Chapter Fifteen #3
“I am shocked he has returned to England,” she countered, not willing to acknowledge her father’s demands. “He is so committed to properties in the Caribbean.”
“Indeed, I came to town upon learning his plans,” he said, his animated countenance suggesting he was quite pleased with the turn of events. “He agreed to come to town to meet with me to finalize a bit of business between us.”
Georgie curled her fingers into her palms, the edge of her nails burying into her skin.
“Father.” The forcefulness of her tone clearly shocked her father, but desperation drove her to ignore the rising color in his cheeks. “Please tell me you are not committed to this idea of having me marry him.”
“I see having you stay with the baroness may have been a mistake,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked to the other side of his desk, standing over her. “This outrageous behavior does not become you.”
“I am sorry, Father,” she replied, her apologetic words an attempt at placation rather than remorse. “But you must see that Lord Sharpe is not my only option. There are plenty of gentlemen for whom a link to the Ashcombe family would be a great honor.”
“True,” he said, almost as an afterthought, but shook his head, as if the incongruity of her suggestion was somehow too much of a deviation. “This has been planned for years. Indeed, since you were but a child.”
“A child?” she said. “Father, he is three times my age. He has been married since I have been alive. I do not understand this.”
“I don’t expect you to understand these matters,” he said, his condescension more infuriating than any anger he might have displayed. “But the marriage contract has been signed. He comes tonight to celebrate the occasion, as will you.”
“But what if I don’t love him?”
“Love? My dear, you do not need to love him,” her father said, incredulous. “After your mother’s death, I had become far too lax in the oversight of your education. You have been distracted by these novels and fantastical ideas. Lord Sharpe will be an attentive husband.”
“I do not wish his attention,” she said. “How can you wed me to someone who is more senior than you? Indeed, he could be your father.”
“You are young,” he said. “And I will not hear one more word on this subject.”
“But what if I met someone else?” she asked. “Someone else I wished to marry.”
He looked at her, his eyes narrow.
“Who?”
“Mr. John Osbourne,” she said.
“I knew sending you to London was a mistake,” he said. “A temporary lapse in judgment.”
“You haven’t answered me,” she said.
“I do not owe you an answer,” he said, slamming his hand on the desk. It made her jump. “Osbourne is a third son, more interested in horseflesh than being a husband. You will marry Sharpe and that is that.”
“What does he have over you?” she pressed. “What does a baron hold over an earl that you would sell me to him? Surely mother didn’t agree to this?”
At the mention of her mother, he became resolute.
“Your mother is looking down on us from heaven, God rest her soul,” he said. “And she would agree with me. You have the opportunity to do your family a great favor.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “I have never understood this.”
“You don’t need to understand, Georgiana,” he said. “You just need to obey. Tomorrow Lord Sharpe will seek a special license, and you will be married before the end of the week.”
Georgiana was not given to swooning, but in that moment, she felt herself grow lightheaded. This was not possible. She had done everything she could to escape this marriage. She would not let Baron Sharpe claim her.
She closed her eyes and blew out a silent breath, giving herself a moment to be calm. She needed to send word to Mr. Osbourne. There was no time for a special license. They had to make for Scotland.
It occurred to her, at that moment, that she had no idea of where Mr. Osbourne’s residence was in London. Even if she were to write a note, where would she send it?
Lily Duigood’s concerned face flashed in her memory. She would help Georgie, and so would the baroness. If nothing else, she might be able to entreat Mrs. Dove-Lyon for the information.
“Very well, Father,” she said, getting to her feet, pasting the same placid smile on her face she’d used to placate her father for years. “With your permission I would like to make my apologies to the baroness for tomorrow evening.”
Her expression seemed to mollify him. “Of course. Go write your letter and have Norton send it.”
She forced herself to walk out of the room.
When the door closed behind her, she tore up the stairs and into her bedchamber.
It had been years since she’d visited this house, and she rummaged through her small writing desk, where she found a tightly capped bottle of ink and some paper.
She wrote out a note, barely waiting for the ink to dry before folding it up and sealing it shut.
She delivered it to a footman, then watched from the front parlor as he left on foot for Grosvenor Square.