Chapter Seven #2
But there was a line of worry on her brow that had deepened from the last time he’d left Whetherby, and a desperation about her situation that she’d barely given voice to, but he sensed.
Who was she escaping? He’d assumed she’d been married with a respectable brood of aristocratic children by now.
But she still went by her father’s name, so any planned marriage had not happened.
And even though Gabe had been absolutely tight-lipped about his family’s fortunes while the two were in Spain, he couldn’t imagine any news about Georgie being widowed wouldn’t have made it to Tom’s ears.
He took another sip of brandy, trying to pull his thoughts away from Georgie to more practical matters—like his own potential bride.
He needed to make another good impression on Miss Morehouse.
She’d been rather quiet during dinner, but he had the sense she was not one for conversation.
Still, in the end, if he made it to the final round, the ladies had their pick of husbands, and he would be the one she’d claim.
Miss Fairfax, as pleasant a creature as she was, wouldn’t do.
Even now, he felt the sting of humiliation as Georgie’s laugh echoed in his mind.
In fact, if all went well, he would secure a special license and have the deed done long before his rapidly approaching birthday. Then, aside from his duties in the House of Lords, he could retire to the county forever. He would have his freedom, and Miss Morehouse would have hers.
“Hallo!”
The brightness of the greeting, incongruent with the plush quiet of the study with its deep-burgundy walls and walnut paneling, instantly caught Tom’s attention. Mr. Osbourne and Mr. Crowley, both of whom had made it through the hazards of the first of three games, approached.
“Gentlemen,” Tom said by way of a greeting.
“May we join you?” Mr. Osbourne asked, and Tom answered by nodding to a pair of chairs opposite his.
They were soon seated, more glasses ordered.
Soon they were chatting about Mr. Osbourne’s favorite, and possibly only subject of interest, horseflesh.
Even at dinner, the man had spent more time talking about the best mash for horses than he had about the quality of the food on his plate.
“Did you know Miss Fairfax owns her own thoroughbred—one of Eleanore’s offspring?” Mr. Crowley said, lowering his voice to an almost conspiratorial tone. “And her father was recently made a knight.”
Too late for the conditions of Tom’s grandfather’s will, but this seemed to be of little concern to Mr. Crowley.
“Do you have your heart set on her?” Tom asked.
“They are all lovely.” Crowley gazed down at his glass a moment as if it held the answer to any number of vexatious questions, then let go a sigh before turning his attention, more resolute now, back to Tom and Mr. Osbourne.
“I’m not sure what Mother would think, but I have no intention of being penniless. And Miss Fairfax is very amiable.”
“What about you?” Osbourne asked Tom.
“If I could choose, Miss Morehouse would be my preference,” Tom answered, even as the words landed with much less conviction that they would have a few hours ago.
“Excellent,” Osbourne said, letting go a sigh of relief as he sunk into his chair.
“How so?” Tom asked.
“While it is still early days yet,” Osbourne said, pursing his lips, “I do hope she might choose me. Lady Georgiana that is.”
The brandy Tom was sipping damn near stuck in his throat. He forced himself to swallow, then cleared his throat.
“Why her?” he asked.
“First, she did not object to the idea of fixing up my stables once we are married,” he said. “Clearly she might love horses as much as I do.”
Tom smothered a laugh. Georgie liked horses well enough, and she would never want to see any beast in misery, but amongst animals, her passion was dogs. He’d been tempted to point that out but thought the better of it.
“But she is terribly pretty as well,” Osbourne continued, his mouth hitching into a wistful smile. “Her hair reminds me of the mane on my favourite golden mare.”
Tom nodded, desperate to contain the pang of envy that had sprung up in his gut and threatened to twist into something ugly.
Being possessive over Georgiana Hawthorne made not a single lick of sense.
She wasn’t his—she’d made sure of that. And there was no way in hell he was going to suffer that heartbreak again at her expense.
If Osbourne wanted her, why would it bother Tom in the slightest?
He took a long sip of brandy as he tried to push the unwanted emotion away.
“What’s her story, do you think?” Mr. Crowley asked. “I mean, it’s not every day the daughter of an earl finds herself here looking for a husband—not in a place like this anyway.”
Damn fine question. Tom stilled, trying not to appear the least bit interested, even as the thought had dominated his entire being since he’d first crossed her path today.
“She could be with child,” Crowley said, answering his own question.
The very idea of Georgie here, alone, with child—the child of a man she may have wanted to escape—pulled Tom forward in surprise. And dread. The idea of her being in such circumstances…
“Perhaps she is promised to another who doesn’t suit,” Tom offered. Georgie had suggested as much. Hell, she’d suggested as much all those years ago when he’d asked Georgie to wait for him. “Clearly, her family does not know she is here. She must have traveled alone.”
With Gabe still in Spain, there were only Lord Ashcombe and Marcus, and he’d not heard of them being in town.
Marcus was hardly the brotherly sort. Tom’s memories of the Ashcombe heir were of an anxious young man too eager to protect his crumbling inheritance rather than the well-being of his family and tenants.
“That would explain it,” Osbourne said. “But if she is here, she clearly has access to a part of her dowry, and if she will have me, I do not care one lick what society has to say about it.”
Tom considered Osbourne, his near single-minded fascination with horses, and in that moment realized he’d perhaps misjudged the man. Perhaps he was good enough for Georgie.
“What if there is a challenge?” Crowley asked.
Osbourne waved away the concern.
“I’m a decent enough shot. Besides, my valet heard it from Lord Malvern’s cook, who heard it from one of Mrs. Lightwood’s footmen, who lives next door to the Baroness D’Anville, that Lady Georgiana was promised to man by the name of Sharpe, who is of an advanced age.
” The man shrugged, then held up his glass, prepared to take another drink.
“Given everything, I think I would stand a reasonable chance.”
Sharpe. Tom locked onto the name, turning it over in his head.
He knew of only one Sharpe—an aged baron who owned a much smaller estate that bordered on Whetherby.
The estate lay practically abandoned, and in all his years, he’d never once seen the man.
Was this whom Georgie was trying to escape? An elderly husband?
Not that this was his problem. If she’d agreed to wait for him—
Tom stopped himself from having such dark thoughts.
He’d been young and without prospects or connections when he’d made that rash proposal, and in the light of day, he could rationalize that Georgie had done what any woman in her position would have done.
Except that right until the day before, there had been an understanding between them.
More than that, in fact. They’d spent hours and days fantasizing about a life beyond Whetherby.
A life where they could be together, planning their own future away from the expectations that society put on them both.
Had she known then she’d been promised to this gentleman—this Sharpe fellow she’d clearly risk everything to avoid? Or had this been a last-minute attachment made because perhaps she’d turned down a line of suitors?
Something wasn’t right here, Tom mused, most particularly his concern.
This was none of his business. Georgie had her own life, and so did he.
That fate had thrown them in each other’s paths now had been some kind of trick—a game that may have been meant to test them both.
He’d gambled on love before, and the stakes had been higher than he’d been able to pay.
He would not play for those stakes again.