The pale yellow was perfect on her. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes sparkled, and for the first time in her life, she no longer looked a poor relation. She looked like a young woman, and if she was still a far cry from Norah’s legendary beauty, she was quite acceptable. Almost...pretty.
She turned, examining herself from every angle, while Bertha scooped up the dresses and put them in the clothes press. “Now don’t be getting conceited,” Bertha warned her. “We’ve already got Miss Norah swanning around. Pretty is as pretty does.”
Georgie looked at her in surprise, then back at her reflection, and she gave herself a dazzling smile. “Where’s Rafferty?”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Bertha said.
“You know he’s responsible for these. I have to thank him.”
“You get such thoughts out of your head, missy. He’s the butler and you well know it.”
“Yes, he is,” she said dreamily. She turned to look at Bertha, whose mouth was set in a stern line. “He’s quite wonderful, isn’t he?” She sighed.
Bertha shook her head. “We need to find you a husband,” she said, her voice a dire warning. “That will get you over this foolishness.”
She didn’t want to get over this foolishness, she thought stubbornly, running a surreptitious hand down the soft muslin of her skirt. She didn’t want the only kind of husband she’d be likely to get. She wanted...
She wasn’t going to think about what she wanted. She didn’t dare. So she simply nodded demurely, trying to look biddable when she’d never been biddable in her life.
“Harrumph,” said Bertha.
Chapter Eight
It had been an absurd thing to do, Rafferty thought as he strode through the streets in Mayfair. It had been one thing to arrange for food and maids for the hapless Manning family. It had even been acceptably quixotic to have a pair of walking shoes made for the forgotten daughter.
But a new wardrobe for a young woman was asking for trouble in every sense of the word. It had been simple enough to arrange—once he found out who the Mannings used as a modiste, it had been child’s play. Madame Racette had been all graciousness once he paid her bill, and there were a number of dresses already on consignment that could be altered to fit the so-sweet Miss Georgiana Manning, for a price. One that he was more than willing to pay. He didn’t want to see Georgie in her outgrown schoolgirl outfits anymore, the hems too short, the necks too high. She might look like a child, but she was twenty years old, old enough to...
Well, old enough. He still wasn’t interested. He was too old for her, too experienced, too wicked for such an innocent. She was like a devoted little puppy dog, looking at him out of her big blue eyes in mute adoration that both unnerved him and...he wasn’t sure he wanted to name what else it made him feel. She was off-limits, not because she was his putative employer’s daughter, but because she was one of the few honestly decent people he’d ever met.
No, he was going to follow Sir Elston Manning’s orders and keep his hands strictly off the women of the household. It had been a close call last night, alone with her in the study, that threadbare nightgown and the single light outlining her curves. He’d been too noisy in his search, and he could have kicked himself. At least it had been Georgie coming to investigate and not her irate father. Still, the thought that she might have run into Billy Stiles put the fear of God into him. He’d laugh at a fire poker.
But Billy wasn’t going to bother him for the time being—he was happy with Rafferty doing the dirty work. As soon as he found the cache, Billy would be there, claiming the half that he didn’t deserve.
Rafferty wasn’t having much luck, and he needed more time to search, but the Mannings were demanding and their lives were in chaos. He shouldn’t care, but he was having fun looking after her, and he had more money than he knew what to do with. Might as well spread it around for the undeserving upper class.
The kitchen was deserted when he reached the house on Corinth Place, though Betsey was industriously chopping vegetables at the table. She scowled up at Rafferty. “How long do we have to stay here?”
“Don’t feel much like honest labor, do you?” he countered, closing the door behind him.
“Janey doesn’t mind. As for me, it’s a lot less trouble earning my living on my back. That way the men do all the work.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If you lie there like a slug, I doubt you’d get many customers.”
“I’m young, and I have all my teeth,” Betsey said. “That’s worth something. I’d rather be on my knees taking care of someone than on my knees scrubbing floors.”
“Then it’s too bad you’re going to keep scrubbing floors for the foreseeable future.”
“Rafferty!” she whined. “Can’t you find someone else? Jane don’t mind, but I do.”
“Sorry, pet, but you two are the most presentable. Can you see someone like Dirty Rose in this household?”
That got a rusty chuckle from Betsey. “All right, but you owe me.”
“You’ll be well-compensated and you know it,” he said. “And keep your hands off the silver.”
“Speaking of which, the old lady says you was to polish it. Can’t really see you doing that, though.”
Rafferty took a moment to savor the thought of Lady Manning’s reaction to being termed an old lady, and then he shrugged. “I’ve done worse things in my life. I’ll survive this.”
