am yours only as long as I choose! I am not your—your possession. Or your chattel. The only thing that holds me is my promise to you.”

  He clenched his jaw. She damn well did belong to him—or she would once they were married. But he knew better than to remind her of it.

  She must have read something in his expression, because she stormed on. “I go away for a few days to accompany my elderly great-aunt because she had an urgent need to return home, and you come storming after me as if I’d run off with—with some rake!”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” he said stiffly. It was exactly what he’d done.

  She stared at him a moment. Her eyes narrowed. “Good grief—that’s it, isn’t it? You thought I was planning to jilt you. Even though I had given you my word I would marry you—my word!—you didn’t trust me to keep my promise.”

  “Nonsense.” It was exactly what he’d thought.

  “Then why did you come chasing after me, breathing fire and brimstone and sending my maid away?”

  “What has the maid got to do with it?”

  “She’s not your maid.”

  “She’s not yours, either.”

  “No, but my great-aunt sent her to accompany me. You had no right to order her around.”