Chapter Sixteen
By the time evening rolled around the following day, and Georgina once again dressed for the evening meal, she was quite beside herself. Her life had turned into a veritable seesaw. Moments of sheer delight, followed by bottomless longing—and a sense she’d fouled everything up beyond repair.
She had not seen Teddy since yesterday when she’d explained she didn’t feel married and thus didn’t wish to carry on as if they were.
She’d expected to see him at supper last night, at which time, she assumed, they might discuss the matter further, but the blasted man had opted to take his meal in his chamber.
This morning, according to Mr. Danvers, she’d missed him at breakfast by an hour.
She somehow resisted the urge to utter a perfectly sarcastic rejoinder about having also missed him the previous two mornings, though she’d come down at differing times each day.
She was not surprised the remainder of the day passed without her sighting Teddy even once.
His quite-evident determination to avoid her was likely for the best. Not only was he making steady gains toward recovery, looking more and more fit, more and more like himself as he recalled bit by bit of his life, but every moment he spent in her company left him vulnerable to… well…compromising her.
Yes, this was better—if only she could convince her heart of that. She let herself out of her chamber and trudged down the stairs to take her evening meal alone, again.
Still, she nursed a fingernail’s clipping of hope that he might deign to join her that she’d taken care with her appearance, wearing her favorite lavender silk evening gown.
It was new, fashioned by Amelia and Gwen’s modiste, Madame Eloise, and, in keeping with all of the gowns produced by the fashionable dressmaker, boasted a far lower bodice than most of her others.
She wasn’t a prude. She simply didn’t like to draw attention to her too-ample bosom, especially not with the likes of Mr. Mealy ever-hovering.
However, she’d learned never to question Madame Eloise’s designs.
She reached the entryway of the dining room—and froze.
Teddy stood, back to the entryway, hands clasped behind him, gazing out the open sash windows at the ocean view below. A steady breeze riffled her skirts and carried the elusive scent of his aftershave, teasing her nostrils and causing her stomach to shiver with pleasure.
“Ah,” he said, executing a languid pivot to face her. A dazzling smile spread over his handsome face, seemingly at the sight of her. “Good evening, darling. I hope you don’t mind company?”
Her mouth opened and closed and opened again before she found her voice, to her utter mortification. “I…of course not. I’m only surprised, having not seen you since…that is, you…er…did not come down last night for supper. I thought perhaps you’d taken ill.”
“Ill? No, not at all.” He strolled toward the table, his gaze drifting over her in lazy perusal.
Gooseflesh sprouted over her arms and legs.
Pausing behind the chair in which she typically sat since his arrival, he pulled it out and waited.
She moved forward on shaky legs.
“I apologize for not sending word,” he said as he pushed in her chair. “Last night, I got caught up in my sketches and opted to eat in my chamber.”
“I see. Well, I’m glad to hear you weren’t unwell.”
“No, indeed.” He took his seat.
“Teddy, about yesterday—”
He held up a hand, palm out, cutting her off mid-sentence. “No need to say another word about it.”
“There isn’t?”
“No. I quite understand.”
“You…do?”
“Ah. Here’s dinner now—and Cook’s made sure to include your favorite food.”
She giggled, noting the preponderance of butter in tonight’s dishes as Peggy and Mr. Danvers poured wine and laid out the selections a la francaise—clear, spring vegetable soup, trout in an herb butter sauce, asparagus dressed with butter, and, of course, warm rolls accompanied with a side of salted butter.
The servants departed and Teddy and she commenced eating.
“You said you got caught up in a particular sketch last evening. Have you recovered more memories, then?”
He picked up his wine, and sipped. “I’m not sure.”
“May I ask after the subject of your sketch?”
He slanted her a glance. “A woman, seated across from me in a skiff. Based on the story you told me, I assume the woman is you, but, your face is hidden behind one of those fancy parasols. I say, are you quite all right?”
Sputtering claret, she attempted an affirmative reply that came out more of a wheeze, thanks to her having inhaled it on a gasp.
She really needed to have a care when sipping during conversations with Teddy.
She never knew when he might say something shocking—in this instance, the woman behind the parasol was not her.
She was ever so tired of lying to him.
When she had her breathing back in hand she straightened and dabbed her lips with her serviette, then deliberately changed the subject. “I have some news to share.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’d have mentioned sooner,” she muttered, “but we’ve spent very little time together over the last few days.”
Without the least hint of repentance, he forked up a bite of trout and gave her a politely interested look.
“I have friends arriving in a few days for a short holiday.”
His caramel eyes widened. “Oh? And they’re staying here, with us?”
She ripped off a piece of her roll and slathered butter on it. “Heavens, no, not here.”
His expression turned contemplative. “And may I inquire as to the identity of these friends?”
She smiled. “Fellow members of the Ladies’ Literary Society of London.
It’s a private book club, invitation only—more of a salon, really—consisting of a mere eight ladies, of which I am one, obviously.
I received a letter, several days ago, informing me of their intent to venture to Brighton en masse.
” She huffed out a laugh. “I believe they decided upon the trip for my benefit.”
At the questioning glint in his eyes, she explained. “They know about me cutting Father off, recently, and understand the necessity for me to take up residence here for the foreseeable future.”
“I see. It sounds as if you consider them very good friends, indeed, to have shared the sordid details about your father’s gambling with them.”
“They are the very best friends a woman could have.” She cut her asparagus into tiny bites and contemplated taking another roll.
“I suppose that means you told them of our wedding, then.”
Her eyes practically bulged before she schooled her features. “Our…no. We…er…had an agreement.”
He set his knife and fork aside and picked up his wine glass, then gazed at her over the crystal rim, a speculative gleam in his eye. “But they know about us, surely.”
“Us?” She frowned, and reached into the breadbasket, tore the selected roll in half, then knifed up the remaining pad of butter to spread it on either side.
“Shall I have the maid bring more, dear?”
She bit into the hot bread, belatedly hearing the teasing note in his question.
Then, nearly choked when she saw Teddy’s heavy-lidded gaze, lock on her lips.
A moment later, he shook his head as if to clear it, picked up his fork and knife, and fixed his attention on his meal. “Do your friends know of your career as a distinguished authoress?”
“Of course.”
His gaze narrowed as he sliced. “And yet, these same friends know nothing about the two of us having a particular understanding.”
Uncertain what to say, she made no reply.
He harrumphed, clearly nonplussed. “You willingly shared details about your ne’er-do-well father and your ultra-secretive, potentially scandal-inducing career, but have never deigned to mention to your closest friends the man with whom you intend to spend your life?”
When he put it that way, it did seem rather odd. “We don’t talk about such matters as a rule.”
He looked at her as if she had two heads.
Of course he was, because what she’d told him was patently false.
She and her friends did talk about any number of things—including romance.
She knew the moment Amelia fell for her husband, Lord Culver, because Amelia had admitted as much to all of them.
And hadn’t Georgina outright asked Gwen, her editor, publisher, and closest friend, if she had developed real feelings for the man she’d arranged to marry?
And yet, she had never mentioned her tendre for Teddy to them. It was not odd. It was ludicrous. Why hadn’t she? Why hadn’t she mentioned the hero of her every novel, the man of her dreams, the beat of her heart, Lord Teddy Arlington, to her nearest and dearest friends?
All at once it became clear why she had not.
Because she was plain, ordinary Georgina, and he was Lord Theodore Arlington.
Gorgeous. Charming. A future earl. The world was his oyster.
Pining for him, a man who would never deign to look twice at someone like her was laughable at best, and pathetic at worst.
Her friends would never laugh at her, of course, but they might pity her. She would hate that.
Teddy set his cutlery aside. “I may not have my memories, Georgina, but I know how women talk.” If she wasn’t mistaken, hurt laced his tone.
“Teddy, it’s not what you think.”
“No? Out of curiosity, what is it you think I think?”
She blinked at him, took in his tight jaw and hard features. “I…have no notion.”
It was clear her reply did not satisfy him.
Of course it hadn’t. She had told him so many lies. Too many. Now, her words came out in a torrent. “I did not say anything to them about you because”—she swallowed—“because why would they believe someone like you would ever choose someone like me?”
There. She had said a mouthful—and, finally, every word true.
“Someone like me? Georgina, that is…that is utter rubbish. If you do not wish to explain yourself to me, fine, but do not feed me any more of this balderdash.”
“Teddy, I’m not. I meant—”