51. Sarah
Sarah
George and I lost to Jacob and Viola at cards, entirely because George refused to behave.
He spent half the game flashing the secret hand signals we’d invented on our walk, each one more ridiculous than the last. I struggled not to laugh at the most inappropriate times, which only encouraged him further.
He’d laughed without a shred of restraint when I crossed my first two fingers and tapped my temple as we lost the second round of whist. His bark of amusement was enough to pull Viola and Jacob from their mooning. They looked at me, puzzled.
I shrugged. Who could explain George?
During our earlier stroll in the park, we’d created a whole catalog of signs, though we initially disagreed on that particular one.
I’d suggested all is lost. He said it sounded too much like a damsel in distress and countered with Damnation.
I objected on the grounds that I had never once uttered the word.
He’d patted my hand in mock sympathy. “Need to expand your vocabulary beyond…” Then he pitched his voice high—much shriekier than mine—and said, “Some Jane Austen-y swear-y word.”
After I complimented him on his spot-on impression, we settled on Pemberley.
At the night’s end, George wouldn’t let me push through the hedge to my door. He insisted on walking me down his walk and back up mine.
I welcomed the night air after the heat of the crowded parlor.
We ambled along, no need to rush back indoors.
A familiar charge crept into the darkness around us, something in the dew-sweet grass or the chorus of crickets.
It reminded me of calling across from our windows.
Only tonight, instead of gripping the sill, my hand curled around George’s arm.
He bumped my shoulder, still playful, his nudge warm on my bare arm. “Loads of fun tonight, Goldie.”
“Same,” I said. “Did you see how Henry and Tessa stared into each other’s eyes as they left? I’m a better matchmaker than Emma.”
George bounced beside me. “We make a fabulous team.”
I said, “Operation Oafless was a success.”
“Yes, partner, superb stratagem.”
I scoffed lightly. “Not sure stratagem is in anyone’s vocabulary.”
“Trust me. I’m a professional.”
“Professional what? Menace? At least you’re a skilled oaf-eliminator.”
He gave a little bow—probably practiced that move. “Happy to be of service.”
My gaze lingered on him, my eyes now fully adjusted to the dark. Alluring smile. Devastating dimple. Yes, I was absolutely hardened to his charm. So what if I preferred his friendly dimple to Henry’s looming lips. It was simply a sign of my refined tastes.
“I owe you for your inspired redirection,” I said.
George walked me up my front steps without a word. When I turned to say good night, he tilted his head and studied me. “Actually,” he said, “there is something I could use your help with.”
I wasn’t capable of redirecting all the women chasing after his attention. And if he asked me to help him woo someone, I might fling myself straight into the hedge.
He nodded to himself. “But I’ll ask you about it later.” Then his warm hand slid around my bare upper arm, anchoring me in place at the top of my steps.
A moment of stillness in the dark.
Then he gave a gentle squeeze and let go.
“Night, George.”
He skipped down the steps and turned to push backward through the hedge. “Good night, Goldie. Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
I grinned. “Shakespeare again. What else is rattling around in that head of yours?”
He laughed. “No dog’s brain, that’s for sure.”
I chuckled lightly all the way to my room, my pulse pounding more than usual on the stairs.
Friends.
Viola had always been my only true friend.
But now there was George.
And he was an excellent friend.
And a former bad habit.
And he needed my help.