The front door burst open. A heartbeat later the Duke of Wycliffe strode into the breakfast room, Pascoe on his heels and catching gloves, coat, and hat as her cousin flung them off.
“What in damnation is going on?” he demanded. “And where the hell is Dare?”
“Good morning, Greydon. Have some breakfast.”
He jabbed his finger in Georgiana’s face, angrier than she’d seen him since he’d rescued Emma from utter ruin. “He will marry you. If he doesn’t, I’ll kill him.”
“What if I don’t want to marry him?” she asked, thankful that her voice was steady. No one was going to dictate her future for her.
“You should have thought of that before you joined an…orgy in Amelia Johns’s bedchamber!”
She stood, shoving her chair backward and feeling red heat flood her face. “It was no such thing!”
“That is what everyone is saying. Good God, Georgie!”
“Oh, shut up!” she growled, stomping out of the room.
“Geor—”
“Greydon,” his mother’s stern voice came. “Stop bellowing.”
“I am not bellowing!”
Georgiana kept walking, hearing the argument continuing behind her, until she reached the morning room. She slammed the door closed and leaned back against it. Everything had been so clear last night. Hearing Amelia and Luxley had been…arousing, but even more so had been the sense they might be caught any moment, and the headiness of being trapped there with Tristan pressed up against her. She had literally been unable to keep her hands off him.
She always felt that way around Tristan. Even when she was angry with him, she needed to be touching him, if only by slapping her fan across his knuckles. She wanted to touch him badly at the moment. She wanted to feel the way she’d felt last night, when he’d held her and told her that he loved her. Where was he? He had to know the rumors were flying everywhere.
Someone knocked at the door, and she jumped. “Go away, Greydon,” she snapped.
“Truce,” he said, turning the handle and pushing.
She pushed back. “Why?”
He was much bigger and stronger than she was, but he only nudged at the door again. “Georgie, we’re family. I may want to wring your damned neck, but I’ll refrain from doing so.”
“Georgiana,” her aunt’s voice came, equally close, “we must present a united front.”
“Oh, very well.” She allowed them to enter. They were right; her disgrace would affect them, as well, though their titles and power would protect them from most of it. She had no such protection. If Tristan didn’t come…She paced by the window, clasping her hands together.
“What’s our story going to be?” Grey asked, watching her stalk back and forth.
“Obviously, it has to be that whatever those idiot Johnses and their servants think they saw, Georgiana was home with a cold. It was dark, and late, and they were distressed at seeing their daughter’s…indiscretion. Understandable, but for heaven’s sake, they should know better than to accuse anyone of good family of anything so atrocious.”
Georgiana stopped pacing. “No.”
Frederica looked over at her. “You don’t have much choice, dear.”
“Aunt Frederica, I will not use someone else’s error to improve my own situation. Not even if the someone is Amelia Johns.”
“Then you are ruined,” Frederica returned in a calm voice. “Do you understand that?”
A cold shiver of dread ran through her. “Yes, I do. I will accept that.”
“Just a damned minute,” Grey growled, standing. “You mean to say you actually did what they say you did?”
“Not the orgy part, no,” she retorted.
“I’ll kill him.”
