It was easy enough to say she would storm Johns House and take back what belonged to her. But deciding whether she could make herself do it was something else entirely. She would be saving Tristan from a marriage he didn’t want, and she would be saving herself from scandal. At the same time, she would be sending a clear message to Tristan that she wanted to marry him. If he still bore any thoughts of revenge, he could easily take that moment to destroy her heart.
Stronger than her fear and uneasiness, though, she wanted to hear Tristan propose to her not because he felt obligated to do so, but because he wanted to.
As she returned to Hawthorne House, she made up her mind. The next evening would be the Everston soiree, and Amelia was sure to attend. She, on the other hand, would be making a detour to Miss Johns’s home, to retrieve her stockings and her letter.
The first thing to do in preparation, Georgiana decided, was to find the appropriate clothing. She rummaged through her wardrobe until she found an old muslin gown of dull brown and gray that she’d worn to the funeral of a friend’s distant relation. It still fit, though it was rather tight across the bosom. As Tristan had reminded her, she was curvier now than she’d been before.
Georgiana smiled at the memory, then caught sight of herself in her dressing mirror. That smile was the look of someone in love. How she’d come so far in a few short weeks she had no idea, but she couldn’t deny how she felt.
The true test, she supposed, would be when she presented Tristan with the stockings and the letter. She would either be proved a great fool, or he would propose to her again—and she would decide once and for all whether she could trust her heart to him, or not.
Mary appeared in the doorway, and she flung the old gown back into the wardrobe. “What is it?”
“Lord Westbrook is here to see you, my lady.”
Oh, no. She’d been so concerned with Tristan and her stockings that she hadn’t even taken the time to think about Westbrook’s proposal. “Blast. I’ll be right down.”
When she reached the sitting room, she paused in the open doorway. Westbrook sat at one end of the couch, a bouquet of roses in his hands and his gaze on the fire crackling in the fireplace. That could be her future: calm, serene, and peaceful. They would keep separate bedchambers, of course, and give just the right number of dinner parties each Season for just the right people. In the evenings he would do paperwork and she would embroider, and he would tell her nothing of his day which might upset her delicate sensibilities.
Georgiana shuddered. She wanted passionate nights, and laughter, and having discussions about prices and politics and nonsense just because she found them interesting. If that came with anger and arguments, so much the better.
She watched him for another moment, but he didn’t even fidget. Tristan couldn’t keep from pacing while he waited for her. Georgiana cleared her throat.
“Georgiana,” he said, rising as she entered. “You look well.”
“Thank you. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
“No need.”
“May I offer you some tea?”
“Thank you, no. I…wonder, have you considered my offer?”
“I have. John, I’m not quite sure how to say this.”
A slight frown crossed his face, then cleared again as he lowered the bouquet. “You’re refusing me.”
“You are a wonderful, thoughtful man, and any lady would be lucky to have you as a husband. I—”
“Please, Georgiana. You’ve made a decision; please do me the courtesy of not explaining why one or the other of us is deficient. Just leave it as a refusal, and I’ll be on my way. Good day, my lady.”
Still looking nothing but calm, he stepped past her, collected his hat, and left. Georgiana sat on the couch. That had been so easy that it actually left her feeling better. He’d been a perfect gentleman, bloodless and correct. He couldn’t have been remotely in love with her, much less madly so.
And so she was back where she started: hungering for a man with an old but tarnished title, a black reputation, no money, and a delight in chaos and mischief. Only this time, perhaps he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
That evening she played whist with her aunt and composed a letter to her mother that mentioned nothing of Tristan or multiple marriage proposals or anything but the latest fashions of the Season. With three other daughters to marry off, one beginning next Season, her mother had several times mentioned that fashion was the most essential information Georgiana could provide her. Thankfully Lady Harkley seemed convinced, as most of the ton was, that her second daughter would never wed, and she’d stopped pestering Georgie about it.
“Are you all right, dear?” Frederica asked.
Georgiana shook herself. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”
“You’ve barely won a hand all evening, and we both know you’re a more calculating player than I am. Your mind seems to be elsewhere.”
“I’m trying to lure you into a trap,” she answered, making a renewed effort to concentrate on the game.
“Georgiana,” her aunt continued, placing a hand over hers and stopping her shuffle, “you are a daughter to me. You know that. Tell me anything you wish, and I will do what I can to help.”
“You are a mother to me,” Georgiana replied, her voice breaking. “But I have found that there are some things I need to take care of on my own.”
