Chapter 17
The carriage was somehow even more uncomfortable than usual as George approached Fernworth Manor.
Several times that morning, and even the night before, he had considered ignoring his chaperoning duties for the day. But after all he had witnessed at the ball, he could not in good conscience do so.
Though he had promised Lady Cecelia that he would step back a little from his duties, he could not bring himself to stay away entirely, knowing just who might show their face at her home that morning.
And as he exited his carriage, he suspected he had been right to do so.
There was a line of carriages already pulled up in the driveway when he arrived, though to his relief, as he entered the house, slipping to the front of the queue as her chaperone, he found that nobody had yet been permitted to enter the drawing room.
He made certain to look into the eye of every man he passed, hoping that one or two of them might see sense and leave before he was forced to take matters into his own hands.
When the butler showed him into the drawing room, he was only half surprised to find that he was not in fact the first man in attendance.
Sitting beside the fireplace, at Lady Mary's side, was Walter.
Opposite them sat Lady Westmere and Lady Catherine, all four of them sharing in what appeared to be a delightful conversation.
But at his entrance, the room grew silent, and all rose from their seats.
“Your Grace, thank you for coming,” Lady Westmere said as she did every morning that he arrived to assist with callers. “We are most grateful to you.”
“Indeed, some of these men would be absolutely intolerable without your company,” Lady Catherine said, approaching George to slip her arm into his and guide him in an affectionate, almost sisterly manner towards one of the spare seats.
George allowed her to do so, though he did not sit himself and instead asked, “Where is Lady Cecelia?”
“That girl,” Lady Westmere grumbled. “She is always running late these days.”
“I can fetch her,” Lady Mary offered, rising from her seat once more, where she had returned beside Walter.
“I shall escort you, if that is permitted?” Walter said, looking to her mother.
George gritted his teeth. He was frustrated. He did not wish to sit around waiting for the young lady.
Before Lady Westmere could respond, he cleared his throat and said, “I shall find her if you will point me in the right direction? I wish to speak with her before she permits her callers an audience.”
Every one of them looked at him as if intrigued, but he was relieved when not a single question was asked.
“She said she wished to take some air before joining us,” Catherine said, and George knew exactly where he might find her.
With a dip of his head, he left the room, utterly ignoring the questioning looks of the gentlemen in the hall as he made his way through the house to the gardens.
It was there, beside the fountain, that George found Lady Cecelia and her maid.
The pair were sitting on the fountain seat, and Lady Cecelia appeared to be taking great pleasure in smelling a bunch of lavender in her hands as her maid said, “My Lady, we really ought to join your mother and sisters. You shouldn't keep your callers waiting.”
“Just one more moment, Sophia,” Lady Cecelia protested, her voice lighter than he had heard it in a long time. “I wish to think just a little while longer.”
George did not know why, but for several moments, he remained in the shadow of one of the large hedges that surrounded the fountain.
This moment, so peaceful, he wished to last.
Unaware of his presence, Lady Cecelia appeared quite at ease, her admiring gaze fixed upon the flowers in her hand.
She wore the very same colour as those flowers, a matching ribbon tying back her raven locks, locks that seemed impossibly dark against the pale purple.
And though he could only see her profile, she was more beautiful then than she had ever been before, her face unmarred by expectation, softened in a way that told him she was utterly secure in her surroundings.
He almost couldn't bring himself to interrupt.
“Please, My Lady, you know how unbearable your mother shall be if you keep her waiting much longer,” her maid insisted, and George found his reluctant moment.
“Your maid is right, Lady Cecelia,” he said, stepping out of the shadows.
Both women jumped to their feet like a pair of startled doe, and George silently cursed himself.
With his hands on the pockets of his jacket, he entered the enclosed space of the fountain and dipped his head in greeting.
“Forgive my startling you,” he said, keeping his gaze averted until he lifted his head once more and met Lady Cecelia's gaze. “Your mother requests your presence.”
Lady Cecelia audibly huffed and handed her bouquet of freshly picked lavender to her maid. “Would you please take these back to the house and have them put in my room?”
Sophia glanced at George, and he knew well what she was thinking.
“We will follow behind,” he assured her, stepping aside for her to leave.
She hesitated, glancing at Lady Cecelia, who nodded before she left with her head bowed, lavender firmly in hand.
“Did you wish to say something?” Lady Cecelia said, her tone hard, her expression grim. And it made his chest ache to remember when last they had spoken, when he had been utterly harsh and terribly cruel in the park.
How he wished he had voiced his apologies before the ball the night before, and yet, he hadn't been able to bring himself to do so for fear of another argument.
Now, however, he could not hold his tongue.
“I bring a warning, My Lady,” he said with all politeness, and yet, he saw the way her hackles started to rise.
“If you have come to tell me of some wrongdoing I have partaken in, I do not wish to hear it,” she said, and she half turned away as if she expected him to simply leave.
“I wish to warn you against giving Lord James Fitzwilliam your attention.”
He noted how she stiffened. She became so hard, so shut off, that he thought if he touched her, she might break.
“Why would you say such a thing?” she asked, though she did not grace him with her gaze.
She instead ran a gloved finger around and around in a circle upon the wall of the fountain, something she had so often been found doing when she was thinking or perhaps even nervous.
George smiled to himself, glad to see that some small things hadn't changed even if he wished others had.
“He has a reputation,” George said, straightening his back. Though she did not look at him, he stared at her, hoping to make her feel the seriousness of his words.
“Every gentleman of the ton has some reputation or another.”
George cringed.
“He is a scoundrel.”
At that, Lady Cecelia's head whipped around. At that moment, she was a snake; swift, dangerous, and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.
George's will faltered.
“How can anyone name him a scoundrel? He who has been titled because of his heroics during the war, he who has committed selfless acts in the name of king and country?”
Her words resounded in George's head, and he had to admit that she had a point.
He had heard so many different things about the man, some with evidence, others with only rumour.
Perhaps he had taken some of those things to heart, things that served his own purposes. Was he the one who was in the wrong here?
He couldn't be sure, but seeing the look on her face, he couldn't bring himself to argue further.
Instead, he clasped his hands behind him, lowered his gaze, and accepted her words as he said, “I just wished to give you fair warning. It is my duty as your chaperone to see you know all the facts.”
“You have done your duty,” she said bluntly.
Her tone left little room to say anymore, and so, he dipped his head. “Will you allow me to escort you to the drawing room?”
Lady Cecelia's expression fell, hardened once more, and George found it almost unbearable to look at her.
“I can make my own way.”
He bit the inside of his lip, fighting the urge to press her.
A part of him wondered whether he ought to leave entirely, but instead, he dipped his head once more and made his own way back to the drawing room.
If he were forced to sit in a corner, in silence, during her receiving hours, then he would.
He would not give up on this duty of chaperoning, no matter how much she might wish him to.
As he walked back, he couldn't help wondering whether there was more he could have said. Might she have been more willing to listen if he had apologized for the way he had spoken in the park? Did she reject his warning simply to snub him for it?
He paused at the terrace doors and closed his eyes. Looking back, he might have done so many things differently.
Perhaps he had already failed entirely in his duties, but at least he had tried.
There was only so much he could do. After all, he was not her father. A father might have dragged her upstairs and locked her in her room to keep her from unsuitable gentlemen, but he knew she would loathe him forever for such actions.
With a sigh, he opened his eyes again, and entered the house, putting on the mask of the duke, the man who would silently will any unsuitable men from her drawing room.
Whether she was right or not, George was determined to remain guarded, both with the Lord of Greystone and all of the others.
His only relief was that he would not have to go it alone.
He was glad when he returned to the drawing room to find that Walter was still in attendance, and it appeared he had no intentions of leaving anytime soon.
When, finally, Lady Cecelia graced them with her presence, the audiences started in full swing, and George was glad when Walter came to sit beside him.
“You look as if you swallowed a bee whilst in the garden,” his friend commented quietly, so as not to draw attention away from the young ladies who were in soft conversation with their callers. “Is all well?”
George's hands tightened into fists where they rested on his lap.