Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“Of course, Countess,” Georgiana said. “My sister-in-law is unused to these occasions. But it’s of little consequence.
Sir Iain and I can sing a duet, then if, and only if, Mrs. Ffortescue has recovered her voice, she might be persuaded to sing a little.
But I understand the very real risk of overtaxing one’s voice, which would give rise to permanent damage. ”
“My dear!” Mr. Ffortescue rushed toward his wife. “Are you well?”
“I’m quite well, my love,” came the reply, “though my throat is a little sore.”
Georgiana glanced at Cordelia, triumph in her eyes, and James frowned at his sister.
Georgiana approached the pianoforte, followed by Sir Iain, then she began to play while the gentleman sang.
There was no doubt that the two of them were well matched.
Both were tall in stature and handsome, and Sir Iain’s rich tenor voice, with Georgiana’s accomplished musicianship, would be the toast of every Society party they attended.
There might be better men that Georgiana could marry. But there were also worse men.
James shivered as he glanced at his wife, recalling what she’d said about men who took what they wanted without a woman’s consent. Georgiana and Margaret, thank the Almighty, would never have to endure such behavior.
Cordelia still wore a haunted look on her face, and her gaze seemed focused on Stiles, at least when it wasn’t directed toward the couple at the pianoforte.
James sidled over to her, coffee cup in hand, his blood warming as he inhaled her scent—the sweet aroma of rose.
“Are you at liberty, Cordelia, to perform a very specific task that most ladies would, understandably, find impossible?”
Uncertainty glimmered in her eyes and she glanced toward the pianoforte. “I don’t know. What is it you require me to do?”
“Find it in your heart to forgive the complete and utter arse to whom you are married?”
A flicker of a smile curled on her lips.
“There’s nothing to forgive, James,” she said. “I know that compared to every other woman here tonight—”
“Do not say it,” he said. “You have every right to be here.”
The song finished, and Georgiana rose to gloved applause.
“I didn’t mean to speak out of turn regarding Georgiana,” Cordelia said. “I only want her protected. I—”
She broke off as Sir Iain approached, Georgiana on his arm.
“What do you think, Bedford?” Sir Iain said. “Does not your sister play beautifully? Lady Bedford.” He turned his gaze on Cordelia. “Are you disposed to entertain the gentlemen tonight?”
“I…I’m a little tired, Sir Iain,” Cordelia said. “Pray, excuse me.”
“A great pity,” came the reply, “but a woman is prone to fatigue after overexerting herself.”
“What do you mean?” Cordelia said, and James frowned at the sharpness in her tone.
“The preparations for this house party, of course,” Sir Iain said. “Your delightful sister-in-law told me how hard you worked to ensure a successful event. I do admire a woman who works hard.”
“You’re too kind.”
“I’m always disposed to be kind toward such a gracious hostess.”
Cordelia shifted toward James, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you, Sir Iain,” he said. “And now, I think, it’s time to retire. We’ve a busy day planned tomorrow—an excursion to Bedford Hill, which necessitates an early start.”
“Retire, did you say?” Sir George said, approaching them. “Capital idea. What say you, my love?”
Lady Marlow nodded. “Leonard, you can stay up if you like,” she said. “I know how you young people like to indulge in cards and so forth.”
Mr. Marlow shook his head, his expression glum as he stared at Georgiana.
“No, Father, I shall retire also,” the young man replied.
The party dispersed, and Sir Iain bowed to Georgiana and kissed her hand before he pressed his hand to his heart. A footman moved about the drawing room, collecting coffee cups, and, after exchanging a few words with him, Cordelia approached the door.
“May I come to your bed tonight?” James said.
“Of course.” She nodded unsmilingly.
He tilted his head to one side. She had responded a little too quickly.
Good heavens! A man wanting consent from his wife? Are you a milksop, Bedford?
Sir Iain’s words in his mind, James took Cordelia’s hand.
“I’ll only visit if you wish it—not out of a sense of obligation or duty, but because it’s what you desire.”
She blinked, and he caught the redness around the irises.
“Are you well, my love?”
“A slight headache, that’s all. But it shouldn’t prevent you from…”
He pulled her to him in an embrace, his heart aching at how she stiffened in his grasp.
“Cordelia, you’re free to choose what happens tonight,” he whispered. “Gone are the days where you must please others to secure your survival. And”—his cheeks warmed—“we need not do anything other than sleep if you wish.”
He held his breath, waited—and hoped. A true sign of her trust would be whether she turned to him for comfort, and, though he greatly desired her, he had no wish to plague her with physical attention.
She paused for several heartbeats, then delivered her verdict.
“I-I should like to be alone tonight, if you have no objection,” she said. “I’m in pain.”
“You do forgive me?” he said.
“Of course.”
Yes, with her kind heart, she would always forgive his transgressions. But would she ever be able to forget?
He lifted his hand to her cheek, cursing himself as she flinched. “I trust your pain will have eased by the morning.”
She nodded, her eyes glistening, then took her leave, while he remained, alone, in the drawing room.
James returned to the study and poured another brandy.
But liquor was not the cure for the ache in his heart, nor the guilt gnawing at his soul.
Deciding against a second glass, he ascended the stairs, pausing outside his wife’s door.
But there was no telltale light under the doorframe, nor any sounds of activity.
Tomorrow he would begin again and prove himself worthy of her. Assuming she was disposed to give him another chance. But how many more chances would she afford him?
When James woke, the fire in his bedchamber had completely burned out. A faint silver light gleamed beneath the curtains, signifying the onset of dawn.
Bang, bang, bang!
He sat up, his heart hammering against this chest.
“What the bloody hell…?”
The door burst open and a half-dressed footman appeared.
“Charles!” James cried. “What the devil are you doing at this hour—and in such a state?”
“Oh, Lord Bedford, sir, I-I don’t know what to say!”
“Just say it, you fool. Or do you want to be dismissed?”
“James?”
Shit.
Cordelia’s ashen face appeared in the doorway, pain furrowing her brow.
“Look what you’ve done, you dolt!” James said. “You’ve woken my wife! You’d better have a damned good reason. Is the house ablaze?”
“No, sir.”
“Has anyone taken ill?”
“No.”
“Then what’s happened?”
“I-it’s Miss Georgiana,” the footman said. “She’s run off.”
“Sweet Lord!” Cordelia cried, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” James said. “You’re distressing Lady Bedford. My sister’s in her chamber.”
“She’s not, sir. I saw her running toward the stables, then, moments later, a carriage went down the drive.”
“Whose carriage?” James said.
“It bore the Leaney crest, sir.”
“No…” Cordelia whispered, her eyes widening. “Dear God, no…”
James’s throat constructed as the air left his lungs.
Georgiana had eloped—with Sir Iain.