Seven #2
She ought to feel chagrined about letting the kiss happen, but the feel of his mouth on hers was such an interesting experience.
Much more like Mme. Charpentier’s memoirs than her mother’s cryptic advice.
Since Mme. Charpentier had been so accurate in her description of a kiss and its effects, Georgette decided there were definitely some other journal entries that deserved a second reading.
It would certainly be safer than allowing Nathaniel to show her more about the “pleasures of love” firsthand.
But much less fun.
“Of course, the royal family is still grieving Princess Charlotte, even though they’ve put off official mourning,” Lord Winthrop said.
“I’m sure you’re aware that the succession is in question and until one of the royal dukes presents King George with a grandchild, niceties like full mourning must, of necessity, give way to practicalities. ”
Like getting me with child as quickly as possible after the vows are spoken.
Lord Winthrop raised a lorgnette, a throwback to the previous generation, and gave Georgette an unhurried perusal through the lens. She resisted the urge to squirm under the man’s intense scrutiny.
I wonder that he doesn’t ask to check my teeth for soundness.
She also wondered about her wedding night. Would the royal duke bite her like the stallion bit the mare or kiss her into submission like Nathaniel could?
“The royal duke undoubtedly has many pressing matters clamoring for his time,” Lady Yorkingham said carefully. “Surely two weeks is too little notice for an event to be included in his schedule.”
“Ordinarily, you’d be correct, but I’m certain you understand the need for haste.
The Duke of Cambridge has many demands upon him, but rest assured, His Highness will give the match with Lady Georgette his full consideration.
May I tell the Duke of Cambridge that he should expect to attend a ball here in a fortnight? ”
Lord Winthrop lowered the lorgnette, apparently satisfied with what he’d seen. “If he’s pleased with your daughter, who knows? The ball might serve as celebration of a betrothal to be followed shortly by a royal wedding.”
What if I’m not pleased with the Duke of Cambridge? The words danced on Georgette’s tongue, but she wisely kept them pirouetting there. She sometimes suspected if she thought things hard enough, the words might appear in bubbles over her head like the cartoons in the tabloids.
“I’m certain our Georgette will find favor in his eyes.” Lady Yorkingham smiled brightly at Winthrop. She’d been a celebrated beauty in her day and still retained the high-cheeked loveliness that didn’t fade. “My daughter is every inch a princess already.”
Georgette thought that was doing it a bit too brown. Evidently, Lord Winthrop did too, because he gave a noncommittal grunt.
“We shall leave that to His Highness to decide, but I am authorized to tell you that the duke is highly gratified with the reports he’s received concerning the Lady Georgette to date.”
Which probably means my dowry is sized to suit.
Lord Winthrop began to make leaving noises, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat in preparation for hauling his bulk into an upright position.
Georgette rose when he did. She dipped in the correct curtsy and followed her mother as Lady Yorkingham swanned across the parlor to see Lord Winthrop out.
Then once he was gone, her mother’s calm, collected facade shattered. Lady Yorkingham shot back across the space to the bell pull, muttering decidedly unladylike things as she went. In Georgette’s imagination the swan had become a goose, squawking across the farmyard in an explosion of feathers.
“A fortnight!” Lady Yorkingham paced in a tight circle, waiting for the steward to appear.
“The man has the audacity to demand a ball fit for royalty in only two weeks. Why, that’s not even enough time for new gowns.
Let alone all the other myriad details to which I’ll have to attend.
Honestly, does His Highness think all one needs to do is speak and the event will come to pass? ”
“It’s called ruling by fiat, and yes,” Georgette said, “royalty does tend to think that’s how the world works.”
“Don’t be cheeky, Georgie,” her mother scolded. “Ah, Humphrey, there you are. We have an emergency. Bring my Domesday Book.”
That was her mother’s name for her collection of approved caterers, entertainers, and purveyors of assorted fripperies necessary for a grand fete. A vendor had to be a cut above his fellows in order to be accorded the honor of an entry in the Domesday Book.
“Call Cook, Mr. Rigsby, and Mrs. Thistle for a meeting here in”—Lady Yorkingham checked her pendant watch—“a quarter hour.”
Oh, dear. The cook, the butler, and the housekeeper all in one room.
“Don’t you know they’re feuding a bit at present?
” Georgette said. Mercy was a fount of information when it came to below-stairs gossip.
“It seems Mr. Rigsby claimed that Mrs. Thistle moved the bust of Purcell from the music room, and Cook took her part when she said she didn’t.
Then Mrs. Thistle told Cook she could hold her own against the likes of Mr. Rigsby, thank you very much, and the two women haven’t spoken a civil word since. ”
“Not now, Georgette, I’m trying to think.” Her mother gave her a swift head-to-toe perusal. “No matter what, you simply must have a new gown. Something in red, I think. Yes, that’s it. We’ll do a St. Valentine’s theme. Thank heavens, the feast day falls close to the date His Highness has decreed.”
“Indeed,” Georgette said wryly. “Just imagine if the ball had fallen on the Feast of St. Sebastian. Our footmen should have been obliged to carry bloody spears instead of little gilt bows and arrows.”
Her mother frowned at her. “Honestly, Georgette, I don’t know where you come up with these odd ideas.
Well, at least you didn’t say anything like that while his lordship was here.
Now, get you gone and quickly. Oh, no, wait.
” She called her back with a frantic gesture.
“I shall need the barouche this afternoon. There are ever so many details to attend. Oh, I know.” She clapped her hands together in relief that one thing, at least, seemed to be going right with her newest, most urgent project. “Find Lord Nathaniel.”
“Why?”
“Your father told me he’ll be staying with us for a bit and he may as well make himself useful. Have Nathaniel escort you to the modiste by hackney. Yes, it’ll do the lad good to have something constructive to do.”
Her mother nodded as she tapped her temple, her mind obviously scurrying on to the next item on her rapidly composed mental inventory.
“Tell Madam Reynard that she shall have two, no, three times her usual fee if she turns out your new gown in time. Now off you go!”
Her mother waved her away and flew to the escritoire to record the burgeoning list of items to be accomplished before the fateful ball. “Two weeks,” she muttered.
Two weeks. The finality of it draped over Georgette like a shroud. In only a fortnight, she might be betrothed to a member of the royal family, her future plotted out for her without room for a single turn to the left or the right.
Her father and mother had discussed the possibility of the match with her the day after Princess Charlotte died last November.
The Duke of Cambridge’s operatives had moved swiftly when they realized a crown was at stake in the “Hymen Race Terrific.” Georgette was quickly identified as one of a handful of young ladies to be given prime consideration for the honor of bearing a future ruler of England.
It hadn’t seemed real until now.
Numbly, she walked out the parlor doors and down the stairs to the library. Her kid soles seemed to swish the same message on each pair of steps: “Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks.”