Chapter Nine
Tom had experienced the frantic and bloody chaos of pitched battles when he was in Spain.
An afternoon in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour may not have yielded bloodshed, but it was no less chaotic.
His peculiar situation had gained him some attention, and he’d felt the weight of whispers and stares from curious onlookers as he navigated his curricle through Kensington Gardens toward the Serpentine.
It was not the most relaxing way to spend an afternoon, but he had a wife to secure, and with at least three other potential suitors vying for Miss Morehouse’s attentions, desperate measures had to be taken.
If he was successful in tonight’s game, he’d have made his intentions known.
He found the lady walking along the Serpentine with her companion, Miss Howard.
There was a gentleman walking with them Tom recognized from the Lyon’s Den.
Not willing to waste his valet’s nor his groom’s efforts to get Tom into the matchmaking fray of a brilliant spring afternoon, he charged—or rather rode—to the trio and asked Miss Morehouse if she’d cared to join him for a drive in the park. To his relief, she accepted.
“You are an object of some interest,” she said, as the horses moved at a slow but steady cantor along Rotten Row. “The lost son of a viscount, found leading a section of Wellington’s army in Spain?”
“It does sound remarkable when you say it like that,” he said.
“I’m intrigued how a viscount loses a child,” she said. “Or perhaps I’m more intrigued that he was so intent on finding you.”
“Not as surprised as I was,” he replied.
“Everyone has their secrets,” she said. “I’m glad yours worked to your distinct advantage.”
Almost against his will, an image of Georgie popped up in his mind.
Falling in love with Georgie had been his secret.
That he thought she’d returned those feelings was a secret he’d damned well kept.
The humiliation and hurt of her refusal somehow managed to linger, gripping him like the frigid dampness of January in Cheshire.
He forced his attention back to Miss Morehouse. She was an attractive woman, with an almost analytical manner that, under the circumstances, he found to be a boon.
“May I ask you a question?” he asked.
“You want to know why I’ve hired Mrs. Dove-Lyon to find me a husband.”
“With respect, you are a handsome woman with a keen mind and, I assume, a respectable fortune,” he said. “I am curious what she can provide for you that society cannot?”
She turned to him, her expression earnest. “I have a decent fortune, as you say. But since whomever I marry will unfortunately control it, I must marry a man I can abide.”
“You are not holding out for a love match then?”
She tilted her head, giving him a curious smile. “If I were, I wouldn’t be trying my luck with one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s games,” she replied. “I wish a marriage in name only.”
“You are very certain about what you want,” he said.
“I believe many women are,” she replied. “They are simply not given the freedom to express it, never mind act on it.”
Like a moth drawn to the flicker of candlelight, Tom’s thoughts turned to Georgie. Had she known what she’d wanted? Because years ago she’d expressed herself perfectly well to him. And yet, here she was, trying to escape that very same marriage she’d been so sure she’d wanted all those years ago.
Had she been given the freedom to do as she’d wanted?
“If I could do this without a husband, it would be done,” she continued, dragging Tom’s attention back to the conversation at hand. “But my parents are withholding my funds until I marry. So this is my way of escaping the future they would have for me.”
To escape one. Georgie was escaping too. The edge in her voice as she confessed her situation still clawed at him. But he was not here for Georgie, he reminded himself.
“What about children?” he asked. Marriage to an indifferent but well-connected partner was one thing, but the matter of heirs was not a condition he could sidestep.
“I am not opposed to them,” she replied. “I understand the male obligation to the family line, and I would meet it. Or, if a mistress can provide them, I would happily raise any bastards as mine so long as it was properly handled.”
“And I take it you wish to have your own affairs,” he replied. “Which I can abide if there is discretion.”
“You may be rest assured I have no interest in dalliances,” she replied, looking straight ahead.
“I simply want to live my own life, in the manner I wish to live it. Unfortunately, I cannot do that without the protection of a man, and you seem, on first inspection, to be honorable enough to allow it.”
Clearly Miss Morehouse wanted only one thing from him—his name. No doubt she would be easily convinced to pursue a hasty marriage, then retreat to the country without him, and he would have his full inheritance and all the mistresses such money could buy.
An odd, hollow sensation crept into his chest, dampening the triumph he should have been feeling at securing Miss Morehouse’s interest. Perhaps it was simply the worry that he might still lose his chance tonight at the Lyon’s Den.
Or maybe it was something more. Some traitorous feeling he dared not name.
The two sat in a silence that was somehow neither tense nor comfortable. It simply was.
Would this be his future with her?
Surely not. He would have other pursuits—learning the business of being a viscount would have to be enough for now. He turned his attention to the road, focusing on the steady rhythm of the horses and searching for some banal subject to fill the air when Miss Morehouse spoke up.
“I see Miss Howard,” she said, gesturing to a clump of trees under which stood several ladies. “I should not leave her alone for too long.”
Clearly fifteen minutes with Tom had been too long.
“Would you like me to get you and Miss Howard some shaved ice?” he asked, desperate to make the afternoon’s activities feel a little less transactional.
She nodded. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
He brought the curricle to a stop out of the way of traffic and saw Miss Morehouse to her companion before stalking off to one of the many vendors who set up tents along the Serpentine ready to sell shaved ice, lemonade, and other delights to those who were promenading along the water’s edge.
He maneuvered his way through the crowds, watching the dance of gentlemen and ladies playing the game that was courting among the upper classes.
A flutter of pink caught his eye just before he reached his destination, and on the air, a hint lilac.
As if summoned, he turned to see a park bench under a shaded tree, where none other than Georgiana Hawthorne sat with another young lady and Mr. Osbourne, all engaged in animated conversation.
Tom was struck by the conviviality of the scene, and even more so by the pang of envy it caused. Ridiculous.
He was about to stalk away in search of shaved ice when he watched John Osbourne bow toward the ladies, then walk toward the refreshment stand. No doubt he was on a similar errand for Georgie.
Whatever possessed Tom to approach her, he couldn’t say—perhaps it was simple madness or morbid curiosity. Whatever it was, he found himself sauntering toward the bench, every step making his heart beat faster even as he willed himself calm.
She looked up almost immediately, as if she had sensed his presence.
The smile she’d worn while she was speaking to her companion disappeared almost immediately, her eyes growing wide with surprise.
The fact that he’d broken her smile tore at him momentarily, even as he chided himself for the emotion.
After all, it was she who’d trampled over his heart when he’d offered it to her.
“Lady Georgiana,” he said, bowing formally.
“Mr. B—” she stumbled, pink creeping into her cheeks. “My apologies—Mr. Worthington.” She pointed to her friend. “Allow me to present Miss Lily Duigood.”
Miss Duigood was a pretty thing, with dark curly hair. While finely dressed, Tom had the distinct impression the dress was a borrowed one, and while flattering, was of an older style. She might have been his own age—hardly old enough, it seemed, to be a chaperone herself.
“It is a pleasure,” she said, before looking to Georgie. “I believe I see an acquaintance from one of the baroness’s salons. Do you mind terribly if I went and said hello? I won’t be long.”
The very last thing Georgie wanted was to be alone with Tom, but she could hardly deny Lily the opportunity to say hello to a friend.
Besides, Mr. Osbourne would be back with a lemon ice shortly, and there were more than enough people around to make any conversation with a gentleman hardly scandalous.
“Of course,” she said to Lily.
Lily nodded, then giving Tom a curtsy, scurried off.
“Were you enjoying your afternoon with Miss Morehouse?” she asked. She’d seen them in his curricle as they walked by Rotten Row and had all but forced herself to focus on Mr. Osbourne’s enthusiasm for the horses trotting up in the park.
“I did,” he said, his mouth hitching into a smile that did not convey any sense of conviction. Almost immediately his eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head as he appeared to study her face. “What?”
Now it was her turn to be confused. “Excuse me?”
He leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. “You’re giving me that look.”
“What look?”
He gestured to her face. “When you think someone is lying, you scrunch your nose,” he said, then crinkled his own nose. “Like this.”
“No, I don’t,” she protested, even as she put her fingers to her nose.
He let go a small laugh, a low rumble that found its way to her insides, running through her veins like warm honey.
“You always have, Georgie. I’m surprised Gabriel or Marcus hasn’t told you.”
She wanted to roll her eyes. Marcus hardly bothered with her, unless he needed something, and Gabriel had been out of her life, except for the odd letter, since he’d gone to Spain.