Chapter Four
The sound of his name on Georgiana Hawthorne’s lips was a surprise equaled by the feeling of her hands on his chest. Even through the layers of fabric, his body felt the heat of her touch.
Since he’d left England, there had been so many days, and even more nights, where he thought he would have died to experience either.
He’d buried those desires under duty, fatigue, terror, and drink in no particular order, so that by the time he’d stepped off the ship that had brought him back to England, he hadn’t given Georgiana Hawthorne a passing thought.
So what was his bloody heart doing pounding like that in his chest?
He stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back as he got that untamed organ under control.
“Lady Georgiana,” he said, nodding curtly.
Tension hung between them, like storm clouds crushing in on unsteady air.
He tried not to gawk at her like some randy schoolboy.
The pink ribbons she’d once worn to tie back her hair as a girl were still there, now interwoven into the elegant and fashionable hairstyle he’d seen on other young ladies.
Her features had matured, and even with the elegant blue muslin dress and yellow pelisse that deprived him of a more generous view of her bosom, he could see the gentle curves of her figure.
“Tom,” she repeated, more brightly this time, her throat working as she recovered her composure. “This is a surprise.”
Surprise? A surprise was discovering his sire was one of the peerage.
A surprise was learning that he might inherit an even greater fortune simply by marrying the right woman.
But seeing a woman so concerned with propriety as Georgiana Hawthorne at a place as infamous as the Lyon’s Den, unchaperoned at that, was mythical in comparison.
“I thought you were still in Spain,” she continued. “But I am glad to see you are well.”
At this moment, the very last word he would select to describe his current state was “well.” Still, he needed to shove aside this vexatious state of mind he was finding himself in.
Georgie, for her part, seemed equally shocked to see him.
Color bloomed in her cheeks, the sole indicator he had that his presence unnerved her.
“I returned just these past three months,” he said, and it occurred to him that Gabriel hadn’t shared the news with her.
Of course, mail was notoriously difficult to get on the Continent.
The letter from the viscount had been sent in September and only managed to reach him months later. “I was called home by my sire.”
He paused, watching with not a little satisfaction, as her eyes widened.
“Your sire?” she asked, her delicate brows dipping into a deep vee. “Do you mean Mr. Blakey? He did not mention it when I spoke with him last.”
A small stab of longing poked at Tom when Georgie casually mentioned the man who’d raised Tom as his own.
Tom had contacted Robert since returning home, meeting him briefly in London when Robert was in town on business.
He’d asked the man to keep his parentage a secret from the Hawthorne family, which was no small ask for a man who’d served the family as faithfully as he had.
Clearly, however, he’d kept his promise.
Tom shook his head. “Mr. Blakey, as you already know, took me in as a small child. Indeed, I was called home by my father, Viscount Worthington.”
Even the very best of her breeding couldn’t keep Georgie’s mouth from falling open in a perfect little o. And it took all of Tom’s very limited breeding not to savor the look on her face as she considered his announcement.
“Viscount?” she parroted.
“Indeed,” he said. “My mother, the third daughter of a Lord Malvern, had a tryst with Lord Worthington before either of them were married. She gave up the child without his knowledge, leaving me in the care of a distant cousin—the Blakeys.”
“That is remarkable,” she said. “And how did he discover the truth?”
“She wrote to him and confessed it,” he said. “She’d become rather ill and wanted him to know the truth before she died.”
“Were you able to meet your mother before—”
“No.” he replied. “She died last summer.”
“I’m very sorry.”
Georgie’s apology at the loss of a woman he didn’t know was unexpected. Or was it? While Georgie was all about manners, there was something earnest in her condolences and they caught in Tom’s chest.
“Thank you,” he said, determined not to let her words or the concern across her brow soften him. He would not fall prey to that pretty face again. He straightened and added more curtly than might have been needed, “While appreciated, I do not require condolences. Indeed, I never knew her.”
“But she cared enough to ensure you were raised by good people, and then, before the end, risked the judgment of her character to make your existence known,” she replied. “She clearly loved you.”
Something weighed in Tom’s chest, of regret, perhaps. Of course, Georgie would be concerned about society scandal due to a deathbed confession. Still, her consideration tugged at Tom’s heart.
He swallowed back that softening toward her he could feel creeping into his body.
He couldn’t allow it again. It had hurt too damn much.
She’d claimed his heart once upon a time, then when he’d asked for even a scrap of hope she might return the feeling, Georgie had crumpled it up and tossed it back at him, leaving his self-worth in tatters.
He’d stopped being soft then, and he owed her nothing now.
He pulled on bits of hurt and used them to form his reply.
“Thanks to her,” he said, choosing his next words—or rather hers—carefully, “I now know I’m more than ‘Tom, son of no one in particular.’”
Her lashes fluttered as the words landed.
If he’d entertained the idea she’d forgotten them, he’d been mistaken.
It was beneath him, perhaps, to use those words, and the satisfaction he thought he’d feel dulled somehow at the look of embarrassment on her face.
He thought she might run, but she stayed in place, still but for the few locks of stray blonde hair that fluttered in the afternoon breeze.
“Yes, well,” she began, her voice small. Then nodding to herself, she pulled herself a little straighter and looked him straight in the eye. “I should not have said that, all those years ago. It was unkind. I’m sorry.”
She turned to leave but Tom reached out for her, catching her by the hand. The movement shocked them both apparently, and she turned to face him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She yanked her hand free, her mouth pulling into a frown. “I could ask you the same.”
“I’m doing what every other man of means does when he has both time and money on his hands,” he said. “Gambling.”
It was a lie and damn it if it didn’t make him feel like a bloody hypocrite.
“It doesn’t explain why you’re here,” she said, raising a finger and poking him in the chest. “Surely you can play at White’s. I can’t imagine your father wouldn’t have had a membership there for you from the day you arrived.”
“I do,” he replied, then lowered his voice and leaned in closer. He was being reckless, but he couldn’t help himself. “But temptations here are second to none.”
Was that a lick of jealousy moving across her face? It shouldn’t have been so damned satisfying.
“I shall leave you to them,” she replied, turning up her nose and spinning around on her heel.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he called out. “And I can’t help but wonder how such a proper lady preoccupied with following every rule finds herself wandering the maze, unchaperoned, in such a notorious gaming hell.”
She paused, then turned around, giving him a flash of defiance he’d not seen before.
“I am not unchaperoned,” she said. “My companion should return any moment. And if you must know, I am here on a dare.”
“A dare?” he said, unable to hold back a laugh. “Lady Georgiana Hawthorne? I don’t believe it.”
“It doesn’t matter if you do,” she replied. “Now if you will excuse me, I have to find my companion.”
“Afraid of being discovered, my lady?”
“There are plenty of things to fear,” she said. “But you are not one of them.”
She turned, dashing away like a rabbit through the wood.
He was tempted to give chase, but he’d been bitten by her once before.
The cruel irony was that, on the surface, marrying Lady Georgiana would have more than met the criteria of social acceptability to satisfy his grandmother.
But she’d damaged not only his heart—his pride had been battered too.
If he proposed now, which he definitely would not do, she would have accepted him because only now had he’d become worthy of her.
Only for his title. Being Tom had never been enough for her.
He waited a few moments for her to leave before taking a different path out of the maze.
He would need a drink, and possibly two, to recover himself and prepare for this ridiculous matchmaking game he’d entered.
As he exited the maze, Georgie was nowhere to be found.
He headed back along the meandering paths, intent on finding solace in the library with a glass of port.
He had not made it very far, however, when he came upon none other than Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
Clad in her ever-present widow’s weeds, she looked out of place amongst the nascent cherry blossoms of a rather spectacular tree.
She was speaking with two ladies. He was tempted to turn back toward the maze, but his presence had already been noticed, and he was summoned with a polite wave from Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
“Mr. Worthington,” she said, “allow me to introduce Miss Mariah Morehouse and Miss Howard. Miss Morehouse is one of the three ladies who has graciously agreed to participate in this week’s games.
” She paused, then turned to the ladies to finish making her introductions.
“Miss Morehouse, this is the Honorable Thomas Worthington.”