“Mine, of course. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have touched me,” she said earnestly.
“Ha!” Martina scoffed. “That’s not what he said. And he knew what he was doing—he never should have come near you!”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, you have to. You need to know what to do when you go to your marriage bed, we need to plan what to do if the stupid man didn’t take careful enough precautions, we need to...oh, God, don’t cry.”
“I’m not,” Georgie said, blinking back tears. “It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. And I’m never getting married so it shouldn’t matter....”
“You should get married right away, in case there are any unexpected consequences. What about Mr. Salton?”
“He’s in love with Norah.”
“Fool,” said Martina loyally. “Is there anyone else who might do?”
Georgie shook her head. “I’m never getting married,” she said again.
“You are if you’re pregnant,” Martina said firmly.
“Then I’ll marry Rafferty.”
“He’s not the marrying kind. Don’t worry—he’ll find someone for you,” she said.
“I don’t want anyone but Rafferty.”
“Child,” Martina said in a kind voice, “he doesn’t want you.”
“Child, he doesn’t want you.” The words ran round and round in Georgie’s brain. It was a death knell to her hopes and dreams, and she felt crushed, shattered, wounded to the heart. She needed time to think, time to come to terms with Martina’s brutal words. They were kindly meant—a necessary warning, and they had the unmistakable ring of truth. He didn’t want her, and the sooner she accepted that dreadful truth and how to leave him alone, the better.
What was wrong with her? This was no surprise—Rafferty had done nothing but try to avoid her since he entered the household, denying her adolescent passion and treating her like a younger sister. Or mostly—that had been no brotherly night in his bed. But if he didn’t want her, why had he touched her, taken her? Was she just so desperate that he’d taken pity on her and deflowered her as an act of charity? She could feel the warmth stain her cheeks as she considered it, and she threw herself down on her bed, burying her face in the pillows.
She didn’t cry. It was past the time for tears. The situation was disastrous, and she couldn’t bear to think about him and his certain reluctance to touch her. Maybe men simply couldn’t resist a female in deshabille, one who was throwing herself at his feet. Maybe she disgusted him, and that’s why he threatened to leave. Maybe he’d never wanted her at all.
She rolled over on her back, flinging her arms outward. She couldn’t bear it, if it were true. She could simply hide from him, let him leave without ever seeing him again. Part of her wanted to—her shame was absolute. But she wasn’t someone who hid from disaster. If she didn’t find out the truth she would...she would...
She climbed off the bed, landing on the floor in her beautiful shoes. Why had he given her the shoes? The dresses? Norah would tell her that he pitied her, and it seemed the dismal truth. She took off the shoes and left them neatly by the bed. If she was going to have this out with him, then she didn’t want to feel beholden to him from her head to her toes.
It was late morning, and her mother and Norah had left for their morning visits. She was allowed to stay home, being not quite out, and it was one other injustice. Some nights she was to stay at behind and be demure, at others she could go out and even dance. Dance with Andrew Salton, the devious bastard. No, he wasn’t that, he was simply in love with the wrong person, as she was. Though from the look on Norah’s face, this particular passion was requited.
She moved silently down the stairs. How she would get Rafferty alone long enough to ask him the all-important question was a conundrum, but she would manage it somehow, if she had to ask him in front of Bertha, who would likely kill him.
Of course, there was no sign of him, and Bertha was in the midst of baking bread with no time for her foolish questions. Georgie moved through the rooms—her father’s abandoned study where she’d found him at midnight that first night, through the salons and the dining room where he would stand stiff as a poker while her family discussed him. He probably hated her for causing him so much trouble.
She heard the clink of glassware, and the sound of someone moving behind the dining room wall, and she walked into the hallway on silent feet. Rafferty was in the butler’s pantry, a narrow closet with cupboards on three sides and sideboards to rest the food. He was standing in the back of the long room, polishing their wineglasses, but he looked up when she filled the doorway.
He had no way of escaping, or he probably would have run her over in an effort to get away from her, she thought miserably. His face was grave, impassive as he looked at her, and he set the glass down, tossing the rag beside it.
“Did you want me for something, Miss Georgiana?”
“Do you?”
He momentarily looked confused, and she heard a sound overhead, her brother and Martina in a laughing conversation in the upstairs hallway. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
“I’m working,” he said reprovingly, and she knew the truth, but she had to ask him anyway.
“You don’t care a fig for me, do you?”
He didn’t blink. “You’re my mistress and my patron. I’m very grateful for the chance you gave me.”
