Chapter 8 #2
Surely, he would have no more questions for her. Surely, she would only need to tell him a few more lies so she could depart as quickly as possible.
Surely, he hadn’t seen her heart in her eyes when she had looked at him before walking away.
Peter allowed Morley—or whatever her name was—to walk nearly out of sight before he got to his feet.
If he had made an unwarranted assumption about Morley’s sex based on a few suppositions and was wrong, he would feel like the biggest fool in Christendom, and would still be faced with the dilemma of his unwonted attraction.
He must find proof, if he could. And given that Morley had made his—her—announcement so soon after receiving that letter, there must be some sort of evidence in it.
With any luck, Morley would have gone straight upstairs and not back to the small drawing room. If she had gone there to relieve her feelings through art, or if she had retrieved the letter first… well, he would think of something else then.
He loped down the hill, suddenly eager to discover the truth as he had not been before. For a young woman to carry out such a determined masquerade spoke to her desperation to escape whatever situation she had found herself in after her father’s death.
To his relief, the small drawing room was empty when he opened the door, and the letter still lay half-concealed beneath the painting. Still, he hesitated for a moment. Reading Morley’s correspondence was an unambiguous breach of trust, even if Peter felt it was for the best.
He would apologize later, if he must. He picked up the half-crumpled letter and smoothed it out.
Her name was Georgiana, not George. She had a position as a companion awaiting her in Bath. She would not be allowed to take her otters.
They wanted her there as soon as possible.
Mrs. Barwick cleared her throat from the doorway, and Peter turned to look at her, unsure how long he had been standing there holding the letter.
“Is aught amiss, milord?”
Had Mrs. Barwick guessed the truth, or had she been as much in the dark as he?
“Everything is fine, Mrs. Barwick.”
“Mr. Morley seemed quite distraught when he came in.”
“He, er, received an upsetting letter. In fact, I must speak to him about it. Can you please ask him to come to the drawing room?”
“Very well, milord,” she said, and turned from the door.
He went the opposite direction, absent-mindedly tucking the letter into his pocket as he closed himself into the drawing room.
His head still spun, but he was beginning to feel on firmer ground as he seated himself not in his usual armchair, but on the nearby settee.
Lost in thought for an unmeasured amount of time as he pondered what to say, Peter turned at a diffident tap on the door.
The knob twisted after another moment, and Morley peered around the edge of the door, eyes wide.
Her features, limned by the fading sunlight through the window, were so clearly feminine that any qualms he had about confronting her with his suspicions eased away.
“You wished to speak to me, Lord Peter?”
“Please come in, Morley.”
After another hesitation, she squared her shoulders, crossed the threshold, and closed the door behind herself. She began to cross to her usual chair, but instead Peter patted the cushion next to him on the settee. “Come sit here with me.”
Looking uneasy, she sat on the edge of the settee, as far away from Peter as she possibly could.
Peter regarded her for another long moment, wondering how he could have been fooled at all.
In the candlelight, her features were delicate, clearly feminine even with her strong nose and determined chin.
“I know,” he finally said.
She gulped, then raised her chin. “Know what?” Her voice was deliberately insouciant, but he knew her well enough by now to detect the underlying thread of nervousness.
“If we owe each other nothing else after our time together, it’s honesty. What’s your real name?”
Peter saw her look from side to side, and realized he needed to be more specific before she told him another lie. “I know you’re a woman.”
A deep red flush spread beneath her skin, darkening it even in the firelight. “You couldn’t.”
“I do.”
“But how—”
The purloined letter seemed to burn a hole in his pocket. “That doesn’t matter, Mor—what the devil am I to call you?”
She flinched a little. “My name is Georgiana. Papa called me Georgie.”
“Georgie.” He was pleased with the sound of it rolling off his tongue. It felt more like her than the formal version. “It suits you.”
“Thank you.” She sounded more puzzled by the compliment than anything else, and a silence fell.
“How old are you?”
“Three and twenty.”
He silently thanked God that he would not be rushing her to the Scottish border, and then frowned. “Did you not have a season?”
“Not a London season,” Georgie said, a little defensively. “It was only Bath.”
“Only Bath,” Peter said, his voice a little hollow. She clearly was of the gentry, at the very least. Particularly if her father had been receiving gifts from the Prince Regent.
Despite their dilemma, he could sense her beginning to relax and let her guard down as she had not before. Her charade must have been difficult to keep up.
“Papa thought it was best to start small, especially since Grandmama was not well. He and Mama agreed it was best not to go to the expense of a London season when we might be in black gloves at any time, and he was proved right. Grandmama died when we had only been there a month and we had to leave again.” She shrugged.
“It never came up again after Mama and Freddy died, but I didn’t mind.
I didn’t want to leave Papa behind. And we had the otters to care for. ”
Peter nodded while he resisted an urge to bury his face in his hands as the full truth became obvious.
The more she spoke, the worse it got. A sheltered girl from a good family, her reputation unbesmirched until now—there would be no salvaging his career if word got out, even with the Avondales behind him.
“And your father was… ?”
“Sir George Morland.” Her full lips quirked a little. “You see? I could not even be creative with my own surname.”
“Morland? The zoologist?”
“Of course. Did you know him?”
“I only knew of him. Natural philosophy was never my strong suit.”
This time he did succumb to the urge to rub his forehead. Then he sighed and looked at her. She was looking up at him, her expression bright and innocent. Confession had clearly been good for her soul even if it brought a burden to his.
“Georgie. May I call you Georgie?”
She shrugged, the gesture delightfully feminine even whilst she was in men’s clothing. “I don’t see why not. It seems a bit late for formality.”
Peter reached out and took her hands in his. They felt small and delicate in his grip, and he felt a surge of protectiveness.
“Georgie, you must know we have to marry.”
She shook her head decisively. “I don’t think we do. No one knows who I am but you. I can leave tomorrow, and you can put it about that I returned to Oxford. Or went back home. Or whatever lie you want to come up with.”
A slight surge of panic hit his gut. He never imagined she might say no. “But where will you go?”
She cast her eyes down, and he felt her hands tremble. He gave them a little reassuring squeeze and she looked up again, face set.
“I do have a position waiting for me in Bath, but it’s none of your concern, Lord Peter. I am not your responsibility.”