Chapter Twelve #2
“I do not believe it is Mr. Osbourne, my lady,” the servant replied. “He said his name was Worthington.”
It took all of Georgie’s self-possession not to want to bolt from the room, claim a headache, and send him away. How could she face him after yesterday? She’d practically begged him for a kiss after that clumsy apology. So much for her Hawthorne pride.
But under all that was this aching truth that after tomorrow, she might never see him again. And she found that somehow far more horrible to bear.
“Show him in.”
An afternoon spent entertaining his stepmother’s questions about the upcoming ball had been perhaps the longest in Tom’s memory.
And this from a man who’d spent more than a few afternoons on long marches across the searing Spanish landscape, or dodging lead balls courtesy of the French.
With every question about guests and menu choices, the pit forming in his stomach grew larger and larger.
What was Mariah Morehouse’s favorite food?
Any particular music that delighted her?
Tom had no answer to these queries. He might have felt badly about this gap in knowledge, except that Mariah Morehouse would be similarly lacking about Tom’s preferences for Mrs. Blakey’s roast chicken and Spanish tonadillas.
What did it say about him that he knew Georgie favored custard tarts and liked to sing Good Morning Pretty Maid when she thought no one was close enough to hear?
Of course, that was years ago. Maybe she didn’t love those things anymore.
But he was coming to appreciate that, perhaps, Georgiana Hawthorne didn’t turn her back on things she loved as easily as he had once let himself to believe.
After an hour of questions from his stepmother about music and flowers and availability of suitable partners for all the ladies on the list, none of whom he knew, he’d had enough.
Tom made his excuses, asked Benedict to ready his carriage, and somehow landed on Georgie’s doorstep, waiting to be let into her parlor.
“Mr. Worthington, my lady,” the servant announced, stepping aside as Tom walked into the room.
His attention snapped immediately to Georgie, who stood near the fire.
While she wore that serene guise that all ladies of good breeding seemed to practice, the line across her brow and the clenched hands at her side betrayed her.
“Thank you, Rebecca,” she said, her gaze straying to him but a moment before returning her attention back to the servant, who nodded and left the two alone.
“I hope I am not intruding,” he said.
She smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes.
“You just missed Miss Morehouse.”
“Miss Morehouse?” he parroted, unable to contain his surprise. “I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”
“We are but acquaintances, but I wanted the opportunity to know her better,” she said, her half-hearted attempt at a smile not fooling him for a moment. “I think she will make you a very fine wife.”
“Do you?”
He hoped to hell that didn’t sound as cutting as it felt. Because the very last thing on his mind was how Georgiana felt about his compatibility with another woman.
“She seems like a sensible woman, and you both seem to want the same thing from the marriage.” She pressed her lips together, then appeared about to speak again before she stopped, as if thinking the better of what she wanted to say.
“I suppose we do,” he said, even though every time he said it, it felt more and more like a lie.
Georgie seated herself in the middle of an elegant settee, the creaking furniture filling the silence.
She seemed very much alone, and something deep inside him ached to be closer to her.
He found himself fixated on the subtle heave of her chest. She was ill at ease, and he had no idea if he was the cause.
“The baroness has a taste for flowers,” he said, noting the three rather large bouquets placed artfully around the room as he sat down on a nearby chair. He needed to change the subject from that of prospective marriage partners.
“They were gifts,” she said, unwilling to meet his eye, “from Mr. Osbourne.”
Well, damn. That should not have surprised him. And it most definitely should not have made him envious. And yet, a prick of envy twisted even as he tried to paste a smile on his face.
An uncomfortable silence stretched like a violin string pulled too tight.
How had this happened? Once upon a time, he and Georgie would talk for hours about everything from the inconsequential to the momentous.
Did they really have nothing to say to each other?
When he’d torn out of the house this afternoon, determined to see Georgie, he’d had a mountain of things he’d wanted to say.
Everything he’d learned about Baron Sharpe, to start.
And then there was everything that had happened last night in the shadowy corners of that maze.
She pulled herself to her feet, went to the door and closed it but for a crack, then turned and walked back to him, pausing to keep what he assumed to be safe distance from him. A flush of deep pink crept up the sides of her face.
“I need to apologize,” she said, keeping her voice low.
“Apologize?”
She started to pace, casting her glance toward him, but not quite meeting his gaze. “About what happened last evening. All that blubbering, and then that ridiculous question—”
“Georgie, I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to.”