Chapter Nine #2
“My brothers had other things on their minds besides my nose,” she said, fiddling with the cuff on her pelisse, then looked over his shoulder for any signs of Mr. Osbourne.
“I don’t know about that,” Tom said. “Gabriel confirmed my theory while we were marching across Portugal.”
“How was he?” she asked, reaching out and grabbing him in excitement.
It was an old impulse, and with it came a rush of heat that somehow penetrated through layers of clothing.
His eyes widened, and they stood for a moment before she pulled her hands away.
“So sorry. I was merely excited to hear about him.”
“Not at all,” he said, clearing his throat. “Your brother was doing well when I left him. He is, despite what he might say, an excellent officer.”
Tears pricked unexpectedly at the back of her eyes.
She missed Gabriel desperately. She missed the freedom of their earlier years—of playing in the woods, along the old foot paths, and watching the sunset at the ancient stone at the edge of the Whetherby estate, overlooking the rugged Cheshire hills.
She nodded, blinking quickly, trying to dampen down this horrible sense of longing that threatened to overtake her.
“Mr. Osbourne has clearly taken an interest in you.”
The mention of the gentleman’s name pushed aside any sense of nostalgia Georgie had for her brother or Tom.
Georgie forced a smile. “He is an affable gentleman.”
“Will he be your pick?”
Mr. Osbourne was a well-meaning soul—perfectly harmless, passionate about only one thing—horseflesh.
Still, compared to Baron Sharpe, he would be a fine match.
Of the other gentlemen taking part in the matchmaking game, he seemed the most likely.
He’d called on her today, and he’d engaged in pleasant enough conversation, including topics that, happily, were more varied than horses, horse breeding, racing, or grooming.
“That is none of your concern,” she said, deflecting the uncomfortable question with one of her own. “Do you wish Miss Morehouse to pick you?”
Tom straightened. “Miss Morehouse has very particular requirements for a partner, and it just so happens to align with my own,” he said with a conviction that made Georgie unreasonably worried about her nose.
“And what are these requirements?” she asked before she could think better of it.
He shifted his weight, then looked over his shoulders, as if to affirm there was no one close by before turning his attention back to Georgie.
“Tell me about this man you’re trying to escape,” he said, his voice low.
“The only one trying to escape here is you, by not answering my question.”
“Georgie,” he said, “if you don’t give me details on this Sharpe character, I shall be forced to find it out on my own.”
She blinked, then answered in a whisper, “How did you—did Gabriel tell you?”
Not that her brother could have possibly known, unless he’d overheard Father mention it in their last row before he left for the army. Still, the baron’s name on Tom’s tongue had been jarring.
“You are Lord Ashcombe’s daughter,” Tom said. “Gossip is its own sort of currency in the ton I’ve learned.”
A shiver went down the back of her neck, and she forced herself not to give in to the impulse to look through the crowd. While her father knew of her visit to London on the pretense of visit a friend of her mother, if her true purpose were discovered…
Georgie swallowed back her fear. “Why do you care?”
He pressed his lips together, his countenance serious. But instead of answering her question, he simply asked another.
“Do you fear he will use you ill?”
What did she fear about being married to Baron Sharpe?
There had been rumors about his former wife, locked in an asylum until she withered away.
He claimed she was erratic, prone to hysteria and “ungodly behavior,” unsafe to herself and everyone around her.
And while Georgie’s father had tried to convince her that the baron would be a good husband, doubt rested in every bone in her body.
“This is not your concern, Tom,” she said, even as something within her yearned to tell him everything. But he wasn’t here to help her. They weren’t even friends anymore. “It’s my problem, and I’m going to fix it.”
“Problem?” he parroted, pouncing on her reply as confirmation. “I take it your father and Marcus have no idea of your plans.”
Of course they didn’t. She’d have been marched to the altar before the ink on the special license had dried. But she didn’t wish to give away any more to him.
“Actually, they encouraged it,” she said, irritation at his question rising inside her. She straightened her back and looked him straight in the eye. “Marcus wrote Mrs. Dove-Lyon and my father help pack my trunks.”
Tom rolled his eyes.
“I don’t see why this could possibly matter now,” she continued. “After all, before you left Whetherby, you were quite clear that I deserved whatever fate befell me.”
He blinked, clearly taken aback by her confession. And it felt like a confession, this admission that she’d carried his words—and the pain they’d inflicted—all this time.
The air seemed to grow thick around them, as they stood in silence, Tom’s jaw tight as a hint of color extended up from the collar of his plum-colored jacket.
“Hallo, hallo!”
The joyful voice of Mr. Osbourne broke through the torrent. Georgie straightened, and Tom took a step back, as if realizing the distance between them had disappeared.
“Here is your lemon ice,” he said, holding up his treasure. “Quite a crowd for it on an afternoon such as this.”
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the little glass dish. “Mr. Worthington was just telling me about his drive with Miss Morehouse.”
“I saw your team, Worthington,” Mr. Osbourne said, smiling broadly. If he felt an incursion or slight, he betrayed nothing. “An excellent pair of Cleveland Bays, if I might say so.”
Soon the two were talking horses, and Georgie was left to eat her ice.
She found herself looking around the green.
Miss Duigood was not far off, chatting with another young lady, watching Georgie out of the corner of her eye.
Across the green was Miss Morehouse in animated conversation with Miss Howard, her companion and several other ladies.
And she was alone.
Would this be her future? Mr. Osbourne was polite enough, and compared to Lord Sharpe, a far better option. Her father would no doubt disown her for a while, but he was still the son of an illustrious family, and no one need know that the instigator of the match was Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
She could live on his estate, throw parties, and perhaps make an acquaintance or two from nearby families while Mr. Osbourne went about his business. They’d probably meet at dinner, and possibly breakfast. He would talk about horses, and she would pretend to care about them.
There were certainly worse ways to spend a life.
Tom’s voice, laughing at something Mr. Osbourne said, gave her another unwelcome thought.
There was also an absolutely better way to spend a life.
All the while the gentlemen spoke, she could sense Tom’s gaze resting on her. Not for long, and not in an unseemly way. It was as if he was reminding her that he was present. Interested. Concerned.
How could he be concerned about her after all this time? After his angry words and years of being left alone?
How many nights had she spent crying herself to sleep, thinking about the life they might have had?
Days filled with long walks, talking about books and sheep and soil and tenants and where they thought the stars went when the sun came up.
Stolen nights filled with tenderness and a yearning so urgent even now she could feel its tug in her core.
She closed her eyes, a ragged sense of longing nearly claiming her.
“Is there something wrong, my lady?” Mr. Osbourne said.
Everything. Everything about this was wrong.
“I think I’ve eaten the ice too fast,” she lied, keeping her gaze on him even as she felt the weight of Tom’s stare. Did he sense what effect he still had on her? How much she wanted him, even when she shouldn’t? “It’s giving me a headache.”
“Shall I return you and Miss Duigood to your residence so you can recover?”
Before she could help herself, she shot a glance up at Tom, who was looking at her with an expression she could not name.
In two days, this matchmaking game would be over, and she would never have to see him again.
If he made it through tonight, Miss Morehouse would have him, and Georgie would have someone else.
And she was starting to wonder if she could ever recover.