Chapter Six
Georgiana
Two days after my arrival in London, the duke finally deigned to respond. Of all my reasons to hate him, his neglect of my brother was at the top of the list.
We were in the sitting room when Peter got the letter.
He’d had two late nights out, and I could tell he was already spent and homesick, as evidenced by the novel he’d written to Amelia with lettering so small I could not read it from a glance.
He’d spent his afternoon filling the entire page, wasting not a speck of space.
He set it aside and unfolded the duke’s letter.
I abandoned the pianoforte and sat on the arm of his cushioned chair to read over his shoulder.
The duke’s handwriting was slanted and sleek. The ink dark from pressing his pen firmly into the page.
“He welcomes us to London,” Peter said, looking serious as he read down the page. “He and his cousins will come to collect you this evening for . . . a dinner party.”
“This evening?” My stomach filled with tightening knots.
Dash, that man! That was in mere hours! Had he waited so long to tell us on purpose to thwart my efforts?
Heavens, I hadn’t aired out a dress or started on my hair.
I lifted a hand to measure its curls only to be disappointed by their lack of bounce.
I was not prepared. Who knew what further abominations I might find—and with no time to quell them.
Peter continued, “Hosted by Lord and Lady Waymont. He will bring you home directly after, and that will satisfy the first of his three required outings.”
“Lord and Lady Waymont,” I breathed. My heart flew into my throat.
I remembered them from last Season. Their parties were the talk of the ton and not even Sir Ronald had secured an invitation.
One had to be either very wealthy or hold a very old title or have a very favorable connection with the family.
I had . . . exactly none of those things.
This was the sort of opportunity I’d only dreamed of. I hadn’t actually considered the duke would lead me into these circles. The Waymonts were beloved. They were as good as royalty. Merely to be seen in their home was half the battle of winning back the ton.
To be seen with the duke let alone with the Waymonts at one of their parties meant inciting interest with everyone who was anyone, regardless of their invitation or lack thereof.
People talked about these sorts of things—who had been where, and when, and with whom.
I only needed my name thrown about in the light a few times to be back in the game. News would reach home before long.
This invitation would undoubtedly lead to other invitations, and that was how a scandal withered away to nothing more than an old story.
I only had to get through the night unscathed.
With the Duke of Marlow at my side.
Peter’s jaw was set. He flipped the page over. Nothing on the back. And then he looked up at me. He shook his head. “Duke Marlow is the most direct and unfeeling person I think I have ever met. Do this, do that, not an ounce of care or concern throughout any of this.”
He had no idea. The duke was a terrifying threat. He could do or say whatever he wanted with no consequence. And I had no doubt he thought less of me than he did his scullery maids.
“I do not need his care. Only his influence.”
Peter trailed a weary hand over his face. “And who’s to say he does not use that influence against you later?”
That, of course, was a constant worry. He would not steal his ring from my possession, else he’d have hired someone and done so already. He knew where we lived, had known where our London apartment was for days. So, he was fair in that regard.
But he was also angry. Motivated against me.
And if I upset him in the least, I had no doubt he’d make me pay for it later.
I had to be the most unappealing, unassuming, and utterly quiet companion.
Someone confident, whom he respected but did not feel strongly about.
A friend, perhaps, who spoke only well of him.
Then, at the end of our bargain, he’d release me, and neither of us would need to remember these three weeks as we walked our separate paths in our separate circles for the rest of our lives.
I assured Peter the same: “He signed the contract. He cannot speak ill of me. Even if he wants to.”
Still, Peter worried at his lower lip. “He is a duke, and a respected one, Georgiana. A strong voice in the House of Lords. It was exciting at first, having his attention, but I fear perhaps I’ve supported you into a ruse even you cannot climb out of.”
I stood from my perch and straightened my skirts. I could do this. I could rally for the cause. What was the worst that could happen? I return to the barn with my beloved Mercutio? Had our lives really been so bad?
The prospect was comforting in the face of uncertainty and possible danger, so I did not give myself time to form an honest response. “When one has fallen into the depths of a very narrow crevice, brother, one learns to climb because it is either climbing or death.”
“Please be careful.” Peter sighed heavily and folded the page, then set it on the table. “Do not try to earn his favor in earnest, for I fear he will only try to humiliate you.”
“I do a fine job of humiliating myself all on my own these days, so I’d like to see him try,” I parried back.
For all this talk, one would think the duke was some sort of god.
Untouchable and all-powerful. And perhaps, in the social world, he was.
But if mystery novels had taught me anything, it was that underneath every expensive and precisely tailored jacket was just a man.
A man with secrets and desires all his own.
I couldn’t meddle with the duke. But I could outsmart the man.
I started toward the stairs. I’d need the whole afternoon to dress. For just like any good pretender, if I was to be believed, I’d first need to look the part.