Chapter Thirteen #2
She had thought nothing of the pair’s friendship. Jonathan, for all his mild-mannered ways, was hardly the sort of man who could compete with Teddy for a woman’s affections. He had neither the looks, nor the money, nor the station, nor the charisma.
And yet, her mother said the current on dit held that the two were rumored to have an official courtship in the works.
That was all well and good. But what was not fine was the concomitant rumor spreading like wildfire that Teddy had returned home from the war irrevocably damaged.
Some said he was mad.
Steam practically shot from her ears at the gross exaggeration. Such a grave injustice could not be borne.
If that wasn’t bad enough, her mother had also reported that Lord Arlington, the Earl of Ainsworth, had not been seen in public for several weeks—precisely the amount of time since the family had checked Teddy into Bell Haven.
Speculation was spreading that he had taken ill. And therein lay Georgina’s dilemma.
If the earl was ill, Teddy would want to know.
If he wasn’t, however, revealing such unfounded gossip would only serve to agitate him, and perhaps, slow his recovery. He might even demand to venture back to London to apprise himself of the situation.
Her mother closed the letter with a vague mention she might like to come for a visit as the ocean always helped ease her worries.
Dear Lord, another unwelcome visitor.
She still had the impending arrival of the Ladies’ Literary Society to deal with and no notion how to manage seeing them while not allowing them to see Teddy or vice versa.
Georgina refolded the letter and considered what she should do.
Safeguarding Teddy was her priority. She could hide him from her friends, she could put off her mother, and she didn’t much care what Lady Catherine and Jonathan were up to.
But regarding Teddy’s father’s possible illness…to tell Teddy or not to tell Teddy.
Perhaps…perhaps she could put off the decision until she had more information. She would write to her mother and ask her to uncover the truth about Teddy’s father.
She withdrew a sheet of foolscap from her top drawer, then picked up her quill.
Teddy set his pencil down and studied the drawing. He’d depicted a young woman with a face hewn by the angels, a regal bearing, and an aloof-to-the-point-of-haughty stare—and he had no idea who she was.
Make that no certainty. He had a good guess.
And he knew someone who could confirm or deny his suspicion: the curvaceous, sweet-smelling, curly-headed, silver-eyed bane of his existence, who was probably downstairs at this very moment. Indeed, imagining her seated behind her desk was driving him insane.
Well, that might be more thanks to his imagination’s insistence on placing her on her desk, with her skirts foaming about her hips while he devoured her lush mouth and sank his cock in her heat.
Maddening. Bloody maddening.
Because she had very kindly rescued him from the madhouse—despite the fact he’d obviously done something to destroy her faith in him and their marriage, which had led her to request an annulment.
He could come up with no other sound reasoning that made sense of her obvious affection for him, desire for him, and unwillingness to indulge in said desire.
He was not a brute. He was not a dissolute—regardless of the voice in his head telling him he was. And he would not destroy her ability to rid herself of him. To that end, he’d done a stellar job of avoiding her the last almost-two days.
Two days that felt like an eternity. Especially when every time he came within sniffing distance of her his cock went erect.
She’d entered the dining chamber yesterday morning, and he’d smelled her before even spotting her—and gone hard.
He’d known right then his only chance of maintaining his new and improved resolution was to keep his distance.
But he wanted her. Her company. Her laugh. Her scoldings. Her lips, under his, or on other parts of his anatomy.
Christ. Whatever he’d done to hurt her, to cause her brother to warn him off of her, couldn’t have been worth this.
It had to be bad, lest sweet Georgina would not be leaving him.
He couldn’t even fool himself into believing her decision had anything to do with whether or not he would return to his old life and thereby set her up as Countess of Ainsworth. No. She was not the sort.
The woman in the drawing, on the other hand, just might be.
He eyed the drawing again. He did need answers.
With a snort, he closed the sketch book and started from the chamber. He hadn’t even lasted two days.
As expected, Georgina sat at her desk, writing. She still wore the pretty lime-silk day dress she’d had on this morning when he stumbled upon her having breakfast. He liked her in green. He’d probably like her in any color gown. Or out of any gown, for that matter.
No. He mustn’t think like that. He came here for an answer. He’d get it, then he’d leave.
Still, he hated to disturb her. She looked very focused. Very serious.
He cleared his throat.
In the next instant, she jerked her face in his direction, eyes going wide with unmasked delight. Then, she snatched up the cleaning cloth, sprang to her feet, and began furiously drying the nib of her quill.
“Hello, Teddy. Do come in,” she said in breathless rush.
She was clearly happy to see him. The knowledge both warmed him and filled him with an unnameable guilt.
“If you’re certain I won’t be disturbing you?” he asked, already strolling into the chamber. He knew the answer before she gave it.
“No, indeed. I was…just about to take a break.” She sidled out from behind her desk and started toward him.
His mouth watered, anticipating the scent of crushed rose petals seconds before the fragrance reached him and began twisting his insides.
He strode to the seating area near the hearth—where he’d kissed her two days ago—and dropped into the corner of one end of the sofa, telling himself he hoped she took the opposite end. Better yet, one of the two armchairs.
But then, he could’ve chosen an armchair if he really wanted to be sure he kept his distance. He ignored that realization.
Then he noted Georgina’s expression. Ever-so-slightly off. A crinkle marred the perfect skin between her bold brows. “What’s wrong?”
“I beg your pardon?” She lowered to the center of the sofa. Not one of the armchairs. Not the opposite side of the sofa. If he wished, without much effort at all, he could reach out and touch her satiny skin.
Focus, Ted. “You appear concerned. Has something happened?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
He drew his gaze from her mouth. Nothing good would come of thinking too long and hard about those softer-than-peaches lips. Too long and hard. Ha.
“Nothing that need concern you.”
He took refuge in the flash of annoyance that sparked through him. “I see. It’s all well and good to mollycoddle me, but accept any assistance, even in the form of a shoulder to lean on—”
“You haven’t offered much in the way of that over the last two days,” she retorted. Almost immediately, she looked taken aback by her own outburst.
Meanwhile, he couldn’t staunch the grin her words elicited. So she’d noticed.
Didn’t matter. It was what she’d asked for. He was trying to honor her wishes, for God’s sake. “Well, I’m offering now.”
“Of course.” She took her time answering, smoothing her skirts. “I…er…have had a letter from my mother. She…my father is back at it, it seems.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe I mentioned my father is a bit of a gamester. Some might say a loose fish.”
“So you did.”
“I also mentioned how Drake took care of all of us, and I suppose he did that because my father is not very good at it. In point of fact, he’s terrible at it. He can’t manage his own affairs half the time and, I’m afraid, for a brief period, I…er…have been covering his losses.”
“We’ve.”
She eyed him, clearly baffled. “I beg your pardon?”
“We’ve been funding his habit. We are married?”
“Of course. Your point?”
“Never mind.” He propped one ankle on his bent knee and waved a hand for her to get on with it.
“Recently, I was advised to cut him off. So, I…er…we did.”
“Glad to hear it. I would have told you the same, had you asked. Unless…did you ask me? Was it me, who advised you to stop?”
After a brief hesitation, she shook her head.
An odd little frisson of something unpleasant coursed through him.
Who would his wife turn to for financial advice, if not him?
A man, certainly. And as, by her own admission, this business came about after her brother’s death, it wasn’t him, either.
“Who was it, Georgina?” he repeated, ice in his tone.
“I doubt you know of her.”
Her. The tension mounting in his shoulders eased.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She’s the—”
“The gambling den proprietress?” he sputtered.
She blinked in surprise.
“You do refer to the Black Widow of Whitehall? The owner of the Lyon’s Den?”
When she only stared, what must have occurred to her finally permeated his consciousness and he smiled. “I remember.”