Chapter Nineteen
Before his entrance into society, Tom had only been to a single affair one could properly call a ball.
It had been at Whetherby, a glittering affair held after the work of harvest had concluded.
He was but thirteen, and Gabriel had snuck him in to see the spectacle.
He watched the dancing, had eaten his fill of cakes and custard tarts, and even snuck a small glass of punch.
As he’d gotten older, he’d attended the more modest country dances in the village near his home.
But nothing he’d yet experienced could compare with the grandeur surrounding him now. And this was all done for him.
The house had been transformed by his stepmother’s wizardry and a small army of servants, all to mark Tom’s formal welcome into society as the Worthington heir.
The surroundings were stately—something he might never grow accustomed to after growing up in the modest steward’s cottage at Whetherby and many nights sleeping rough in Spain.
But with the beautiful candlelight, flowers, and artfully draped bunting, the St. James house had become somehow more intimate.
He should have allowed himself some time to appreciate the creation of this spectacle.
Instead, he’d spent most of the past day engaged in activities that reminded him of his days in Spain and Portugal, preparing for an upcoming battle.
Gabe, whom Tom addressed as “Major Hawthorne” or “sir,” would be hunched over a map with his fellow officers in a field tent, while Tom stood by, closely watching and waiting to be summoned to transmit and receive orders.
For the past day, he’d been the one standing in front of a map—one that existed only in his mind’s eye, negotiating for position, understanding the risks he was about to take.
And while he’d stared down the enemy more times than he’d cared to remember, the stakes had never felt higher than they had tonight.
“I believe you will have to give Benedict an increase in his salary,” his father said as the two stood in an alcove on the second floor, looking over the crush of people on the ballroom floor below. “I don’t know how he got you dressed with all the to-ing and fro-ing you’ve had him doing.”
“Indeed, I’ve already discussed it,” Tom replied, leaning in to make himself heard over the din of music and gossip. “He very nearly declined given my potential state of relative poverty I’m about to face.”
The warmth in the viscount’s face dimmed and he turned fully to face Tom, undisguised concern creasing his brow. The expression had been there almost since the moment Tom had come to his family with his plan.
“While I agree ‘poverty’ is probably too strong a word,” his father said, “are you certain you wish to forfeit the conditions of your grandfather’s will?
Those lands and fortune are substantial, and my cousin Charles, who has a penchant for winning and losing fortunes, will gamble that away before your twenty-seventh birthday. ”
“Miss Morehouse and I discussed it yesterday, and we are in agreement.” He’d spoken with Miss Morehouse even before Miss Duigood’s message.
After subjecting the woman to multiple questions related to the engagement, and the planning of a very public wedding, she’d confessed that the very public life of a peer was not the life she’d imagined for herself.
Her support had given him the confidence to move forward.
“What she desires is a way to live her life and find happiness on her own terms. Having to endure the very public duties of a viscountess, she realized, is not what she wants. I was aware of a gentleman who might better suit her temperament and needs.”
The enormity of that burden had become clear even as they’d strolled the garden at the Lyon’s Den after she’d been victorious in the treasure hunt.
Even before Miss Duigood had arrived in a panic at his door, Tom understood that the life Miss Morehouse wanted—and indeed was risking everything for—was not entirely what he could provide.
But what if he could help her find the security she needed, perhaps as a gentlewoman married to a man who would spend all of his time and energy between his stables and Tattersall’s?
A man of a gentle nature, consumed with a singular passion that excluded her?
A life that would provide what she needed most—the companionship of the woman she loved, away from the prying eyes of society?
“And you have managed this bit of matchmaking?”
“I have,” he said, forcing a smile, then taking a sip of wine to hide whatever anxiousness his features might betray.
With Miss Morehouse’s permission, he’d invited John Osbourne to discuss the plan at his club just this morning.
While the change initially surprised the gentleman, he found the situation suited him perfectly well.
With both Miss Morehouse and Mr. Osbourne in agreement, he had only to break the news to his grandmother that indeed, his cousin may well be the beneficiary of this plan. It was nearly complete.
But like all battle plans—including the fight for Georgie’s hand—his success relied on factors he could not control. It was in the end Georgie’s decision.
As if the very thought had summoned her, Tom’s gaze strayed across the ballroom to the entrance where a stunning figure in a pink gown commanded his attention.
Of course, her radiant smile and gentle curves always had…
even when they’d been separated by thousands of miles, he’d never been able to put her out his mind.
He just hoped by the end of tonight he could convince her that he’d never have to.
That he would do whatever it took to earn her trust. Her love.
Under that ever-present polite smile she wore, one he recognized as the practiced politeness of a gentlewoman trained to hide her emotions, was a heaviness he couldn’t miss.
No doubt her family’s plan to wed her to that unscrupulous Lord Sharpe was lurking behind that serene facade.
She was on the arm of her brother, Marcus Hawthorne, heir to the Ashcombe title, and the future master of Whetherby. Tom soured at the sight of him.
“Well, well,” his father said, barely able to contain the contempt in his voice as he spied Marcus. “The heir makes an appearance. I thought he never came to London.”
“He needs a bride,” Tom replied, watching Marcus as he swallowed down his distaste for the man with another sip of wine. “That Hawthorne pride would make it impossible for him to miss being seen at an event such as this.”
While Marcus was only a few years older than Tom, the permanent veneer of superiority and disdain he’d somehow perfected as a young boy had seemed to age him.
Despite his wealth and status, he’d always regarded others with suspicion, as if their presence alone was to deprive him of what he felt was rightfully his.
He was elegantly dressed, yet there was a hardness to him that made marble seem soft in comparison.
“Go see to your guests,” his father said, clasping his hand to Tom’s shoulder, regarding him with such encouragement Tom dared to believe that he might have a hope. “I see your Lady Georgiana has arrived.”
“She isn’t my Lady Georgiana—not yet.”
The viscount squeezed Tom’s shoulder and gave him a quick wink. “I have every confidence she will be.”
His father’s casual confidence was infectious, and Tom’s chest filled with affection for the elder Worthington.
He’d been lucky in more ways than he’d cared to count.
He’d loved the Blakeys with all his heart.
He still did. They had raised him as their own, instilling him with a sense of pride for the work they did, even when Lord Ashcombe did little to return it.
And now he had a second family who seemed invested in his happiness.
A happiness he wanted to share with Georgie.
And if he had to give up a larger fortune to do it, so be it.
With her by his side, he couldn’t imagine anything more he could ever need.
He headed down the grand staircase, stopping only to leave his half-empty wine glass on a nearby servant’s tray.
As he landed on the main floor, he was assailed on every side by guests who took every opportunity to assess everything from the cut of his jacket to his potential as marriage material.
But there was only one woman he wanted, and she’d disappeared amongst the crowd.
He spied Marcus directly, his light-blond hair, gaunt features, and a stare that would make Medusa herself blink, standing solitary amongst the crowd.
If he weren’t such an insufferable bastard, Tom might almost have taken pity on the man.
They locked gazes, and Tom, remembering his manners, approached him.
“Lord Hawthorne.”
At one time, Tom would have applied the appropriate tone of deference in his voice, or added “sir.” There was no deference in his voice this time. If Marcus noticed, he said nothing. Like Georgie, he was a Hawthorne. Unlike Georgie or even Gabriel, he reveled in that pride.
Marcus nodded in acknowledgment, putting a quizzing glass of all things to his eye, no doubt to somehow look down on Tom even though they were the same height.
“I had to look twice to see it was you. So you are Mr. Worthington now. That must have been a shock,” Marcus said, offering a mirthless smile. “Who knew we had a viscount playing at steward?”
“Certainly I did not. If so, I might have been more forceful in my retaliation for all your pranks,” Tom said.
Not that Marcus’s pranks were funny…many of them bordered on cruelty.
Gabriel was the primary object of them, but as his friend, Tom was often caught up in them, and if Marcus was in a particularly petulant mood, Tom bore the full brunt of his pettiness.
“And the Blakeys may have been a little less insistent on me completing my chores.”