Chapter 3
“Ibelieve introductions are in order,” Greyville said as Georgie followed him into the grimmest room she had seen since boarding school.
Good heavens, she thought, looking around at pea-green wallpaper and heavy gold furniture left over from the previous century.
Or possibly the one before that. The room could give one indigestion.
The marquess gave his own look. “Appalling, isn’t it?”
She shook her head in wonder. “Nauseating.”
For a moment she was plagued by guilt. She suspected this was their best parlor.
And she was taking the funds away to improve it.
But then she thought of Prissy trying to live up to the power and strength that emanated from this man like the heat of the sun, and even with only a moment’s acquaintance knew that poor Prissy would never survive him.
For the first time in her life, Georgie questioned whether she’d make it out of this room unscathed.
And oddly, all that did was inspire the most delicious shivers.
“You seem to know who I am,” the marquess said, closing the door enough for privacy without sacrificing propriety. “I hope you aren’t here to raise money.”
Georgie blinked away the distraction. “I beg your pardon?”
He stopped. “For the orphanage?”
She was probably staring. “What orphanage?”
He offered a slight, wry smile. “You mean there can be another reason for a young woman to be in charge of ten children in one house?”
It took a second for her to connect the question to previous statements, leaving her with her own rueful smile. “You have obviously never met my family. We are known for being...prolific.”
For a minute he just stared. She could watch him do that all day.
He was even more than the dispatches had intimated.
Lean, hard, tall, with the unmistakable posture of an officer in an elite corps and the lithe grace of a natural horseman.
His face was all angles, weathered by a Spanish sun so that his water-blue eyes looked ghostly against the tan and the unusual salt-and-pepper of his thick umber hair.
Even the scar that marred his left temple intercepted his eyebrow at a perfect angle.
He was compelling, enticing. He was, unfortunately, unforgettable.
And he smelled...delicious. Cinnamon and sandalwood and cedar. She might be in trouble here. And she hadn’t even checked to see if he had two legs.
“Oh, my God,” he suddenly said, eyes widening a bit. “I knew I recognized those eyes. You’re one of the Mad Packhams!”
Well, that brought Georgie caroming back to reality. “You must know one of the boys.”
“I know all three of them. Mad as snakes, the lot. The most misnamed miscreants I’ve ever met.”
She could afford a smile. “The Archangels, you mean? Yes. I am inclined to agree, but then I grew up with the monsters. And really, if your parents conspired to name you after angels but your sisters after British kings, how would you react?”
His scowl lightened. “I’d run off to war to prove I was more than feathers and haloes.”
She nodded. “Exactly. Evidently it is an age-old Packham proclivity.”
“And do you kings attempt to prove yourselves as more than scepters and bad habits?”
Georgie still smiled, but only out of habit. “Females do not get that chance, my lord. Even Packhams.”
“And yet, here you are, breaching my castle for some reason. I’d have to assume that means you are Michael’s sister.”
She frowned. “I am.”
“I might have known. His etiquette is just as dismal.”
A bit of his glow dimmed for Georgie. “I would assume etiquette would not be as vital on a battlefield as, say, courage,” she said, leveling a glare on him. “Or adaptability. Or brains.”
It seemed she had surprised him. His sudden grin set her skin humming. Oh, dear.
“Well, there you have me,” he admitted. “He is all of that.” His shrug was a work of art. “As, I am forced to admit, are his cousins. Always up for an adventure.”
Georgie nodded. “You do indeed know them, then.”
For a second, he looked conflicted. Not certain, she knew, how to go on.
“The introductions,” she said, dipping a belated curtsy. “Since we have no mutual acquaintance to pretend we haven’t been speaking to each other for the last twenty minutes, allow me to introduce myself. Lady Georgiana Packham.”
“Also known as The Termagant,” he offered, eyes lighting.
She all but reared back. “I beg—”
He shook his head. “You do know that that is what your brother calls you. You were evidently a trial to him growing up, your ladyship.”
Finally, Georgie could really smile. “As a matter of fact, I was. I hope I still am. It is, after all, the sworn duty of every sister.”
His smile softened, and Georgie wanted to just bathe in it. “And now you have come to be a trial to me, I presume?”
“I fear that I am. I have come on behalf of a schoolmate. If you would hear me out.”
He finally motioned her to one of the garish gold satin settees that were even more uncomfortable than they looked.
Georgie thought they might have been stuffed with horsehair.
Or nails. And amazingly enough, even her perfectly mild forest-green lustring walking dress clashed with the color.
She would have loved to have seen what Charlie would have braved against it.
“You really do need that cash,” she mourned.
“What?”
She looked up to see that he had perched on another of the torturous structures. He sat just as uncomfortably as she. But she didn’t want to insult him by jumping straight into his lack.
The good news was that he seemed to be in possession of both feet.
Well, that was rude, Georgie thought. Good thing he wasn’t a mind reader. She did wonder how to find out about his injury, though.
A topic for another visit. She had to find a way to broach her mission.
“Should I ring for tea?” he asked.
“Thank you, no. I shared some with the girls.”
He frowned, vaguely waving a hand toward the dining room. “How did you...er...”
“Recognize the sounds of imminent disaster from down the hall?” She gave a small smile. “The surfeit of siblings and cousins in my own home. One learns to be ever on the alert for trouble.”
He nodded, still looking uncomfortable. “Then you all really do live together? I thought Rafe was exaggerating.”
It seemed she was always explaining their living situation.
“Since my father is away so much, it seemed more convenient to put my uncle in charge of the estates, and more convenient yet to collect all the children into one place. Add to that the children of my other uncle, whom we sadly lost some time ago, and it is an edifying and lively arrangement.”`
“And beneficial for the familiarization of the logic of small girls,” he agreed. “Thank you. I suppose I will pick up the knack eventually.”
She smiled, suddenly beset by the urge to reach out to this quite human man. She had spent so much time reading about his heroic feats she wasn’t prepared for the flash of helpless emotion on his face at mention of the little girls in the breakfast room.
“They are very dear,” she began.
His sigh was heartfelt. “They are also a trial. Soldiers are not trained in the gentler arts of miniature tea services and conversations with dollies. They also follow direction with more alacrity.”
“They are not…?”
“Mine? They are now. They were my cousin Peter’s girls. Both he and their mother were lost to the influenza.”
“Poor babes.” Poor Lord Coleford, obviously caught in a dilemma. “They have no other recourse?”
He betrayed himself with a quick flash of anger in those sea-bright eyes. It was the frown that followed that pulled at Georgie even more strongly, since she suspected it was weighted with the burden of fragile little girls.
“A grandmother,” he said with another shake of his head. “If you are here long enough, you might well meet her. She frequently descends, hoping to catch me in the act of locking them in the attic and making them live on water and mouse droppings.”
“She must love them quite a bit.”
His glare was brief but furious. “Their money, rather. Their grandfather was wise enough to protect their dowries from his son. But that is a topic for another time. Thank you for saving Sophie from herself.”
Now her smile was genuine. “You have your hands full with that one. She’s bright as a penny.”
“She is five and wishes to adopt the lion at the Tower.”
“Perhaps a kitten instead.”
His scowl was belied by a certain twinkle in his eyes. “Brutus would have the thing for breakfast.”
“I assume that is the horse under the table who was doing away with the dropped bun bits.”
“It’s what I call him. Irish wolfhound.”
“Yours?”
“Good Lord no. Theirs. I’m actually quite surprised he let you near the girls. He is quite protective.”
Georgie nodded. “A good thing, with Sophie’s independent streak.”
“It’s just too bad we can’t train him to catch Sophie when she climbs.”
“So, the shelves aren’t the first ascent?”
“Just the latest.”
Georgie kept wanting to reach out to him, just to make physical contact. “That must be a lot to come home to, along with everything else.”
That quickly, his mood cooled. He raised one eyebrow. “How is it I can help you?” he asked in a manner of officers everywhere reclaiming the conversation. After all they had discussed, this had evidently been the step too far.
Georgie drew in a breath. Now that she was for it, she had no idea how to broach the subject. “My lord...”
She got yet another scowl, this one of impatience. “I would prefer Grey, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Or Greyville. I have yet to accommodate myself to a title that was never meant to be mine.”
Georgie nodded in commiseration. “I am sorry.”
He scowled. “Not nearly as sorry as I. If I may say so, I make an exemplary soldier. I suspect my skills will not be quite what is needed for a marquessate.”
“Don’t be silly,” she retorted. “You have been notorious for your quick thinking, your courage, your determination, your adaptability. I suspect all will be needed.”