Chapter Fifteen #2
“Is this your brother?” she said, staring at Marcus, studying his face, as if it didn’t make sense somehow. “Your father’s heir?”
“The very same,” Georgie replied. “My other brother is in Spain and has been for many years.”
Lily nodded, then sat back in her seat, very quiet.
“Marcus is not an unkind man,” Georgie continued, trying to find a scrap of kindness for her elder brother. “He too has lived under my father’s shadow and has perhaps been influenced the most by him.”
Lily nodded, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, when the carriage came to a stop.
“We shall see each other soon,” Georgie said. “Thank you for being such a good friend to me.”
The footman barely had a moment to open the door before Georgie took a breath and stepped down out of the carriage.
Better to get this entire business over with.
She held up her skirts and marched up the stairs, and into Ashcombe House, where she was greeted by Norton, her father’s long-serving—and some might say long-suffering—butler.
“Lady Georgiana,” he began, his tone as steady as his service, “his lordship is expecting you in his study.”
“Thank you, Norton,” she said, passing her bonnet and gloves along. “How was the journey from Whetherby? How is my father?”
“It was tolerable, my lady,” he said, his mouth crinkling in such a way as to suggest “tolerable” might have been generous.
Her father despised travel, and though Marcus came to town on occasion, Ashcombe House was rarely used.
“His lordship seems to be in better spirits of late. I believe you were missed.”
Norton’s mouth twitched into something that attempted a smile.
Since her time in London, there had been so many smiles, and even laughter.
It was something so notably absent from Whetherby, particularly since Gabriel and Tom had left.
The baroness had a bright full laugh that could be heard in every corner of her large Mayfair home.
Lily’s laugh was quieter, which Georgie suspected had more to do with her station, but she smiled often and had a joyful way about her that radiated to anyone around her.
Miss Fairfax was exuberant in her expressions, and Mr. Osbourne’s moods were very pleasant.
And as for Tom—his smiles were so warm that even the thought of them caused a warm tingling sensation inside her.
A sensation that shifted, opening up a hole inside her.
She had to stop thinking about him.
She walked down across the cold marble foyer to her father’s study.
Unlike several of the rooms in Ashcombe House, which still bore evidence of her mother’s touch, her father’s study was unabashedly masculine, the dark wood paneling bearing a select number of portraits of earls past, including her grandfather, who was little more than a vague memory.
She paused only long enough to knock on the door, the scent of her father’s pipe tobacco tickling her nose as she entered the room.
Though frowned on in polite society, he’d kept the habit to the confines of his study both at Whetherby and, apparently, at Ashcombe House.
“Good afternoon, Father,” she said, stopping a few steps inside the door.
Her father sat at his desk, absentmindedly flipping through one of his many tomes, his pipe sitting to one side.
She found herself studying him, as she often had, looking to understand his mood.
When her father way happy—which was so very rare—he was quite lovely company.
When he was sullen or anxious, she began the tenuous dance of managing his mood.
She might count her blessings that her father, for all his troubles, was not a man given to violent moods.
Rather, he seemed to fall into a pit of sadness, and it was left to Georgie to pull him out.
“Good afternoon, my dear,” her father said, setting the book aside. “Come, let me look at you.”
He regarded her carefully, and Georgie held her breath. Had he learned, somehow, of her visit to the Lyon’s Den? Of her impending marriage to Mr. Osbourne?
“You are looking well,” he said, giving her a quick nod, the inspection over. “I trust the baroness was a gracious hostess.”
“Indeed, she was,” Georgie replied. She clasped her hands in front of her, eager to keep herself from fidgeting. “I am surprised to see you and Marcus in town.”
“I had some issues to discuss with my man of business, and your brother is eager to continue his search for a bride,” he replied, giving her a weak, watery smile.
“We must abide the foul London air long enough to ensure the continuity of the line. Heaven knows Gabriel will likely get himself killed just to spite me.”
“Father,” she said, gently shaking her head. “I don’t think he would be likely to put himself deliberately in harm’s way for any reason except one of valor.”
“I do not wish to speak of him further,” her father said, shutting the book on his lap and setting it aside.
Deep lines cut across his brow, now firmly etched from years of worry.
Her father was once a handsome man, but the youthful charm that Gabriel had clearly received from their sire had disappeared, robbed by what Georgie could only articulate as the fear of the next, seemingly inevitable disaster.
“Come sit, my dear. I wish to hear of your stay.”
There was something in her father’s smile—a hint of joy and interest in her life—that leveled a pang of regret in Georgie’s chest. It was an all too brief glimpse of the man her father might have been.
Indeed, it did remind her of Gabriel, and she could not help but wonder if he was so angry at his younger son for trying to be the man that Whetherby seemed to have robbed him of being.
She sat herself down, mentally searching for something to say.
It was tempting to speak of meeting Tom, or even the fact she’d had flowers delivered to her by a potential suitor, but both were treacherous subjects.
Besides, she was not yet ready to broach the subject of marriage with him, lest he raise once more the question of Lord Sharpe’s suit.
Instead, she spoke of the baroness and stories she’d shared with Georgie of their mother, and the general London gossip amongst the ton—excluding, of course, the news about Tom’s ascendancy to the peerage.
“Our arrival in town this morning has already brought with it some invitations,” her father said. “It is important for your brother to be seen in society.”
Marcus’s search for a bride had been a fraught one.
Ironically enough, he might have been well suited for one of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s matches.
He had a title, and many properties which her father had refused to give up, but the family needed the fortune of an heiress to attempt fixing the leaking roofs, to update the kitchens, and to bring much needed repairs to the tenant cottages on the estate.
Indeed, it might have been worth enduring a tolerable bit of scandal, but Marcus’s ability to tolerate any challenge was very little indeed.
“If you had given me notice of your arrival, I am certain the baroness would have been most pleased to host a soiree on his behalf,” Georgie said.
“Indeed, I would have been pleased to stay on there to assist with the arrangements.” It would have given her enough time to make her plans with Mr. Osbourne.
She’d only been at Ashcombe House a few moments and already she felt the walls closing in around her.
Her ability to escape her family’s watchful eyes would be difficult.
However, if Marcus was to be out in society, all hope for an easy escape might not be lost.
Of course, Mr. Osbourne would have to be canny enough to help her. While he was affable enough, she was less confident in his ability to plan a quiet exit. Tom on the other hand…
Enough.
Her father settled in his chair, the creaking furniture underneath him dragging her attention back to him. The gentle smile had disappeared, the light in his eyes dimmed once more, his lips pressed into a thin line, as if he’d just swallowed an ill-prepared dish.
“There is no reason to trespass on the baroness’s hospitality further,” he said, then rose to his full height, towering over Georgie, blocking the late afternoon sun streaming in the windows behind him.
“Indeed, it is a happy fortune that we are here, as I happened to meet with Lord Sharpe at my club and invited him to dine with us on the morrow.”
Fear slithered down Georgie’s spine, and she was uncertain that years of her governess’s training had been enough to keep her from flinching at Papa’s announcement.
“Indeed,” she said at last, trying to muster even the smallest pretense of enthusiasm and failing miserably.
She could not dine with him. Her mind raced, looking for some way to delay.
“I am afraid I have already made a promise to dine with the baroness tomorrow. She has invited the Duke and Duchess of Weymouth. It would be rude to change my plans.”
It was a total fabrication of course, but if she’d hoped her father would be impressed by the guest list, she was sadly mistaken.
“Plans are canceled every day, and I am certain Baroness D’Anville will not be bothered by it,” he said, waving away her concern as if he was swatting at a bothersome insect.
“This is important, Georgiana. Baron Sharpe has been an excellent friend of the family, and we must honor that friendship. I will have Norton send a note.”