by Sophia Nash
And yet there was something different about him. It was his eyes…or rather, his expression—the one thing about him she’d known she’d never be able to forget. Now there was none of the open warmth she remembered. Instead there was shadow.
“Well,” he said, “that was an education. Although I’m not certain pigs can actually do what you suggested.” His gaze never wavered from her own as a glimmer of amusement broke through his reserve at last.
“A person, a proper person at least, does not sneak up on a body,” she muttered, hating to sound so defensive. She tore her gaze away from his before she made an utter fool of herself. “I’m completely justified—”
“It’s good to see you too, Georgiana,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes, the echo of his deep baritone warming her insides despite the clammy mud. His voice reminded her of hot brandy on a cold night. At least that hadn’t changed.
Oh, this wasn’t going at all like she had planned. Would life ever unfold the way she envisioned? She made timetables, she outlined, she prepared, and it never, ever went the way it should. Just one time—
“Let’s see. I think a plank will work, if you’ll just wait one moment,” he said, turning to a nearby pile of lumber.
She began to mutter to herself, a lifelong habit she had never been able to conquer. “I’m fine, really. I don’t need any help, unless you want to fetch a nice, long, sharp knife for that”—she almost said a most unladylike word—“vile, horrid piece of pork.”
“Such language.” He seesawed one board away from the rest of the pile. “Didn’t your father always say, ‘You can take the swine out of the barnyard, but you can’t take the barnyard out of the swine?’”
“That’s not at all how the saying goes,” she sputtered. “Did you just call me a pig?”
“Not at all. I was referring to that poor sow over there. You did just call her by my dear aunt’s name, didn’t you?” And then he finally relaxed his face fully and loosed that huge, deep, warm laugh that had always affected her breathing. Quinn shed his midnight blue coat and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his fine lawn shirt.
“No,” she protested. “I won’t be the cause of another ruined article of clothing.” Georgiana rolled her hip to ease herself up, using her less-injured leg.
She had to stop staring at him; yet it was impossibly difficult to look away. It had been far too long, and she wished time would stand still so she could drink in the sight of him. Instead she forced herself to glance down and blow at a strand of hair caught in her mouth. No woman on earth could be less appealing than she at this moment. Thank goodness there were two undisturbed buckets of water nearby, and she quickly doused her arms, face and torso.
If she could just keep up the vaguely insulting banter the way good friends always did, he would never guess how much seeing him affected her. She had prayed so hard and for so long to be able to forget him, that the mesmerizing power he held over her would evaporate. Well, quite obviously the angels were having a good laugh right now.
She took a step toward the fence and forgot to do it with care. Her knee buckled and she grabbed onto the trough to avoid sliding back into the morass of slippery mud. She groaned before she could stifle the sound and closed her eyes against the pain radiating from her limb.
Suddenly she was hauled up by strong arms and she knew if she opened her eyes it would be Quinn. And she knew she would make a complete fool of herself if she allowed herself to drown in the depths of his gaze, his left eye slightly darker than his right, which had a wider band of mossy green surrounding the amber center. Oh, she had to collect herself, had to fortify herself against this. He had only ever held her once before, and at that time she had been almost unconscious from the pain and he—
“You smell—” he began.
“I know, I’m sorry,” she interrupted, her head down, eyes firmly screwed shut.
“I was about to say that you smell wonderful. Rather like home,” he said, breathing in the scent of her hair. “I’d forgotten Penrose’s sage and honey. Of course the muck and delicate aroma of slops ruins the effect, but then one can’t be too particular when returning home.”
His strength and deep voice lulled her and she forgot to keep her eyes shut—his unbearably handsome face was now inches away. The perfect symmetry was more starkly evident now that his innocent boyishness had given way to the thirty-one-year-old man he had become. The flesh of youth had disappeared, leaving prominent cheekbones and a jaw which served to emphasize the hollows of his beard-darkened cheeks. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes, as if they had seen too much and slept too little. Mysterious masculinity made him even more remote than he had been before. She longed to touch his brown hair, which was cropped shorter than the last time she had seen him.
Oh, the feelings he evoked were worse than she remembered. Far, far worse. She couldn’t have said another word while he held her if her life had depended upon it.
Oh God. It was Quinn. And he was home after fifteen long years. And he was carrying her in his arms.
Before she could stop, her hands acted on their own volition, creeping up and around his neck while she rested her cheek on the crest of his shoulder. A shoulder that was so much larger than it had been when he had been a boy and she had been a young girl. She almost trembled as the warmth of his body wound its way past the mud and the linen between them.
She couldn’t stop from burying her nose in his shoulder and inhaling the warm cedar and rosemary essence that was impossible to smell unless she was against him like this. She had pined for this scent, always searching the village shops for a hint of it. She became lightheaded when her body flushed from the remembrance of the aroma.
He gripped her more closely as he lengthened his stride. “How bad is it?”
“It’s just fine, really. Barely hurts at all. Set me down. I can walk now that we’re on firm ground.”
“But the ax fell on the same leg as before.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten.” Right. As if he of all people would believe that. The entire situation released a flood of bad memories.
“If it’s all the same, I think I’ll carry you up to the house, Lady Ellesmere.”
Her breath caught. “Don’t call me that,” she whispered.
He raised his brows.
Gusts of wind wrestled with leaves in the nearby trees, changing direction as a few fat raindrops landed on them. Within moments an avalanche of rain poured forth from the gray, rumbling clouds above. There was no point in hurrying the pace; they would be drenched to the bone by the time they reached the great house.
And suddenly it was too much—the banter, his closed expression and demeanor so unlike before, and yet all the while his poignant scent invading her senses. Worse, his arms around her meant nothing to him and everything to her.
“Put me down. I can continue on my own. I’m far too heavy. And I know why you’re here. You really didn’t need to bother.” She had to almost shout to be heard above the rain shower. “I don’t want a portion from the Fortesque coffers. I married Anthony because I loved him.”
He paid no heed to her, only tightened his arms despite her squirming, and kept his thoughts to himself.
Georgiana finally wrenched herself from his grip and stumbled to the ground in front of the folly on the hill. A flash of lightning illuminated the dark sky and Quinn nearly fell trying to hold on to her.
Georgiana took the last few steps to the domed gray marble structure surrounded by Ionic columns, trying as hard as she could not to limp and failing abysmally. She swung around awkwardly and faced him.
Rain coursed down the harsh contours of his face, pausing at the hint of a cleft in his chin. His expression was murderously calm. He raked his fingers through his rain-slicked hair to comb it out of his eyes. “Look, Georgiana, you’re hurt, and this is neither the time nor the place to discuss anything of importance.”
“Actually, now that I think about it, perhaps this is the perfect tim
e to discuss why you’re here.”
“Never let it be said that I would refuse a lady,” he replied without a hint of ire. It was as if nothing could irritate him. “Why don’t you tell me why I’m here, since you’re certain you know.”
“Lady Gwendolyn Ellesmere has sent you to toss the presumptuous marauder and her family of low connections from Penrose’s hallowed grounds so that her ladyship can reassume her throne here.”
She had to hand it to him. Not a muscle in his face twitched.
“No, no, Georgiana, you have it all wrong. I’m to kick you and your upstart family all the way to Wiltshire and have you tarred and feathered if at all possible. Yes, I do believe I will be given the honor of my dearest cousin Henrietta’s hand in marriage if I manage it.” As if to punctuate the ridiculous remark, a barn owl that had taken up residence in a nearby hollowed-out tree hooted its displeasure at the storm.
Georgiana’s throat ached with a horrid combination of hurt and hollow humor. It was so unfair that he could almost make her laugh when she wanted to be annoyed. Henrietta was not only seven years Quinn’s senior, but she was also the most mannish female alive and had the added attraction of being mean as well, which was ideal as it relieved everyone of having to like her.
“Well, since I seem to have lost the ability to make you laugh, shall I tell you the main reason I’ve come?”
He looked at her and tilted his head in that way Anthony also had used to do, and it made the ache in her throat triple in intensity. She nodded mutely.
“Mr. Tilden—I think you know the steward in London?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “During the course of reviewing all of the Fortesque holdings, he showed me the correspondence from Penrose for the last year. And—”
“And there is a considerable increase in the expenditures. I know, and I can explain—” She halted in mid-defense. There was something so calm in his expression, so patient and soothing, as if he could bear the weight of the world. He had always been like that, so unlike everyone else in that regard.
He said not a word, just looked at her, obviously thinking of something—of what, she had not a clue. She never could figure out what he was thinking. He had always been alone with his thoughts, letting others make fools of themselves by flapping their lips.
Oh, and all she could see was how deeply green the edges of his irises were in the mist left by the sudden rain. When had the rain ceased? “You were saying?” she said, trying to hold on to her shrinking dignity.
He cleared his throat. “I came here first and foremost to find out why the handwriting has changed on the reports from Penrose.”
Her throat locked up.
“…Why it became wobbly a year ago and then changed altogether to someone else’s hand several months ago. Is your father well, Georgiana? And now that I’m here, I’d like to know why the apparent newest Marchioness of Ellesmere is fixing a trough in the pigsty.”
She had wondered when he would bring that up. As usual he had lulled her into hoping he wouldn’t ask. She sniffed, trying to draw up her form in the haughtiest pose a lady could assume, given the amount of slops, mud, and rain on her person, which precluded anything truly impressive. “Why, I like pigs. I hate to see them hungry.”
“Georgiana…” He sighed heavily. “Look, I’m cold and more tired than I can say, and you’re in pain and freezing as well, although a pack of wild dogs probably couldn’t drag a complaint from you. But eventually—in the next twenty-four hours to be precise—I shall be paying a visit to your father.”
She looked away.
He sighed. “You were correct on the other point. Before I leave next week to continue my tour of the family’s properties to the north, we have another issue to discuss. That of your marriage to…my cousin. And the matter of a settlement. I shall leave it to you to pick the time and the place.”
The reference to Anthony and his odd pause made her ill at ease. “There’s remarkably little to discuss.”
“We both know the validity of the marriage is in question. But we’ll resolve this before I leave. And by the by”—he glanced away—“contrary to popular opinion, I was glad to hear you’d married him. The two of you had a very special bond. You always were inseparable.”
“It wasn’t just Anthony and I who were best friends. It was the three of us who were—”
He ruthlessly ignored her. “You were the only chance he had to turn himself around.” He took a step closer. “If there was anyone who could have changed the direction he was taking himself, it was you. You usually had good sense. Why, there’s not a silly, romantic notion in your body.”
“I’m so glad you noticed,” she said dryly, regaining her senses. “Everyone always underestimates the advantages of marrying a managing female.”
His expression never wavered.
She had thought he would laugh. For the ten thousandth time she wondered what his wife had been like. He had supposedly fallen in love with and married a lady whose beautiful face and elegant grace had been the fodder of every gossip column Georgiana had chanced to see all those years ago. The news of his marriage had broken her pathetic heart irrevocably. Old dreams formed in youth were the hardest to die.
“You always did have a mind of your own, Georgiana. But I appreciate an organized mind. Well, I shall hope we can discuss this more rationally, in future. You have no reason to fear me. I, for one, am very willing to start anew. I never think of the past. Enough…” He looked up at the still gray sky and squinted. “It’s starting to rain again. I can’t force you to let me carry you. But if you move a muscle from this spot before I send someone with a cart, I’ll—”
“Why do you never think of the past?” she whispered. “I think about it all the time.”
He stared at her, and a drop of rain worked its way down his cropped hair to land on his broad shoulder. He turned and walked away, refusing to say another word.
“Oh!” Georgiana started. “Don’t walk away from me. Oh, what is wrong with you? You’ve changed. You never used to walk away. Come back. I’ll tell you what you want to know.” She stopped when she realized he had strode away so quickly that there was no possible way he could hear her over the sudden surge of the returning rain. “Damn you, Quinn Fortesque,” she whispered into the wind.
And the wicked wind carried it to his ears and he smiled despite himself. He’d forgotten what a hellion little Georgiana Wilde could be when she set her mind to it.
He was still mulling over the hellcat after dinner in the comfort of Penrose’s library. His library.
But it didn’t feel like his library. The ghosts of the two people who had held the title before him seemed to hover in the shadows, mocking him, forcing him to remember. Well, he’d be damned if he was going to give in to thinking about the past. He took a long pull from the cheroot he’d nearly forgotten, dangling from his fingers over the arm of the cushioned chair. Then he settled in to study the glowing embers at its tip—and ponder his dilemma…Georgiana Wilde, now Fortesque.
He was disgusted she’d almost made him forget to hold on to the closed façade he carefully presented to the world. He usually measured every word before he allowed it to escape from his lips, and avoided messy scenes entirely. What could he have been thinking? He shook his head.
Georgiana had not changed. He smiled inwardly, remembering her amusing and original string of curses aimed at Gwendolyn, queen of the swine. Oh, Georgiana’s angles had softened a little, but not her character. But then, he had never expected her to become a great beauty. In fact he wondered why he was thinking about her features at all. With her dark hair, dark eyes, and sun-darkened skin, Georgiana was the very opposite of refined elegance—the very opposite of Cynthia.
He stilled and closed his eyes when he thought of the ax butt that had fallen on Georgiana’s knee. He wondered if the horrific injuries to her legs from so many years ago still pained her. They must. He shivered involuntarily when he remembered the accident that had almost cost her
a limb. It was what had caused his immediate removal from Penrose, in fact. He forced his mind away from the incident. He had trained himself to keep all irrelevant thoughts of his childhood from cluttering his mind. He was only sorry she had suffered so.
A log shifted and sparks spewed out near the padded fire railing. He rose and brushed the embers back into the grate. Unbidden, like a creeping vine, Georgiana wound back into his thoughts. She had lost the innocent look of childhood. But then, he supposed he had too. Yet she had the same audacious temperament she had possessed at a very tender age, when he had first spied her shepherding an enormous flock of Southdown sheep with mischief on their minds.
It appeared she still had the inability to dampen her emotions—something he had learned how to do very well fifteen years ago. And if there was one thing he was certain of after seeing her today, it was that she was hiding something from him. Well, he would learn what it was, as methodically as he had uncovered state scandals and lies throughout his diplomatic career. Her reception of him proved yet again that the years he had spent here as a boy had been yet another transitory illusion of fellowship, permanence, and happiness.
Actually, he really didn’t care very much what she was hiding. It was just that he didn’t like secrets, and his methodical, disciplined roots would not let him rest until everything was examined, a solution found, and the lot of it settled in a proper fashion. Yet he would not shame her even if the marriage was questionable. She didn’t understand that she had nothing to fear from him.
In the end, even if there was something dubious about the marriage, he would simply arrange a comfortable annuity for Georgiana and settle her far from Penrose so he wouldn’t have another reminder of humanity’s shortcomings.
He had sent a note to her father telling him to expect him early tomorrow morning. Quinn only prayed Mr. Wilde was not as ill as he suspected. He had always been a man Quinn respected, one of the few people who had always had time for him in his youth.