Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The picnic had been the Dowager’s idea.
George knew that she had been in control of it all too. He knew it by the careful way it separated the party. The ladies were arranged beneath the trees with blankets and baskets, while the men were invited to shoot at targets set farther up the field.
Order was restored, propriety maintained, and he was kept away from the lady he was to marry.
And yet, he welcomed the distance more than he cared to admit.
When he was near Cassandra, he had to consider that she was more pleasing than he had first thought, and that was dangerous.
Their match was to be nothing more than a way to protect her reputation, and if he fell for her, it made that impossible.
“What has happened to you?” Brandon asked as they took their positions. “You look as though you wish to be anywhere but here.”
“I am not sleeping well, that is all. You know how I feel about large events.”
He took his position, and the arrow struck the center. Brandon whistled at it, as did some of the other gentlemen.
“You are taking this very seriously.”
George reached for another arrow.
“It is a skill worth maintaining. One never knows when they shall need to use a bow and arrow.”
“And it has nothing to do with you helping Lady Cassandra with it? You certainly seemed to enjoy it, in any case.”
“I do not know what you mean by that.”
His friend chuckled, taking his own shot. It landed just outside of the center ring, and neither of them mentioned it. The truth was that George had, indeed, enjoyed helping Lady Cassandra with her archery, but he did not want his friend to think too much of it.
“There is no shame in assisting a lady,” Brandon said simply.
“I am aware. Yes, it was pleasant to help, and satisfying when it made a difference, but there was nothing more to it than that.”
“If you insist.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it is how I feel. Sherton, if you truly believe that you feel nothing for the girl, then I shall not try to convince you otherwise. You are more than capable of seeing it for what it is by yourself.”
It was precisely what he wanted to hear, but George could not help but wish that his friend would argue the point more with him. He did not know why, but he wanted someone to tell him what they truly thought, rather than only ever trying to appease him because he was considered important.
He took another shot, and it was once again in the center.
“Must you always be so precise?” Brandon asked.
George did not look at him. He had to be perfect; it was part of his role. He was expected to be better than everyone else, and so he intended to meet such expectations. He rather thought that he did it well, but of course there were those that still found a way to take issue with that.
“I am managing my temper,” he explained. “When I concentrate, it helps.”
“You never needed to before.”
That earned Brandon a glance. Brandon raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning.
“I merely observe. You used to drink when you were annoyed. Now you shoot.”
“Do not start.”
“I am serious,” Brandon continued lightly. “You glare less at creditors, you refuse to touch the dowry you are entitled to, and now you scowl at targets as though they have personally offended you.”
“You know why I will not use her money.”
“I know,” Brandon said more quietly. “You are proud. And stubborn.”
“And responsible.”
“And apparently affected,” Brandon added, nodding toward the picnic. “You have glanced in that direction six times.”
George turned despite himself. He had not noticed it, but thinking back it was true that each time another gentleman took his turn, he looked in the direction of the ladies.
He wondered if Lady Cassandra was watching him shoot, and if she was, he wondered whether or not she was even the slightest bit impressed.
She sat among the others, her attention fixed on the shooting with barely concealed interest. She laughed at something Anthea said, then looked toward the targets, toward him.
He looked away at once.
“You see?” Brandon asked. “I know what is happening to you. Deny it if you wish, but we both know the truth.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” George said as he picked up the bow again. “Focus on your own aim, too, while you are at it.”
“I am,” Brandon said easily. “And it is not my aim that has gone strange.”
George drew the string back hard this time, releasing with more force than necessary. The arrow struck, and the tension in his chest eased, if only briefly. For a moment, with the bow in his hands and the field stretched before him, he could pretend that he was still in control.
But even as the men continued to shoot, even as Brandon’s laughter cut through the air, George was uncomfortably aware of one truth.
No amount of distance, discipline, or deliberate separation could fully stop him from watching her, and that knowledge unsettled him far more than Brandon’s teasing ever could.
The game came to an end, and George found his sister where he expected her to be, at the edge of the lawn, half watching the picnic, half pretending she was not. She sat with a book open in her lap, though her eyes followed the movement of the guests more than the page.
“You are avoiding the sun,” he said.
“You are avoiding everyone,” she replied.
“It is an occupational necessity. If I am to maintain my composure, I require time away from people that aggravate me.”
“Then why have you come to me?”
“Because you do not count.”
He sat beside her, wondering how long it would be before they were joined by everyone else.
His time alone with his sister had grown more infrequent over the years, and it would only be more so when they married, and though he knew it had to be done there was a part of him that would miss her terribly.
“You were shooting very aggressively,” Philippa commented, closing her book.
“So I have been told.”
She studied him for a moment, expression thoughtful rather than teasing.
“You wished to speak to me?”
“I did,” he said, adjusting his coat with habitual precision. “What do you think of her?”
“Lady Cassandra?”
“Yes.”
Philippa’s smile returned, softer this time.
“I like her very much, as you know. She has been good for you.”
“You are quick to decide.”
“I am,” she agreed. “But I am rarely wrong.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“She is kind,” Philippa continued. “And she does not speak down to me like most people do. She is wonderful company too, though I suppose you already know that.”
George exhaled slowly.
“This arrangement was never meant to be personal. We are not supposed to think of her that way, Philippa.”
“It never is personal,” Philippa said gently. “Until it is.”
“Do you honestly think this is a wise match?”
“I think it is good,” she replied. “For you, and for her.”
“For me,” he repeated, skeptical.
“You say that as though it is a given that it is good for her, but not so much yourself.”
“I provide her the protection of a husband.”
“Yes,” Philippa said. “And she makes you a different man.”
“In what way?”
“You listen more,” she said. “You laugh. You are present.”
“A lack thereof is hardly a flaw.”
“No?” she asked. “Well, even if it is not, it is new, and a welcome change at that.”
He looked out over the grounds, where Cassandra now walked with Anthea, her posture relaxed in a way he had not seen when she first arrived.
“I have doubts,” he admitted.
“About her? Because you need not, Brother. I know you think me young and naive, but I do have a decent judge of character, and–”
“About myself,” he said. “Since Father died, there has been no room for error. No margin for indulgence. Every decision carries consequences, and I have always had to act accordingly. Now, I do not know that I am doing what is right, and it puts you at risk.”
“And you carry such burdens alone,” Philippa said quietly. “You know that you do not need to do that.”
“But I should. It is my responsibility.”
She frowned at that.
“You work too much.”
“That is hardly a revelation,” he laughed.
“I mean it! You rise before dawn, and you retire long after everyone else. You have not taken a full day for yourself since you became Duke.”
“That is the position.”
“No,” Philippa said firmly. “That is how you have chosen to bear it.”
He said nothing. She reached for his hand, squeezing it briefly.
“Cassandra does not make you weaker. She makes you human.”
He withdrew his hand gently, but he did not dismiss the sentiment.
“I do not know whether that is something I can afford.”
Philippa smiled at him, bright and unafraid.
“I think you cannot afford not to.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and saw not the child he felt responsible for protecting but a young woman with her own insight, her own quiet strength.
While he had not been watching, she had grown up, and though he knew he had to respect that, he could not help but feel an innate fear that he was going to ruin her.
They returned home for dinner, and an idea formed in George’s mind. His grandmother had seemed intent on keeping him from Lady Cassandra that afternoon, but it was his household. If he wanted something, then it was his decision to be made and respected.
And so, at dinner that evening, the long table gleamed with silver and candlelight, and the guests were arranged once more with careful consideration. When he took his seat, Cassandra was already there, her place set beside his.
He did not comment on it, nor did she.
The meal began with the usual formalities, conversation flowing in measured currents. He noticed his grandmother watching him, her brow furrowed, but he did not acknowledge her.
“The library at Sherton is impressive,” Lady Cassandra said, examining her glass. “Though I suspect that half of the volumes are decorative.”
“Only a third,” he replied. “The rest are badly catalogued.”
“That explains it.”