by Anne Gracie
Was that what Aunt Agatha had learned from three marriages? All George’s irritation with the imperious old lady drained away. It was rather sad when you thought about it. But it was clear she meant her advice kindly.
Protect your heart indeed. George sniffed. Her heart was in no danger from the duke.
* * *
* * *
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Rose demanded the minute she and Lily were alone with George. They’d arrived in the early afternoon, spent an hour with Emm and the baby and then had gone for a walk in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour and very cleverly returned shortly after Aunt Agatha left.
They had also, it seemed to George, caught up with all the gossip they’d missed by being away in the country the last few weeks. In one little walk in the park.
“Tell you what? You knew I was betrothed—I wrote to you both.”
“About the gossip,” Rose said.
“Letter?” Lily rolled her eyes. “Edward read mine to me—the whole half dozen lines:
“Dear Lily and Edward,
“I hope you’re both well. We are all well here. Emm has had the baby and he is very sweet. And they are both healthy and strong. Aunt Agatha is in alt. Aunt Dottie is in Bath. You probably saw the notice in the papers and were surprised, but it’s true. I am betrothed to the Duke of Everingham. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I’m committed to it now. But it’s all right, he’s giving me my own house.
Love from George and Finn and Sultan.”
“Much the same as the one you sent me,” Rose said.
George shrugged. “You know I’m not much of a letter writer.”
“Not much? It was appalling!”
“Why? The spelling was all right, wasn’t it?”
“The spelling was fine, it was the, the infuriation of it!” said Rose.
“The frustration,” Lily added.
“The complete, utterly provoking lack of information!” Rose finished.
“But I told you about everything—the baby, the aunts, and my betrothal. What else is there?”
Rose rolled her eyes. “Detail, that’s what’s missing. You’ve always been hopeless at gossip.”
“I hate gossip.”
Rose smacked her lightly. “This is not gossip, silly. It’s about you! Now, sit down and tell us all about it, from the beginning. I’ve ordered tea and cakes and a footman is taking care of Finn, so don’t think you’ll wriggle out of it. Now tell us, how, how, how did you become betrothed to the Duke of Everingham? I thought you despised him.”
“I did.” George settled down to tell the tale. Truth to tell, she had no desire to wriggle out of talking about it. Rose and Lily were a sympathetic and attentive audience and it was a relief to be able to talk to people her own age. Emm and Aunt Dottie were lovely, and had helped her sort through her confused thoughts and feelings, but Rose was refreshingly blunt and Lily was wonderfully sympathetic.
Burton brought in a tray with a large pot of tea and a plate of mouthwatering cakes and dainty biscuits. Lily poured, and, while they ate and drank, George told them how the duke had singled her out at Rose and Thomas’s ball—Rose, of course, had had so much going on herself that she hadn’t noticed.
Lily had. “So that’s why you were asking about kissing,” she said with a smirk. “I knew it.”
George described how the duke had entrapped her, compromising her on the landing at old Mrs. Gastonbury’s soirée musicale. She didn’t exactly tell them she’d been caught with her dress hitched up and her legs wrapped around him—just that they’d been caught kissing. And that there and then, the duke had announced their betrothal to everyone at the Gastonbury party. And how the very next morning there was a notice of it in the papers—announcing it to the world!—and he hadn’t even asked her!
“What a sneaky beast.” Rose eyed George thoughtfully. “He was never like that with me. He was always quite cool and formal. It’s almost as if . . .” She pursed her lips, considering.
When George told them about how Aunt Agatha had conspired with the Duchess of Everingham to trick her into making what she thought was a deathbed promise, Rose hissed with outrage.
“I never did like that woman,” she said. “All the time I was betrothed to her son she was—I don’t know how to describe it—always very sweet to me but with a kind of poisonous undertone.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” George said. “Sounding as sweet as honey, but you know there’s something rotten beneath. Took me a while to realize it.”
Rose nodded. “She’s going to make a frightful mother-in-law.”
George wasn’t so sure. If the duke adored his mother, it would be ghastly, but he didn’t. He was very aware of her selfish, manipulative nature. And when it counted, he had stepped in, very much on George’s side.
“And of course the duke must have known what she—” Lily began.
“No, he didn’t,” George said quickly. “In fact, as soon as he realized what had happened, how his mother had tricked me, he insisted on exposing the lie, and . . .” She bit her lip.
“And what?” Rose asked impatiently after a moment.
“He offered to release me from the betrothal.”
There was a moment’s shocked silence.
“He offered to release you?” Lily looked puzzled. “But you’re still betrothed—aren’t you?”
Rose exchanged a knowing glance with her sister. “Yes, George, why is that?”
“Ohhhh,” Lily said on a long note of discovery. “You like the duke, George.”
“I do not,” George said emphatically. “He’s arrogant, high-handed and bossy. He thinks he knows what’s best for everyone, and he does what he wants and everyone else has to jump to his command.”
Lily gave her a considering look. “That’s quite a list. What do you think, Rose?”
Rose said archly, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
George continued, “He’s selfish and closed-up”—she tried to think of more grievances she had against the duke—“and he’s possessive. When he thought I’d run away to Bath—I’d gone with Aunt Dottie—he came chasing after me and ordered me into his own carriage—even though I was already on my way back to London.”
“He thought you’d run away?” Rose echoed.
“Yes, with a rake.”
“Which rake? Do you even know any rakes?” Rose asked. George ignored her.
Lily said thoughtfully, “Possessive? I rather like the thought of possessive.”
“You can have it, then,” George retorted. She was feeling oddly defensive. “I don’t like it. It makes me feel . . . I don’t know, trapped.” Though that wasn’t quite the word. “I need to be free.”
“And yet when he offered you your freedom, you chose to remain betrothed,” Lily pointed out. “Why was that?”
“Yes, George, dear,” Rose cooed. “Why was that?”
George pondered the question. Truth to tell, she still wasn’t quite sure why she’d allowed the betrothal to stand when she’d been offered a clear way out. She gave an awkward shrug and wished she’d never begun this conversation. It was taking her into uncomfortable depths.
“I suppose I was used to it by then. I didn’t want to make a fuss.”
Rose burst out laughing. “Not want to make a fuss? You? You’ll have to do better than that, George, dearest. This is us, recall? We know you.”
“All right, then,” she said grumpily, “I decided I want a baby.”
“Well, of course you do. We all do, especially after seeing Emm’s darling little boy. Isn’t little Bertie just adorable?” Lily gushed. “Those big bright eyes.”
“No, it doesn’t wash,” Rose said. “If it was just the matter of a baby, George could have chosen any one of the perfectly nice—and easy to control—men who’ve been mooning after her
all season. It doesn’t explain why she stayed betrothed to the duke—seeing she ‘dislikes’ him so much. Or claims to.”
“There’s the kissing,” Lily suggested. “Remember, when he kisses her, her knees turn to jelly.”
“How do you—? They do not!” George protested.
“At your ball, remember?” Lily reminded Rose. “Afterward she asked us about kissing and knees dissolving.” George felt her cheeks heating. Lily might have difficulty reading, but she had an excellent memory. Drat it.
“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Rose said. “And then he kissed her again at Mrs. Gastonbury’s soirée and she completely lost track of where she was.”
“I did not!”
Rose arched an eyebrow. “So you knew all those people were coming out onto the landing, heading for supper? And you kept kissing him anyway?”
“No. I didn’t realize—”
“In other words, it was such a splendiferous kiss you lost all sense of where you were,” Rose concluded triumphantly. “So, one, she wants a baby, and two, she likes his kisses.” She numbered them off on her fingers. “What else?”
“Nothing else,” George mumbled, her face hot.
“Oh, yes, three, you didn’t like to make a fuss,” Rose agreed ironically, marking off a third finger. “You, who’s never worried about a fuss in your life. A most compelling case, m’lud. Now on the other hand, one, he’s clearly gone out of his way to entrap you—”
“Against my will!”
Rose waved a dismissive hand. “Pooh! He gave you the option of leaving and you didn’t take it. So one, he really wants you; two, he kisses like a dream—and you know, all the time he was betrothed to me he kissed like a . . . like a fish.”
“A fish?” George sat up, outraged. “He does not kiss like a fish!”
“See?” Rose winked at Lily. “Number three, she defends the glory of his kisses.” She laughed at George’s expression and added, “Seriously, he kissed me a couple of times, George, and . . . nothing. And that seemed to please him. Pleased us both, actually, neither of us wanting any emotion in a marriage—or so I thought at the time. It seems he’s changed his mind about that too.”
“Another one on the duke’s side,” Lily said. “Since the betrothal, he’s been attending parties with her—and you know he never used to. He never did with Rose, either. Penny Peplowe said he even went to Almack’s looking for George, and when she wasn’t there he stormed out.”
“Almack’s?” Rose said, impressed. “He hates Almack’s.”
“Possessive,” George muttered. Though she’d been quite impressed herself when he’d told her.
Lily continued, “Penny said he only began going to parties after people started saying nasty things about you entrapping him.”
George nodded. That was true. And she couldn’t help but be touched by it.
“So, five, he’s protective.”
“Yes. But love isn’t a nice neat set of numbers that add up.” Rose flicked her fingers out as if getting rid of her lists. “Apart from her knees dissolving when the duke kisses her, the biggest clue is that when George was offered her freedom, she refused it. And she can’t explain why. But whoever said that love had to make sense? So what I think is—”
George narrowed her eyes. She didn’t want Rose to say another word.
“Our dear, loyal, prickly, independent, I-don’t-need-anyone—I’m-perfectly-all-right-on-my-own—”
“As long as she has dogs and horses,” Lily interjected.
“—yes, our darling I-don’t-need-anyone—I’m-perfectly-all-right-on-my-own-with-my-animals George is finally, at long last, in love.”
“I am not!” George mumbled. How could they possibly think that? She hadn’t told them anything nice about the duke, and there were actually a few nice aspects.
“All the signs are there, George, dearest,” Lily said warmly. “I’m so happy for you.”
George squirmed.
“George is in love, George is in love,” Rose crooned in a singsong voice.
“Oh, stop it.” George rose to her feet. “You’re both talking a lot of nonsense. I need to take Finn for a walk.” She put two fingers in her mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Finn bounded up and slid to a halt on the polished floor. “Come on, boy.”
A moment later she slammed the front door behind her.
She pounded along the footpath. Her head was in a whirl. Rose and Lily were wrong. She wasn’t in love with the duke. She couldn’t be.
They were certain she was in love only because they were in love with their husbands. It wasn’t the same for her. The duke was no Edward or Thomas. They were warm, kind, loving men. The duke was . . . an icicle.
Except when he kissed her.
Blast and botheration! Why couldn’t she just go back to the way it was before? Before he’d noticed her. Before she’d noticed him. Before he’d kissed her. Life had been so much simpler then, so much more enjoyable. She’d known what she wanted and exactly how to get it. Now . . .
Now she didn’t know anything. Why hadn’t she taken her freedom when the duke offered it? Rose was right. It wasn’t just because baby Bertie had made her realize she wanted a baby of her own. She pulled her hat off and rubbed her head, as if somehow she could make sense of it all.
Whoever said that love had to make sense?
It wasn’t love—was it? She knew who she loved—her dog, her horse, Martha, her family . . .
But it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t afire to kiss any of them. The duke was like a fever in her blood.
Aunt Dottie had said that for some people that fever faded after the honeymoon. George wasn’t sure whether the thought of that was a comfort . . . or a worry.
A comfort, she told herself firmly, because if this was love, it was confusing and uncomfortable and she didn’t want a bar of it. She picked up a stick for Finn and threw it as far as she could.
* * *
* * *
It was the night before the wedding. Hart, much against his inclination, had allowed Sinc to drag him out for a few convivial drinks with some friends. “Not natural for a bridegroom to pass the night before sober and alone,” Sinc insisted. “You need drinks and company to chase the nerves away.”
“I’m not nervous in the least,” Hart lied.
“Not worried about the wagers, then?” Percy, one of the friends said.
“Wagers?” Hart repeated in a steely voice.
“Nothing, no wagers,” Sinc said hurriedly. “Old Percy’s three sheets to the wind—silly fool doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“No, I’m not,” Percy said indignantly. “There’s a dozen different wagers on the wedding not going ahead.”
“Shut up, Perce!” Sinc hissed.
But though Percy might not be three sheets to the wind, he was drunk enough not to take a hint. “You know yourself, Sinc, that the money’s on a second Rutherford girl jilting the poor fellow. Lady George not the sort to make a duchess. No ambition in her. Swore she’d never marry, and I for one, believed her. Anyway, I saw you lay a bet myself, so what are you pokering up and pulling faces at me about?”
Sinc groaned.
“If that’s what you think, you have wasted your money,” Hart said coldly. He rose and opened the French doors to the balcony, hoping some cool night air might calm his temper. After a while Sinc followed him out.
“Did you bet on my wedding?” Hart asked him.
Sinc pulled a rueful face. “You know me, Hart, can’t resist a good bet.”
“And what did you bet on?”
“That she won’t let you down, of course. A straight arrow if ever there was one, Lady George.” He stared at Hart. “You didn’t imagine I’d bet against you, did you?”
Hart relaxed a little. He hoped Sinc was right, but doubts continued to plague him. He still didn’t
understand why she’d decided to go ahead with the marriage. She’d fought so hard against it at first, but then, when he’d offered her her freedom, she didn’t take it. Why?
Every other woman who’d ever shown interest in him hadn’t been able to look past his title, his fortune and his estate. What was she getting out of this marriage? She wasn’t ambitious, she didn’t care about titles or his fortune—she’d made that abundantly clear in the settlement discussions.
And yet, despite her lack of interest in his position and assets, she truly did seem to see him—Hart, not the duke. She saw him, but she didn’t seem to like him very much. They quarreled almost every time they met. So why would she marry him? For a baby? She could get that from any man.
He stared into the golden depths of his glass, then drained it. These were not thoughts to calm a nervous bridegroom. He could think of no good reason why she’d be at the church in the morning. All he had to cling to, like a man in danger of drowning, was that she’d given him her word. And she hadn’t let him down yet.
He knew why he’d chosen her. He wanted her, wanted in a way that he didn’t care to examine too closely. It was enough that he desired her and that she was independent enough not to be the sort of wife who would cling and want to live in his pocket.
He went inside. There was no point in going round and round and round with the same unanswerable questions. It was simple: either she’d turn up at the church tomorrow or she wouldn’t.
He held out his glass for a refill.
Chapter Seventeen
She is loveliness itself.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
George stood in front of her looking glass, contemplating her reflection while her maid, Sue, fluttered around her, making a few last-minute adjustments. “Lordy, m’lady, I never seen a bride dressed so bright before. My sister wore her best Sunday-go-to-church dress for her wedding, and it was a lovely bright blue, but this—”
“It’s a new fashion,” George said.
“You don’t say. I was thinking maybe you’d wear silver tissue like the poor late princess, but I suppose people think it’s a bit of a sad fashion now.” Sue tweaked the skirt to adjust the fall. “In the country if a girl wore red to her wedding, well, people would talk . . .”