“You’ll marry a nice young man,” he said gently, hating those words. But anything was better than immuring herself in the country, away from her family. “And you’ll be very happy.”
“I don’t want to marry anyone except you. I love you.”
He had to stop her, anyway he could. “Don’t be a child,” he said, knowing the words were cutting. ‘You’re too young to know what love is.”
“I am not! I love you and if I can’t marry you, I won’t marry anyone!” she shot back, and the tears in her blue eyes almost unmanned him.
“Then maybe the cottage in the country is a good idea after all,” he said, his tone sharp, and he half expected her to wince with the cruelty of the blow. He had no intention of letting her throw her life away, even if her father could be persuaded, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. She needed to give up her romantic illusions—he was a bad man, not love’s young dream.
But she pulled herself together with dignity, her eyes still bright with unshed tears. “I’m so glad you approve,” she said in an icy voice, and she turned and walked into her room, slamming the door behind her.
He wasn’t alone in the hallway, and he turned to see Martina looking at him with a reproving expression in her dark eyes. “You cocked that one up for sure,” she said. “Doesn’t the girl have enough trouble with that bitch of a sister?”
“She doesn’t need me making things worse,” he said bitterly. “The sooner I’m out of here, the sooner she’ll get over it.”
“Will she? I think you underestimate a woman’s heart.”
“She’s not a woman, she’s a girl!” he protested.
‘Where do you think women come from?” Martina asked archly. “You need to make up your mind.”
“I already have!” he snapped. “I need to get away from this madhouse and its inhabitants.”
Martina said nothing, but her expression was answer enough.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next day, Martina rushed into the darkened bedroom with a flurry of skirts. “What’s wrong with you, Miss Georgie? We’re leaving in half an hour and I haven’t had time to pack for you.”
“I’m not going,” Georgie croaked in a hoarse voice. “I’m sick.”
“Oh, no!” Martina began to draw the curtains, letting light into the room, and Georgie moaned loudly, turning her face into the pillow. “What’s wrong?”
“I have a putrid sore throat,” came the weak reply. “I can barely swallow, my head aches, and I feel feverish.”
“But we’re all leaving for the Hendersons’ country estate! You can’t stay behind!”
“I can’t go,” she said with a trace of firmness. “I’m too sick. We can’t afford to have Norah catch it.”
“It’s simple enough, then,” Martina said, drawing the curtains back again, plunging the room into darkness. “I’ll simply stay behind.”
“You don’t have to,” Georgie said pitifully. “I’m certain a few days in bed and I’ll feel right as rain.”
“Don’t be silly, of course I’ll stay behind,” Martina’s voice was firm.
“What’s Georgie doing?” Norah appeared in the doorway. “We’ll be late. Get out of bed!”
“Miss Georgie’s sick, Miss Norah,” Martina said calmly. “I’ll be needing to stay behind and look after her.”
“Noooo!” Norah shrieked. “I need you with me. No one else can do my hair half as well.”
“But Miss Georgie is?—”
“I don’t care what she is. She’ll be fine. Bertha can look after her.”
“Bertha can look after whom?” Liliane appeared in the doorway, and Georgie emitted a heartfelt moan of misery. “She’s gone off to visit her sister—I told her to since we weren’t going to be at home.”
“Well, then, those two slatternly girls can look after Georgie!” Norah snapped. “I’m not doing without my maid because Georgie’s been selfish enough to catch an ague.”
