What other reason could he have for wanting her back? Had he wanted anything else he would have come to find her four years ago. She had to tell him. Now.
She dragged in a breath like splintered glass and lifted her chin a little higher. The wrong words came out. ‘As you wish, sir. And now perhaps you should conduct me to your housekeeper.’
The right words, the truth, remained where they had been for four years. Frozen. Locked away in her heart.
The housekeeper, the cook, the butler, the housemaids and the footmen—Georgie clung to what she hoped was a dignified façade as she was presented to the stunned servants. The only servant who didn’t appear in the least surprised was Timms. But she had known from the first that he had recognised her.
Anthony’s demeanour with the staff—calm, collected, as though errant brides popped out of the panelling as a matter of course—was enough to enrage a saint. Apparently he didn’t even notice the surreptitious sideways glances.
The housekeeper, Mrs Waller, handed over her keys with thin-lipped civility. Uncertain, Georgie turned to Anthony. He shook his head very slightly.
Breathing a little easier, she said, ‘No, Mrs Waller. You hold them. I shall ask for them when I require them. Another set can be made for me.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then, madam,’ said Anthony politely. ‘Mrs Waller will show you everything.’
Stifling a protest, Georgie nodded. He had intended a marriage of convenience from the very first. He had been quite honest with her. But in Brussels the seventeen-year-old had still dreamed, reading more into his gentleness and tender lovemaking than she ought. And perhaps, had she not been such a fool, more might have been possible.
She should be grateful that she was not starving in the gutter.
Chapter Three
Mrs Waller did indeed show her everything. Including, quite unintentionally, just what the staff thought of this latest scandalous development. By the time she needed to change for dinner, Georgie was exhausted and all she wanted was a cup of tea in a quiet corner.
Mrs Waller received this request with a coldly respectful ‘Certainly, ma’am. At once.’
Retreating to Anthony’s bedchamber, Georgie found her single evening gown in the dressing room and changed as quickly as she could. If she hurried there would be time to sit quietly and sip her tea when it came. She had barely tied the last lacing when she heard the outer door open and Anthony’s slightly halting stride. She wondered how he had hurt himself. She knew he hadn’t been wounded at Waterloo.
He strode into the dressing room, already unbuttoning his shirt and pulled up short, staring at her.
She met his gaze, conscious of blushing at the glimpse of his powerful chest, warmth suffusing her as she remembered the rasp of it against her aching breasts. His weight holding her captive…her breath shortened. ‘I’ll leave you to change, sir.’
‘Anthony,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Anthony,’ he repeated. ‘You’re my wife. You use my name.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Georgie—don’t make this any harder. We must try, both of us.’
If he wanted to try, did that mean he was ready to listen? Shivering, she remembered his fury that night, his public shredding of her character. What would happen if she brought it up? Wouldn’t it be easier to just let it go? And live with a man who despised her, thought she would have betrayed him.
‘Then, will you let me tell you what happened at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball?’
His glance speared her. ‘What happened? I thought that was a trifle obvious. You were kissing another man in the garden. I took exception. Perhaps we should leave it at that.’
He hauled his shirt off over his head and dropped it. Georgie’s lungs seized and the breath she had taken got well and truly lost as she floundered for an answer.
‘I wanted to say farewell, to see you,’ she said at last. ‘In case you were killed.’
His brows rose. ‘You picked an odd way to do it, then.’ He turned away.
I was so frightened. Her stomach lurched at the memory of how much she had wanted to hold him, in case she never saw him again. She willed herself to control. No good could come of telling Anthony that. He wanted a marriage of convenience, a conformable, well-behaved wife. He always had.
Not foolish, romantic Georgie Milne, who had made the mistake of falling in love with him and had misunderstood his skill and consideration in bed for something else. She pushed that memory away.
‘I saw your cousin in the crowd and asked him to tell you I was looking for you. But then I saw Justin and he was desperate to speak with me. I couldn’t let him go when he felt so badly about jilting me…It never occurred to me that you would think…that I…’
Her voice shivering into silence tore at Anthony, opening wounds he had thought healed. Now he knew otherwise—that they had barely closed.
Furious that she could still so effortlessly slip past his control, he snapped, ‘Damn it! What else was I meant to think? When a man is informed that his bride is in the garden, bidding a fond farewell to her lover—why the hell did you do it, Georgie?’
‘Bid Justin farewell? When the call to arms had gone out?’
He saw her face crumple, just before she turned away.
Her voice came, strained and tight. ‘Because I wanted to wish him Godspeed, to tell him that I was happy, that I bore him no ill will. In…in case…in case he was killed…’
Anthony’s gut roiled. Justin Finch-Scott had died at Waterloo. Died in agony with most of his stomach blown away by a French musket. He’d tried to ease the boy, but he’d died, screaming.
‘You were kissing him!’
Her answer shattered him. ‘Yes. I never thought how it must look to others.’
She turned back to him. ‘I’m sorry, Anthony. I could not bear to see him go…with that between us. You see, he begged my forgiveness. Said he should be horsewhipped for giving in to his mother. He said that you were a better man anyway, that I had the best of the bargain. So, I—if he died—’ She shuddered. ‘Do you…do you think he suffered very much?’
Anthony swallowed. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘It was swift. A clean death in battle. He knew nothing.’ And God forbid Georgie should ever know anything about that screaming, smoking hell on earth.
I never thought how it must look to others… The inexperience of a very young girl. Something else flared in his mind. ‘You said you saw my cousin. You mean, William?’
She stared. ‘Yes. Mr Lyndhurst-Flint. I saw him in the crowd and asked him to find you. Tell you where I was.’ Uncertainly she whispered, ‘Did he not do so?’
‘Yes,’ said Anthony savagely, ‘he did.’ John’s embarrassed warning came back to him. Listen—that’s just William’s style. He never lies outright, but lets you think, imagine…the worst. He twists things, like…like messages…
Shaken, he tried to recall exactly what William had said. Surely, if Georgie had made that request…but, no—William had been cagey. Had hesitated when asked if he’d seen Georgiana…as if he hadn’t wanted to tell him. But he had, of course. Damn it all! It fitted the pattern. Exactly as John had warned him. Four years too late. Four years lost over a misunderstanding that could have been cleared up if she had not run away. Anger burnt inside him, but none the less…
‘Then I owe you an apology for that night, madam.’ For all the ache in his heart he kept his voice cool, detached. She had still left him. Without a word. But he held out his hand to her, palm up.
Briefly she hesitated, but then she came to him and laid her hand in his.
Relief jolted him as he closed his hand gently on the slender fingers. For a moment he had thought she would not come, that he had frightened her too badly. But now her hand lay in his again. He drew her closer and slid his other hand under her chin. He intended only to stroke her cheek, but somehow his thumb found its way to the trembling corner of her mouth. His senses and restraint reeled. So soft, so damned sweet.
Aching, he bent his head slowly, giving her time to retreat. But she stayed. And his lips found hers. Softer, sweeter than he remembered, melting beneath his kiss. Desire hammered through him, the urge to sweep her into his arms and make love to her.
She left you. Over a misunderstanding. On the eve of battle. With no word for four years! What if she’d been pregnant? Would she have kept your child from you? How could he ever trust her again?
Besides which, he’d given his word not to press his attentions on her. He must have been insane. With a muttered curse he released her and stepped back, every muscle locked in restraint. ‘I have rung for Timms. If you have finished, I suggest you should go downstairs now. Our guests will be gathering and I would like to take my bath.’
And if you don’t leave now they won’t see either of us until breakfast time, if then. He bit that back. Damned if he’d give her the power of knowing how desperately he wanted her. Better to wait until he was in control of himself, until he could bed her without all these curst emotions getting in the way.
Anger flared in her eyes. ‘Is this not my bedchamber as well, sir? You have declined to furnish me with any other—’
‘One last thing—what did you intend, had you been pregnant when you left me?’ He turned away, adding, ‘Did you ever think of that? That you might have had difficulty persuading me that the child was mine?’
‘Yes.’
He waited, refusing to look at her. And waited, until he heard the soft footfalls as she left. And a cheerful voice in the bedchamber.
‘Evening, mistress. Is the Major through there?’
Georgie’s soft affirmation.
Then, ‘Evening, sir. I’ve brought your shaving water. Would there be aught else, sir?’
He turned to face Timms, who continued with a grin. ‘Nice to have the mistress back, sir. Looks a little peaky, though. Dare say she’ll pluck up soon enough, though.’
‘Timms?’
‘Yessir?’
‘Shut up and take that smirk off your face. And when you’ve put the water down and pulled off my boots, fetch that blasted trunk down from the attics.’
If anything, the grin broadened. ‘Yessir!’
As his henchman departed, Anthony could only be thankful that at least he’d retained enough sense not to ask which blasted trunk.
To his immense surprise, the outer door opened a moment later. Wondering what the hell Timms wanted now, he stalked into the bedchamber, heedless of his nudity—to discover Mrs Waller carrying a laden tea tray.
Her jaw dropped, her eyes bulged and for a moment she appeared to struggle for breath, let alone words. But only for a moment. ‘Master Anthony! This is a respectable household, I’ll have you know! What would your poor mother think?’
Anthony stood stunned, realising that sharing a bedchamber obviously had complications.
‘What…what?’ He gestured feebly at the tray.
‘The mistress requested tea.’ She swept on. ‘And don’t just stand there! Cover yourself! The very idea!’ With which, she left the room, muttering direfully, ‘Never seen the like! Not in all my born days!’
Given her outrage, Anthony doubted that could be construed as a compliment. Damn. Why hadn’t Georgie said something about requesting tea? He swallowed. She had started to protest. But he’d overridden her and kicked her out. What an absolutely brilliant way to restart his marriage.
And what had she said yes to? That she had thought about what to do? Or that she had believed he would disavow a child?
By the time he came down everyone had gathered in the drawing room. He saw with relief that Georgie had a cup of tea. Plainly Mrs Waller had found her.
Aunt Harriet took umbrage at his late arrival. ‘In my day, Anthony, both the hostess and the host were down before their guests! Georgiana was here. Where were you? Fiddling with your cravat, no doubt!’
Having made himself a promise while shaving that he would not rise to Harriet’s bait, Anthony inclined his head and said, ‘I beg your pardon, Aunt Harriet. How was your day?’
She snorted. ‘In my day, there was provision made for a lady’s entertainment! What happened to the archery targets your mother bought?’
Archery? Aunt Harriet? Anthony repressed a shudder at the thought and ignored Marcus’s twitching mouth.
‘What an excellent idea, Aunt,’ purred Marcus.
‘The targets are still here,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ll have them set up.’ With a courtly bow, he added, ‘I shall look forward to seeing your skill, Aunt.’
He limped over to the console table that held the brandy decanter. Riding so far that morning had been a mistake. The muscles had stiffened.
‘And what the devil’s the matter with your leg? It wasn’t like that last time I saw you, Christmas of fourteen,’ barked Aunt Harriet. ‘That wretched Bonaparte, I suppose! Waterloo?’
Georgie started, spilling her tea. ‘But…no—Anthony wasn’t hurt at Waterloo! Not so much as a scratch!’ She sounded utterly sure. Then she turned to him, seemingly unaware of the others, her face white and whispered, ‘Were you?’
He stared at her. ‘No. Hunting accident last winter. I broke it badly and wrenched the knee. It’s nothing to fuss about.’ How in Hades could she be so certain?
Ufton’s stately tones broke in on his thoughts. ‘Dinner is served, madam.’
Anthony blinked. Madam? Then he realised—Lyndhurst Chase had a mistress now. A hostess. Shaken, he looked to Sarah, who smiled encouragement.
Drawing a deep breath, he said, ‘John, perhaps you would escort my wife?’
Georgie had never imagined that Miss Lyndhurst’s reference to her as the hostess might be literal. She found herself installed at the opposite end of the dining table to Anthony, in the chair that Lady Mardon had previously occupied, with Lord Mardon on her right and Viscount Quinlan to her left.
Determinedly, she pinned a smile in place and lifted her chin. Anthony should be given no cause to blush for her manners. Lord Mardon and Lord Quinlan were courtesy itself, chatting with easy informality, apparently quite unperturbed that the lowly companion had become their hostess.
She looked around the table. Her guests. It felt unreal. She was Mrs Lyndhurst. Again. Or was it for the first time? Or not at all? In requesting that she leave their—his—room, Anthony had confirmed her suspicion that the only reason she was to share his bed was that he didn’t trust her anywhere else.
Her gaze met Lady Quinlan’s. Tentatively, she smiled. Lady Quinlan had been very friendly to Miss Saunders, never seeming to remember the abyss between a Viscountess and a companion.
Lady Quinlan inclined her head and turned back to her conversation with Mr Lyndhurst-Flint.
Pain twisted a little deeper.
‘Tell me, Mrs Lyndhurst, are you going to shine at this archery contest tomorrow?’ asked Lord Quinlan.
She forced a smile. ‘Oh, no! I’ve never touched a bow in my life. A pistol, yes. But not a bow.’
‘A pistol?’ Lord Quinlan looked startled.
She nodded. ‘Mama and I followed the drum. So Papa insisted that we learnt how to use one.’
‘Very wise.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I dare say, if you can aim a pistol, that you have a good eye and will not find archery beyond you. May I help you to some of this excellent lamb?’
She smiled assent and gave thanks for the rule governing polite company that confined dinner-table chat to one’s immediate neighbours.
Dinner itself was not such an ordeal. The drawing room, while the gentlemen lingered over their wine, was far, far worse.
While Miss Lyndhurst, for reasons best known to herself, subjected Lady Mardon and Miss Devereaux to a searching catechism, Georgie found herself obliged to chat to Lady Quinlan.
‘I hope, Lady Quinlan, that you will not dislike the archery tomorrow? Pray, if there is something else you would care for, please tell me.’
Lady Quinlan inclined her head. ‘Archery will be perfectly acceptable, cousin. Now that Aunt Harriet
is bereft of her companion, we must find pursuits somewhat closer to the house.’
Georgie stiffened her spine. Lady Quinlan’s chilliness shook her to the core, but she had expected no less. She had seen for herself Lady Quinlan’s affection for Anthony, that she never lost an opportunity to tease him. Why should she welcome as Anthony’s wife a woman who had treated him so shabbily?
‘You need not think that I am suddenly loath to bear Miss Lyndhurst company, Lady Quinlan,’ she said quietly. ‘I have a considerable affection for her. If you prefer to ride, or go for a picnic, you need only say so.’
Lady Quinlan’s eyes blazed, and she was about to speak—just as the door opened to admit the gentlemen.
‘Just so,’ said Lady Quinlan, as though she were gritting her teeth in restraint. She turned away to Lord Quinlan, her face softening, the bright brown eyes beaming.
With a pang of envy, Georgie saw the smile that passed between them, the heightened colour on Lady Quinlan’s cheeks as her husband bent to murmur something in her ear. The tenderness in his face sent another shaft of pain through Georgie. Would Anthony ever look at her like that again?
Miss Lyndhurst, giving up on Lady Mardon and Miss Devereaux, demanded some music. Lady Mardon acquiesced, going to the pianoforte and embarking upon a Haydn sonatina, while her husband turned the pages.
Relieved, Georgie sank into a chair and let the music flow over her. She had no idea what to do, whether anyone expected her now to provide for their entertainment, or if it would be odiously coming if she suggested anything.
Fortunately, at the end of the sonatina, Lady Mardon said cheerfully, ‘Your turn, Amy dear. And Marcus may sit by me! John can turn your pages this time. You’ll find it much less distracting.’
Mr Sinclair, who had risen to his feet, sat back with a darkling look at Lady Mardon.
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