Chapter Fourteen
Tom closed the book and slid it back into place.
This was the second time she’d hinted that she’d rejected him under duress.
Indeed, this was hardly a hint at all, but rather a confession.
Judging by the way her complexion had gone from cream to deep pink, it was not one she’d been prepared to make.
He took a moment, collecting himself, as he slotted a missing piece of a long unsolved puzzle into place.
“What did your father threaten, Georgie?”
“I—” she faltered, and then straightened, trying to push off his question. “I misspoke.”
“You are misspeaking now,” he said, closing the distance between them. “What did your father threaten?”
“He didn’t threaten anything,” she replied, swallowing deeply, then forcing a smile.
“You know they can’t hurt me now,” he said, softening his voice.
It was true. While Lord Ashcombe outranked him, Viscount Worthington was a man who commanded a great deal of respect and his place in society was unblemished.
“Nor the Blakeys. Indeed, I have already reached out to them, to offer them a pension and a living on one of my father’s smaller estates. ”
Her eyes widened and she looked away, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Georgie—” He put a finger under her chin, gently tilting her face toward his. Her lip trembled, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t alone, when we met.” She pressed her lips together. “Marcus was not far, watching.”
Tom swallowed back a knot of anger. Marcus had always been a conniving little bastard.
“And then,” she said, “I received your letter. You were so, so angry. And then you were gone.”
“I was angry when I wrote that letter,” he said. “I was nineteen. Just a boy. My heart was cracked in two, and I was in so much pain. I wanted everyone else to be in pain along with me.”
“I had started to pack my bags anyway,” she said. “My father was talking openly about my dowry, and my marriage prospects, and what he expected in the way of a husband. The estate was failing, and I could see him getting more desperate by the day. It’s one of the reasons Gabriel left.”
Gabe had spoken of this—the increased superstition and despondency consuming his father, and indeed, Marcus too.
It was one of the reasons why Gabriel had chosen to escape not only his father, but England itself.
He’d gone with something very near a death wish, throwing himself into battle with almost the same ferocity he put into his merrymaking.
But Gabe spoke about Georgie with great affection—so much so that, in the early days, it had been difficult to listen to, given the freshness of Tom’s own wounds at her rejection.
She had been Gabe’s one light among all the bad feeling about home.
“Your brother loves you,” he said, desperate to give her some sort of comfort and assurance.
“Yes, well,” she said, her voice growing brittle, “it can be difficult to remember that when you are left alone while the rest of the world is going on with their lives.”
Her admission landed on Tom’s chest with all the force of nearby cannon shot. And like cannons, when the smoke cleared and the confusion settled, it was if he could see, for the first time, Georgie’s wound.
While Whetherby and her family’s fortunes were crumbling around her, Georgie was forced to remain. Gabriel could leave. And Tom went with him.
He considered her now, her back straight, her eyelashes fluttering like butterflies, wrestling back her hurt and looking for all the world very much alone.
Tom put his hand up to her cheek—a small touch, even as he was desperate to pull her into his arms and make her feel how much he loved her. He’d expected her to push him away. Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.
“I’m back now,” he said, swallowing back his own emotion. “And I’m no longer the boy I was.”
“I know.”
He brushed a thumb along the gentle curve of her jaw, studying her lips, his body growing taut with an urgent need to kiss her.
“I want to kiss you, Georgie,” he whispered.
She tilted her head up, parting her lips. “I want you to kiss me.”
Drawing her body closer to him, he accepted her invitation, capturing the tender flesh of her mouth.
She was eager and warm, and they engaged in a wordless hunger for each that nearly brought his body to heel.
Her hands were against his chest, and a good thing too, because if she came any closer, she would feel his body’s sinful demands of her.
With every flick of his tongue, with every caress, he wanted her to know that, if given the chance, he would never leave her alone again.
Somewhere in amongst the haze of longing and fervent kisses, Tom was vaguely aware of a noise in the background. A tingling sound, perhaps. He was about to discount it when Tom felt Georgie pushing him away, breaking the kiss.
“Tom,” she said, breathless, her lips swollen. She swallowed deeply, looking past him, concern lining her brow.
The sound of bells chiming in the distance broke through the urgency of his desire, registering enough for him to realize it a nearby clock, chiming the hour.
“We have to finish the game,” she said. “We haven’t even found the book yet.”
Tom released her, stung by her concern.
“Are you worried you are going to lose so you won’t have to pick me?”
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “Good to see that a good size ego came with your new status in society.”
“It’s not ego,” he said. “I know Miss Morehouse wants me, and she’s quite determined to win.” It had been what they’d both wanted. It had made sense. But with each passing moment, it was making a little less sense.
She pursed her lips, her expression unreadable. “Are you afraid I will win and that you’ll be stuck with me?”
“I wouldn’t be stuck.”
“But you wouldn’t be happy,” she said.
Wouldn’t he be happy? Life with Georgie had been all he’d ever wanted. And when it seemed out of reach, he’d spent the past four years determined never to want it again. Could he reach for it again?
“I need to be married to a woman of good breeding, and I need to be married to her before the end of May,” he said. “It’s the only reason why I am here.”
“You’ve got a title now, and money. You are just as devilishly handsome as ever—”
“You still think I’m handsome?” He couldn’t help it.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes, but he did not miss the way her mouth hitched up in a sly smile before continuing.
“—and I watch how women look at you whenever you enter a room,” she said. “You hardly needed one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s matches to meet your family’s requirements.”
She was probably right. But he wasn’t about to admit that he, a grown man who’d escaped death more than a handful of times, was terrified of being rejected again.
“Perhaps not,” he said, “but I was motivated by expediency. Nothing else.”
“You deserve to be happy, Tom,” she replied.
“We both do.”
She smiled, but Tom could sense the pain lingering beneath it.
Before he could comment further, she turned away from him, resuming her search for the book on her list. It was a stark reminder that Georgie wasn’t looking for happiness.
She needed an escape. And if he could do one thing for her now, it was to help her do that.
After several minutes of frantic searching, he heard her squeal with triumph.
“This looks promising,” she said, holding up a thin volume covered in tan leather. “Astronomical Tables: Sun, Earth, Moon.”
She opened it up. “It mentions the moon on many pages. I think this will do.”
The relief on her face was palpable.
“Excellent,” he said, taking the book from her and placing it in the basket. “What’s next?”
She let go an exasperated sigh.
“Near the rose that will never fade, a token kept close to this fair maid.”
“You must be the maid,” he said, looking over her shoulder at the line. “I assume you will know what the token is when you see it.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I wasn’t asked for any.”
“There is a small painting of a rose in the front entry,” he said. “Let’s start there.”
He took her by the hand, leading her through the corridors, navigating the labyrinth to the gentlemen’s entrance.
On the way, they spied two more items on their list—a beetle of all things, framed under glass, and a bottle of ink.
The urgency of the search allowed Tom to ignore the forbidden joy of simply being with her.
It was like they were back at Whetherby, running through the woods, hiding from Georgie’s governess.
He brought her to a halt in a small alcove, where a Chinese vase bursting with flowers stood. Above it was a small painting, not much more than a miniature, of a pink rose.
“A rose that will never fade,” he said, pointing to the exquisite painting of a single pink rose, painted in the style of the still-life of the Dutch masters. “Now we must find the token.”
The moment Tom pointed to the painting, she saw it. Her heart leapt into her throat as she reached for the small wooden toy, cupping it in her hand and drawing it her chest.
How on earth did this get here? She cradled the fox, roughly carved out of wood, close to her chest. She’d packed the trinket along with all her other belongings she couldn’t bear to part with before coming to London, understanding that her chances of returning to Whetherby were almost nonexistent.
It had been wrapped in a scrap of cloth at the bottom on her trunk for safe keeping.
Tom had carved it for her, years ago. She might have been ten at the time. He’d found her in the woods, crying after discovering what happened to the foxes after one of her father’s favorite pastimes.
“What is it?” he asked, concern crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“You’re going to think this is silly,” she said, wanting to die of embarrassment. “Childish.”
He smiled in that good natured way of his that made her feel as if everything would be fine. She’d missed that smile.
He was looking at her so expectantly. She hadn’t been able to truly trust herself for so long. She’d allowed Tom to claim her heart long ago, and the pain of letting him go had gutted her for so long.
“Georgie,” he said, glancing around to ensure he would not be overheard, “you should know by the way I just kissed you, the very last way I see you is as a child.”
That kiss. Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and her stomach flipped at the very thought of it. She’d wanted one last kiss from him.
She brought her hands closer to him and opened them up. The little fox, worn smooth over the years from being handled, stood at attention on her palm.
She glanced up at him. “Do not laugh at me, Tom.”
Tom did not laugh. The smile on his face stalled as his eyes widened, then fixed on the toy in her hand.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
She nodded. “I don’t know how it got here. It was packed in my trunk. Mrs. Dove-Lyon must have involved the baroness.”
Perhaps he didn’t hear her. He seemed transfixed by it, his gaze moving from the toy, to her, then back again.
“I didn’t know you would have kept it,” he said.
“It was all I had of you after you left,” she said. “He was my little good luck charm. A reminder of better days.”
A reminder of you, she added to herself.
A bell rang from somewhere inside, no doubt on the gaming floor. The insistent ringing signaled the game was over.
“Christ,” he said under his breath, seemingly snapping himself out of whatever memory he’d found himself lost in. He turned his attention to Georgie. “That went faster than I anticipated.”
A mix of worry and anticipation gripped her, and she gently laid the fox in the basket.
“Do you think you have enough?” he asked.
Georgie looked at the basket, now full of an eclectic array of items. The contents of this basket would determine her life course in the next few minutes. Was it enough? Enough for what?
Enough to claim Tom as her prize?
They walked back to the gaming room in strained silence, the weight of the next few moments nearly unbearable. They arrived to find the remaining players, and a growing host of onlookers, a palpable tension in the room.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood at the center of the room.
“Let’s see how we’ve done, shall we?” she said. “Baskets, please.”
Each of the gentlemen produced their baskets, and Georgie couldn’t help but try to guess her place amongst the other ladies. Given the odd sizes of the tokens they were sent to find, it was an impossible task.
One by one, one of the staff were going through each basket, counting the items and matching them to the list.
As each item came out of the basket, his heart pounded harder. Each check on the list took her closer to the end of this game, and closer to her new husband.
“Miss Fairfax,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon called out. “Nineteen items.”
A round of polite clapping circulated the room before Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up her hand.
“Miss Morehouse, twenty-three.”
The applause grew louder, though Miss Morehouse, as always, kept her feelings to herself on becoming the front runner.
“Lady Georgiana.”
Georgie held her breath, keeping her eyes fixed on the little wooden fox, and waited.
“Twenty-two.”