Chapter Eighteen
Georgiana
Calls continued for hours after Lord Reynolds left. I could not think clearly, missing cues and questions at embarrassing moments. A stroke of brilliance bid me to claim a headache. I bounded to my room, closed the door, and sank onto my bed with nothing but my thoughts.
And, lands, did I have thoughts.
What was Marlow thinking? Pulling me away from a man who clearly wanted my attention, exactly according to the plan we had made with Mrs. Johns.
A plan he had fully agreed to! The man teetered as uncertainly as a loose board.
I wasn’t sure he even knew what he wanted.
I, unfortunately, did not have the luxury of sitting around and waiting.
One moment, he was conversing with every amiable and beautiful young woman in the ton, and the next he held me in an embrace, walked me through his gardens, and picked me flowers in his gazebo.
Dinner had felt like home. Cards, even better.
I hadn’t wanted the evening to end. I’d gone to bed in raptures, still grinning, excited for what the morrow might bring.
But a new day brought new reminders of just how ridiculous it was to indulge this dream.
I would not trick myself into believing he had any regard for me beyond mere kindness.
Marlow was a duke, first and foremost. Perhaps, I would say a friend. But anything more . . . ? Impossible.
His mother had taken great pains to remind me of that truth this morning as we ladies broke our fasts alone.
“Hamlet is playing at Drury Lane tomorrow night. Lady Diana loves the theater. Would you all mind terribly to go? Perhaps aid Marlow in conversation? I think his boyhood shyness is keeping him from truly opening his heart to her.”
“Does Marlow like the theater?” Maggie had asked, brows knit.
“Men make sacrifices for the women they love. Or will love.” Her Grace had smirked.
The jest had been lost on me, or perhaps I simply hadn’t slept well.
But it had made me rethink how open I’d been with him. For clearly, I’d grown attached. Heavens, I’d latched myself onto him in the stable house like a blasted leech.
My cheeks burned with the memory. I’d fabricated our relationship, our friendship, all in my head.
Just as I’d fabricated things with Sir Ronald.
Marlow had set his aim at Lady Diana, and I would do well to remember that as soon as he’d secured her, any hold I had on his heart would be promptly cut loose.
Which was why I had needed Mrs. Johns in the first place.
Lord Reynolds truly seemed amiable. We had many things in common. Most importantly, we were both looking for a new start.
He’d said, “I used to think happiness in the moment was true happiness. I would seek it out, crave it, feel empty without it. But now, seeing my family settle and thrive, I wonder if I have been wrong all along. If it is not happiness I desire, but . . . peace. Rest. The feeling I get when I am surrounded by my nieces and nephews, my siblings, and my parents, who are still alive and tormenting me, by the way.”
I’d laughed. “Peace. That sounds wonderful. How might I find this peace you speak of?”
“That is the thing, Miss Wood.” He’d leaned in close, his voice a whisper. “You stop searching for it altogether.”
I hadn’t liked that answer, but perhaps there was wisdom in it. Perhaps, if I stopped searching for something more, if I stopped focusing on my happiness, I might find it in the process.
Lord Reynolds had given me hope.
It now swelled within my breast, and for the first time in an age, when I thought ahead weeks, months, and even years, I did not feel alone.
I saw promise. Perhaps there were others like me who had simply made a misstep, in whom I could find friends.
And, one day, when someone younger and less wise, foolish with unrequited adoration, chose a similar path to the one I’d chosen that night so long ago, I could be there to guide her through the aftermath.
Lord Reynolds had learned from his mistakes. He was making changes for the better. And all the while we’d sat together, he’d looked at me so fervently. He’d listened. And he hadn’t cared about my mistake.
I ought to have charmed him. At the very least, I ought to have fluttered my lashes. Grinned more at his conversation.
But I hadn’t wanted to.
He stirred nothing in me. Not even a tint of pink in my cheeks.
I lay back against my pillow, too exhausted to puzzle it all out, and let my worries fade.
I slept for an hour, waking only when Jane opened the door with a letter on a little tray.
“So sorry to wake you, Miss Wood.”
I pushed up to my elbow. “What is it, Jane?”
“A message from home.” Her grin widened. “I did not think you’d want to wait.”
Finally! I sat up and quickly unfolded the letter written in Amelia’s familiar scrawl while Jane tidied the room.
Georgiana,
I am well. The baby is well. Peter, as usual, worries too much. The doctor says my bruised hip will soon recover, but that is the worst of it.
If you have any fear for the baby, rest assured, he is unharmed.
Thank heavens. Peter must be so relieved.
He moves like a wave in my stomach, and it is the strangest, most foreign sensation I have ever felt.
(I say “he” because Peter is convinced of it.) And speaking of Peter, I am trying desperately to return him to you.
Every morning he finds some new delay, and as much as I love him, I might go mad from having him on my heels.
I beg you, when he eventually arrives, keep him occupied.
Your brother’s newfound anxiety needs purpose.
I am pleased to hear from you, Georgiana. Ever more pleased to hear you are finding your way. How brave you are.
Whatever you need, I am here. You need only write.
Your sister,
Amelia
I set Amelia’s letter on the table beside my bed. Peter, finally returning? I wondered if he’d left yet. I hadn’t thought to miss my brother, but knowing he might be in London soon made me yearn for him. My family. My lifeline. Perhaps I ought to write to him to hurry him along.
When he returned, I’d have no reason to stay at Ashburn Abbey.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Soon, I’d leave the library. The chair. Evenings with Marlow.
After Drury Lane, there was only one more outing owed. It pained me more than I cared to admit. Would that be the end? Would I ever see him again?
I shouldn’t. Spending time with Marlow alone had never been the plan. Becoming earnest friends had been out of the realm of possibility, and for good reason. Marlow needed a wife, not a friend. He wanted his ring back, not a new burden to carry.
Which was why, after dinner under the darkest evening sky, when I looked up to find him hesitating in the doorway of the library, perhaps a little worried that I might not want him here after our argument earlier, I said, “No hidden passageways. I want to read tonight.”
He nodded and pressed his lips together. A few moments later, he sunk into his chair with a pamphlet.
We read in silence for a time. Eating, drinking tea, enjoying the warmth radiating from the fire. Perhaps this was how things were supposed to be. How we’d started, and nothing more.
Then he harrumphed and shook his head at the page.
I shouldn’t ask. I should pretend I hadn’t heard his reaction and keep reading, for engaging with Marlow would do neither of us any good.
He shook his head and grunted.
“What?” I asked, peering at him over my book.
“I am wondering if this author has ever experienced a fencing match in person.” He flipped a page. “He’s got the stances all wrong. You’d never put your hand in front of yourself like that.”
“You fence?” I sat up straighter, adjusting in my seat.
Eyes still on his page, Marlow smirked like he’d caught me in a trap. “I do.”
I sat back, annoyed at myself for giving him more of my attention than I’d planned. Clearly, he wanted something from me. But after his behavior earlier, I had no plans to play along.
“Perhaps you should send in your edits to the paper, then.”
Marlow laughed. The room quieted again.
I read a page. Half of another.
He shifted his legs. “The footwork is all wrong too. It’s like he’s describing a boxing match. Fencers don’t move around this much. We are poised, yes, but not dancing about. The motion is in the arms, tension in the legs. Back and forth, back and forth.”
I glanced at him from over my book. He was clearly annoyed, shaking his head as he read across a page. “At least try to get it right. Perhaps this particular event was written by a woman.”
My jaw hit the floor. “What did you say?”
Marlow’s lips twitched. “Nothing.”
“No,” I demanded. “What did you say about a woman writing that? Do you think women are incapable of understanding the rules of fencing?”
He glanced lazily at me over his page. “Do you know how to fence?”
“I have sat in on my brother’s lessons. Even practiced with him a time or two.”
“Then you’d know the difference between a lunge and a parry? Technically as opposed to theoretically.”
I scoffed. “Of course.”
He raised his brows and looked back at his page. “Prove it, then,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” I asked through my teeth. He was baiting me, I could guarantee it, but the more he opened his mouth to speak, the more I wanted to jab a saber straight through him.
He cleared his throat and looked nonchalantly in my direction. “Care to prove me wrong?”
Do not rise to him, Georgiana. The hour was late enough. And fencing was not a woman’s sport. Arguably not a sport at all!
“I don’t feel it necessary. I have already told you I am knowledgeable on the subject.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Very well, then.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t believe me?”
He tilted his head. His growing smile mocked me. “What does it matter if I believe you or not?”
Saints, he was infuriating! I groaned. “Get up, then. Have it your way! Give me a sword.”
He smirked. “I think you mean a foil?”
I threw my arms out wide. “Hurry on before I change my mind.”
“I have a few in my room. I shall retrieve them.” He stood, watching me, and then he vanished out the door.
Not my smartest move by far.
I’d regret this.
I had no idea how to truly, properly fence. I’d seen Peter lunge at his tutors, keeping one hand back, one leg bent in a wide stance. My part in his practicing had always been acting. Mimicking.
I was going to make a fool out of myself.
I gritted my teeth.
Perhaps then Marlow would worry less about who I spent my time with.
He’d definitely been teasing me when he said a woman wrote that excerpt. He’d known his words would ignite my fury. Perhaps he was bored.
Well, I’d teach him not to dismiss women so easily. I might not be an expert, but I could jab a man with a sword.
Indeed, after how he’d treated me earlier, I wanted to.