Chapter Seventeen
It was a good thing Georgie had no appetite ahead of today’s dinner.
Lord Sharpe’s diet was restricted to boiled food, owing to the belief that meals prepared in any other fashion excited the dark humors.
If she had been starving, she would have been raiding the kitchens for whatever bit of cheese, fruit, or other delights deemed too rich and sinful for everyday consumption.
But she’d barely been able to sleep, let alone eat, since sending her note yesterday.
She’d received no reply—not that she expected one.
She’d even packed a small bag with a fresh chemise, her best traveling gown, and her mother’s locket, just in case he arrived in the middle of the night and she had to leave quickly.
Not that Mr. Osbourne seemed to be the type for grand gestures like that.
As the night had gone on, doubts had started to crowd Georgie’s thoughts.
What if Mr. Osbourne had changed his mind?
What if he had already removed himself out of London, caught up in a fit of excitement about a breeding horse, leaving her on her own until Saturday?
By then she could be dragged to the altar.
She lay in bed, unable to sleep, her fingers stroking the tiny little fox carved out of wood that Tom had carved for her so long ago.
She’d clung to the charm, worn smooth over the years.
Why she carted it around still, she could not allow herself to think about.
She loved him, and had managed, somehow, to lose him. Twice.
She’d spent the night straining to hear any indication that somehow Mr. Osbourne had received news of her predicament and was outside her window, ready to take her away. The only sounds were those of fighting cats and horses pulling carriages through the streets after a late-night social occasion.
She could not imagine she would ever stir out of doors again to a ball after marrying the baron.
Lord Sharpe was dour personified. Even now, as she sat at the dinner table, watching her father and brother eating their plain boiled potatoes and poached cod without even the simplest of sauces, she could feel her heart withering in her chest. And while she was very much younger than the baron, and could have reliably outlived him, the fact he had outlived younger wives gave Georgie less hope than she might otherwise have.
He spoke at length, but only about a few subjects…the ruination of women through learning, and the general godlessness of the world.
“We must reject all trappings of vanity,” he said, a remarkable proposition considering he carried a title, arrived in a beautiful hack, and wore a coat, which, though of an older fashion, had been spun of the finest wool and adorned with what looked to be brass buttons.
He’d gestured to Georgie’s gown, a simple yet elegant muslin frock adorned with embroidered flowers, and a string of pearls around her neck with barely disguised disdain.
“It is in these ways that the devil enters into our lives, spreading his ill will amongst us.”
Georgie had watched her father and Marcus, who spoke politely, quietly agreeing.
If she were being kind, she could understand why his railing on the dangers of evil might find an audience with Papa and her brother.
Their mother had died when Georgie was eight.
The house she grew up in, which had once been one of the most beautiful stately homes in all Cheshire, was a shadow of its former self, plagued by leaks and sinking walls.
The land around it, which had once been lush, seemed to struggle from year to year.
It had seemed like something had taken hold—but Georgie was certain the culprit had been despair rather than something one might attribute to some devilry brought on by brass buttons, savory roasted pork, or custard tarts.
What would a lifetime with this man be like?
She wanted to argue that surely a special license would have been considered vulgar by the peculiar arithmetic he’d used to assess sin.
But each time she’d considered speaking, she tempered herself.
She didn’t need to worry about this, surely.
She’d done the impossible…found her way to London, and into the Lyon’s Den.
And she’d found herself a husband. Certainly not a man to quicken her heart, but someone who would offer his name, and not subject her to a life of dreary stagnation.
It might be a loveless marriage, but it would not be this.
He just needed to come.
Quite unbidden, she thought of Tom…the firm line of his jaw, and when he allowed himself, the warm playfulness that danced in his eyes when he smiled. Over the course of the games he’d betrayed himself. The angry boy who’d written that letter was gone. So was his heart that she’d once claimed.
The baron left promptly at eight o’clock, declining any offers of brandy. His strict schedule would not allow it, he said, except in conjugal matters. He pressed the most chaste of kisses on the back of Georgie’s hand, then left. She was grateful for the gloves she was wearing.
By the time Lord Sharpe departed, Georgie was at her wit’s end.
Father had disappeared into his study, leaving her alone with Marcus in the drawing room.
The evening was gray, bringing darkness much earlier than it might have come, a chill breeze moving through the trees.
A fierce pounding at her temples vied with a gnawing ache in her belly.
If she didn’t hear from Mr. Osbourne by tomorrow morning, she would steal away to the baroness’s home, certain the lady would shield her until Mr. Osbourne appeared or she could make her escape. If Gabriel could run, so could she.
“You look absolutely blue-deviled,” Marcus said, somehow managing be concerned and callous all at once. “Do you need some headache powder?”
She gave her head a quick shake. What she needed was for Lord Sharpe to disappear from her life.
“I think I just need rest,” she said. “It has been an exhausting evening.”
“I know you’re upset about this marriage business, Georgie.
But think of it this way,” Marcus said, sounding practically cheerful, “Lord Sharpe is ancient. It’s possible he’ll be dead in the next few years and you’ll be a free woman.
It might be worth the odd peck on the back of your hand for that, don’t you think? ”
“Don’t remind me,” she snapped back. “And knowing my luck he’ll live at least another ten.”
“You’ll be saving Whetherby,” he said. “Surely that will be worth any short-term pain.”
“How is my marriage to him saving your estate?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be searching for an heiress, Marcus? After all, it’s yours to inherit.”
A shadow passed over his face.
“Don’t you think I’m trying?” he said, swirling the glass of port in his hand. “You’re lucky to have this marriage business sewn up, Georgie. I would happily bed a dowager as old as Lord Sharpe if it would bring a fortune with it.”
Georgie rubbed her temples, the circular motion providing a temporary relief.
Marcus did not have the same favor of looks their father and Gabriel had.
There was a perpetual gauntness to him, perhaps owing to his disdain for the out of doors.
More unfortunate, however, was his rather pessimistic nature.
There was a pettiness to Marcus that seemed to make him unable to feel joy for anyone unless he was the beneficiary of it.
If her marriage to Lord Sharpe would somehow benefit Marcus, no wonder that he was so cavalier about it.
No wonder he’d interfered in her relationship with Tom.
Before she could press him on the subject, Norton appeared at the door, a silver tray in his hand.
“My lord,” he said, crossing the drawing room and presenting Marcus with the tray. “This just arrived.”
Marcus picked up the envelope, his brow rising in surprise before he broke the seal and pulled out a card.
Georgie swallowed, terrified that somehow Mr. Osbourne’s reply might have come directly to one of the two people in this house who would have not only put a stop to their marriage, but quite possibly called him out as well.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to sound as if the very last thing she was worried about was having her brother discover her plans to elope to Scotland.
“An invitation to a ball.” He held up the card as if he were genuinely shocked to receive it, before that familiar Hawthorne pride got the better of him. “It’s about time someone in town acknowledged us.”
“I thought your social calendar was already full,” she said, ready to collapse in relief that her fears about being discovered were unfounded. “Father said as much when I arrived.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “You know how he can be—always putting on a brave front. Aside from his club, we haven’t had time to receive any invitations yet.”
Georgie rose, curiosity overcoming her headache, and picked up the invitation. Her heart flipped in her chest when she read the name.
Worthington. Tom’s engagement ball.
“This is a surprise,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Perhaps the baroness has made your arrival known amongst her circles.”
“Perhaps,” Marcus agreed, then cocked his head to one side. “Do you remember the steward’s son? Of course, you do—I saved you from ruining your life running away with him.”
He had no idea how much he’d ruined. But Georgie held her tongue.
“I learned at the club he’s going to be a viscount,” Marcus continued, using the same gravitas one might use to learn that a particular cut of jacket was to be the latest fashion. “And getting married. Imagine that.”
“Imagine,” she parroted, lost in her own thoughts. Why on earth would the Worthingtons send an invitation to her family for such an occasion? They would not have known her family had arrived, and Tom would not have been so cruel as to force her to endure such an occasion celebrating his engagement.
She flipped on the card, where a single line was written.
Plan for an eventful evening. – T
Georgie frowned, staring down at the note, written in a different hand. And there was a little line under the first word.
Plan.
Did Tom have a plan? She stilled, the thrumming at her temples gone, replaced by one in her heart. Lily must have gone to him, instead of Mr. Osbourne.
Why did Tom involve himself in her problems? She could scarcely dare to dwell on it. But maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t forgotten about her.
She glanced back at Marcus, who seemed more intrigued by his glass of port than the invitation. She had to convince him to attend…and to bring her along.
She slid the invitation back in its envelope.
“Are you going to reply?” she asked. “It would be an excellent opportunity to meet a prospective bride.” She swallowed, trying not to appear too eager.
“I really should,” he said. “I know Father doesn’t take much stock in these society affairs anymore, but your marriage alone will not save us.”
His last statement caught her attention. Georgie dropped the envelope in her lap and looked up at Marcus.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, then lowered her voice, lest Norton or another of the servants be close at hand. “Father alluded to it as well. How will my marriage save Whetherby? Does Lord Sharpe have a hold on father somehow? Blackmail perhaps?”
“Not precisely,” Marcus said, pulling himself to his feet and walking to a sideboard, helping himself to another glass of port.
“What do you mean, not precisely?”
Marcus turned on his heel to face Georgie. “Lord Sharpe is somehow tied to Whetherby’s fortune…or lack thereof. He says he can help remove the curse that has plagued the estate since Grandfather’s time.”
Georgie was certain her mouth fell open.
“Curse?” she said, all but shouting the word, her disbelief overriding her manners. “Marcus, are you telling me father is marrying me off to that—that ogre—over a fairy story?”
She fell back in her chair and put her head in her hands. Her father truly had gone mad.
“I don’t know that it is,” Marcus hissed in irritation. “The place has been plagued by one disaster after another for decades. How would you explain it?”
Georgie looked up at Marcus, tempted to get the entire bottle of port and swallow it.
“Bad luck?” she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Bad management? Whatever it is, it’s nothing that can be fixed by me marrying a lecherous old man!”
“He’s hardly lecherous, Georgiana,” Marcus chuckled, apparently amused by that cold hard kiss the baron had given her. “Give the man an heir and you’ll never have to touch him again.”
A shudder skittered down her back at the very idea, replaced by a hardened resolve. Father had truly gone mad, and she was not about to pay the price of that madness. She needed to get to that ball. And somehow, she knew, Tom was going to help her. She leaned forward and pasted a smile on her face.
“Will you reply to the Worthingtons and tell them we shall attend? It’s been ages since either of us have been in society, and it will be ages before I can again.
This is a chance for you to be seen,” she entreated, appealing if not to his sympathy for her, then to his own need to find an heiress.
“If Baroness D’Anville is there, you can be sure she will find you a suitable bride before the night is over. ”
He pursed his lips as if deep in thought. The silence stretched, the only answer a nearby clock ticking, methodically counting the seconds until his answer.
“I suppose it cannot hurt,” he said at last. “Call Norton.”
Later that night, Georgie crawled under the covers, listening to the wind outside her window, her mind racing.
Was Mr. Osbourne going to whisk her away to Scotland from there?
She would have to find a way to sneak a small valise with her.
She should take her jewels, at the very least. She could sell those if her father tried to make her life difficult.
Normally, the prospect of going to a ball meant the excitement of choosing a gown, pairing it with the perfect necklace and ribbon, and practicing dance steps in anticipation of the evening ahead. There would be all of those things, but none of them mattered. Not this time.
She would go, watch Tom announce his betrothal, and allow the man she’d loved more than anything in the world to be claimed by another woman.