Chapter 6
Why couldn't she have remained in town a little longer? George thought as he rode home from Fernworth Manor.
He had been so sure that he had been making the right decision, that saying no to chaperoning was the right thing, but the moment he had seen her regret had clouded his judgement.
He'd felt the sudden urge to get out of there as quickly as possible, perhaps leaving in somewhat of a rude manner.
That, he absolutely regretted. Just seeing the disappointment on her face had made it so.
At that moment, she had been the girl he remembered, the girl splattered with mud and dust, her hair all a-tumble.
She had been more beautiful at that moment than ever he had seen her.
The thought of taking her to any event would have been an honour; he was certain of that.
I am too busy, he reminded himself firmly. I am a duke now.
He had made the right decision. He had. He was certain of it. So why did he feel so torn about it now?
All the way to Fernworth he had been sure of it. He had not felt a single ounce of guilt as he had told Lady Flannery his decision. He had not faltered when the lady tried to change his mind, insisting that they desperately needed his help.
And yet, when he had seen her, he had wanted audibly to change his mind then and there.
His mind was cruel the entire way home. His body feeling all kinds of urges to turn his horse around and take back his decision. He loosened his grip on the reins, allowing his horse to carry him back to Ravenshollow Park.
And the moment he reached the end of the driveway all thoughts of Lady Cecelia ceased.
The carriage sitting at the bottom of the manor steps startled him. He did not recall having made plans to have visitors.
Looking at the carriage, he couldn't be certain whether he recognized it. There was a tingling feeling in his gut that perhaps he might, but he did not quite dare to believe it.
Pulling up his horse in the driveway, he clambered down from the saddle and handed off the reins to a waiting footman.
“See that he is washed, brushed, and fed,” George instructed, rubbing the horse's neck before he made his way into the manor.
As he entered the foyer, he realized he had been right.
“Walter, you old dog! What are you doing here?”
The happiness he felt at seeing his old friend standing in the drawing room doorway was profound.
Forgetting all decorum, he rushed forward to embrace his closest and oldest friend in a brotherly hug.
Walter returned it with the same enthusiasm.
“I heard at Browns you were back in town,” Walter explained, patting him on the back before he released him. “Why did you not write me?”
George felt a little guilty about that. Shaking his head, he explained, “I have barely had a moment to think.”
“Yes, being duke now must be awful,” Walter said. He rolled his eyes, his tone quite mocking.
George nudged him playfully. “You're here, aren't you?”
“That I am, and I am quite parched,” Walter said, “how about a drink with an old friend?”
“Of course!”
George pulled off his coat and handed it to Dawling, who was already waiting behind him.
“Tea?”
Walter scoffed at that.
“What are we? Gossiping ladies? I meant a proper drink!”
At that, they both laughed, and George gestured his friend into the drawing room to pour two glasses of brandy.
They sat together, and George raised his glass. “To never going to war again.”
“To all those who never came home,” Walter added, and they clinked their glasses together.
“How have you been?” George asked before Walter could do the same. He would have done anything to talk about something other than himself.
Walter leaned back with a deep sigh. “As well as can be expected, considering.”
George knew well what he meant. They had all come back changed.
“Are you still having nightmares?” George asked, and Walter's face paled. He nodded as if he couldn't quite bring himself to speak.
George reached out a hand and laid it on Walter's shoulder. “They come to the best of us.”
“And you are the best of us,” Walter insisted, to which it was George's turn to scoff.
“I wouldn't suggest so.”
“You're too modest,” Walter insisted, and George continued to shake his head.
“I caught your mother on her way out,” Walter said, “she suggested you might need an ear.”
George cringed. He had no need of an ear because his decision had already been made.
He thought again of Lady Flannery's pleading, Lady Cecelia's beauty, and how he regretted said decision.
No, it was the right thing, he insisted to himself, yet he couldn't help saying, “Lord Flannery left something surprising in his will.”
Walter raised a brow. “What?”
George inhaled deeply.
“He requested that I chaperone Lady Cecelia for the Season.”
Walter's eyes grew wide at that. “That's absurd!”
“That was exactly my thought,” George said.
Even before he could finish speaking, Walter uttered the words, “You ought to court her yourself.”
George's mouth dropped open for only a second before he managed to recompose himself. “I am much too busy for anything like that.”
“Georgie, you and I both know that you are never too busy for anything you wish to do,” Walter said. His scowl was deep and disapproving.
In a hurry to try and change the subject, George said, “What about you? Are you courting?”
For a second, George was fearful his friend would not take the bait.
“Actually, there was a young lady in Italy,” Walter said, his cheeks reddening.
George leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Do tell.”
Walter looked away, a shrug in his shoulders.
“There is nothing to tell. She rejected my proposal.”
George was flabbergasted all over again. “She rejected you?”
Walter huffed with mocking laughter. “It was likely for the best, anyway. Returning to England made me realize how foolish it was. Italy and England are worlds apart in so many ways.”
“And you and I both know another has always had your eye,” George said. He nudged his friend playfully.
“Just as the same can be said for you, dear Georgie,” Walter said, looking deep into his eyes. “Why would you not try when you have ample opportunity now to do something about it?”
The memory of that day in the garden came flooding back once more. The sound of mocking laughter, the angry and disapproving look on Lady Cecelia's face as she had named him a cheater and a coward.
“Just as Italy and England are worlds apart, she and I are.”
Walter's face fell. “I highly doubt that. I cannot imagine Lady Cecelia has changed so much.”
“Perhaps she is not the one who is changed,” George sighed. “A lot has happened. The war, the dukedom, everything.”
“Yes, I suppose it has. I was sad to hear of your father's passing.”
George glanced away. Such a thing ought to have struck him with grief, yet in a way, he felt relieved.
“At least now he is not on my back, pushing me always to be better, to be him.”
“He may not be, but it seems you and he are more alike than ever,” Walter countered, and at that, George's gaze rose.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He was never likely to admit his feelings either,” Walter pointed out, and George resented him for it.
“There is nothing to admit,” he insisted though even as he spoke the words, his stomach twisted into knots.
“If that is true, then you absolutely should not even consider the earl's request,” Walter said, and George breathed a sigh of relief.
“I have already told the dowager countess my decision.”
Though Walter did not look entirely pleased by his words, he said, “Then maybe you ought to let bygones be bygones and move on.”
“Yes,” George said, straightening his back. “I think another drink is in order.”