‘There were roses and orchids in the hothouse on the roof.’
‘Where they can stay,’ Georgiana finished. ‘Since you like them, I left them for you to enjoy, now that you are finally to be rid of me.’
Had the delay seriously been about something so trivial as the choice of flowers? She was lovely just as she was, the very picture of the bride he’d have wanted, had he wanted to marry at all. He failed to see what difference it made what she wore. He had promised to marry her and would have done so had she arrived wrapped in a grain sack.
Or in a sheer dress that barely covered her charms. Why, of all times, was he imagining how she had looked on the night he’d made the offer? The thoughts he’d been having before he’d learned her identity were not appropriate for a church.
Nor were they appropriate if he planned to leave his virgin bride untouched, as she had demanded. It should not matter, for he liked her no better than she did him. But he had never imagined that he would be denied the one clear advantage that one was supposed to gain by marrying. The whole thing was giving him a headache. Or perhaps it was the heavy scent of the Viscountess’s perfume, which was redolent of the flowers she had been forcing on her stepdaughter.
He turned to Georgiana, forcing a smile. ‘You look perfectly charming.’ If everything else was a lie, at least that was true. ‘If the guests will take their seats, let us get this over with.’
CHAPTER FIVE
As they stood before the altar, Georgiana sneaked a sideward glance at the man next to her, torn between amazement and frustration. It didn’t bode well for their future that he could not manage to make it through the ceremony without a drink. Perhaps he was every bit as bad as the rest of his family, who were known far and wide for their excesses in all things.
Nor did it encourage her when he had announced that they needed to ‘get it over with’ as if he was being forced to take medicine or do something equally unpleasant. He had followed that insult by taking a long look at his watch, to give her one last reminder of their late arrival.
If it had been up to her, they’d have been early and done by now. But, as usual, the preparations had devolved into an argument with Marietta. Perhaps, just once, her stepmother had been right. Standing next to Frederick Challenger, George began to wonder if her choice of gown and flowers had been too plain. While she had chosen muslin and wild flowers, her future husband was resplendent in full military uniform.
She would not let her head be turned. All men looked dashing in a red coat and tasselled Hessians. It was easier to think that than to notice how handsome he was. Though the war had ended some three years ago, the return to civilian life had not made him soft. The body under his uniform seemed to be nothing but muscle and sinew, as ready to vault into the saddle and take up the sword as it had been at Waterloo.
But it had been his face that had drawn her attention when she had first seen him at a ball some weeks before. Even when his brow was furrowed in irritation with her, there was an intelligent light in his dark brown eyes that made her want to know him better. Though his smile today was false, it was still nice to look on. There were no lines about the mouth to indicate habitual frowning. His lips were neither too firm nor too soft. His light brown hair was recently cut and combed smooth. But she could see a faint wave in it, as if it had taken his valet some effort to gain control of the wildness. He was freshly shaved as well, cheeks smooth and clear. As they had moved together to stand before the bishop, she’d got a faint whiff of lime cologne.
He needn’t have bothered putting on airs for this sham of a wedding. He had looked just as good at Almack’s and even better at the club, where she had seen him without the benefit of coat, cravat, or a razor.
His pleasant appearance did not make up for the fact that he had been annoying in all those places. He had shown nothing but contempt for her since the first time they’d laid eyes on each other. He had laughed at her, mocked her in public, and scolded her when they were alone together at the club. Was it really worth a lifetime’s sacrifice to get away from Sir Nash? If not for the threat of him, George would not be marrying a man who disapproved of her every bit as much as Marietta did.
She glanced over her shoulder at her stepmother who was glaring at her from the first pew. No matter what happened from now on, that woman would have no more say in her life or future. She was still furious that George had managed the narrow escape from Sir Nash’s impending proposal. The accepted offer from Mr Challenger had resulted in the biggest row of her life. Marietta had alternated between shrieks of rage and fits of tears, demanding that George write a letter of refusal, immediately.
When that had failed, she had begun on Father, hanging on his arm and proclaiming that her cousin’s heart would be broken by the jilting of the faithless Georgiana. He must contact Mr Challenger immediately with the news that she was otherwise engaged.
Father had looked from one to the other of them and sighed. Then announced that George was marrying and leaving the house, just as Marietta had wanted. Since it appeared that she had finally found a man she was willing to accept, he had no intention of reopening the matter. Then he had locked himself in the study to avoid further discussion.
As for her own opinions on the marriage? After the initial offer, even Mr Challenger had not enquired on those. The morning after the embarrassing interlude at Vitium et Virtus, he had come to the house and spoken to Father, just as he’d promised.
When he had done with that, he’d stopped to speak to her, where she had been loitering in the corridor outside the study. He had promised to arrange for the licence and announcement and put an allowance at her disposal should she need it for wedding preparations. Then he had given her his direction so she might contact him once the rest of the plans had been finalised.
And that had been that. It had all been arranged through a series of notes passed between the two households. Beyond the stack of curt but polite replies written in a bold, masculine hand, she had not seen him in the flesh, in public or private, since that morning.
He had been conspicuously absent from the routs and dinners she had attended, denying her even the usual aggravation of his censure. She had been left alone to weather the flurry of congratulations for her impending marriage along with the curious questions that often accompanied them. When had they met? When had he offered? How had they managed to carry on a flirtation under the very noses of the Almack’s patronesses without anyone in London guessing the truth?
She had smiled brilliantly and lied through her teeth. It would serve Mr Challenger right if word got back to him of their romantic meetings in Vauxhall and unchaperoned moonlight rides. If he had wanted another version of their courtship, he should have been there to help her invent it.
She felt a sudden, sharp elbow in her side. Her soon-to-be husband had caught her wool-gathering at the altar. She turned back to the ceremony and saw the expectant look on the face of the bishop. She had missed something, she was sure. ‘Could you repeat the question?’ she asked, as sweetly as possible.
‘Will you, Georgiana Hortensia Knight, take this man…?’
Blast.
Of all the time to let her mind wander, it had to be during the vows.
‘I will,’ she said, relieved that this bit was over at least.
And now, it was Mr Challenger’s turn to answer. He stood beside her, back straight, shoulders squared as if Wellington himself would be delivering the sermon.
Suddenly, there was a snore from the Challenger family pew.
The bishop froze, mid-word, glancing past them at the Earl.
