“But what shall I call him, then?”
“King?” Andrew suggested.
“Demon?” came from Bradshaw.
“Storm Cloud,” Georgiana contributed. “He is gray, after all.”
“Oh, yes. And it sounds like an Indian name, from the Colonies. I like Storm Cloud.”
“You would,” Dare said, under his breath.
Georgiana’s spirits improving, she leaned down to tuck Milly’s blanket back into place. “Are you comfortable?”
“More than any of you.” Milly chuckled. “Heavens, I may just take a nap.”
“No, I insist that you enjoy yourself out here,” Tristan said, leaning forward to kiss his aunt on the cheek. “The sunlight and fresh air will do you good. Sleep is for laggards.”
Georgie studied the viscount’s profile for a long moment. He did that without thinking, kissing and teasing with his old aunts. She hadn’t expected such easy affection from him, hadn’t thought he was ever anything but arrogant and cynical and self-absorbed. It didn’t make sense. If he had feelings and compassion, he would never have used her as shamefully as he had. The idea that he’d changed, though, was even more absurd than believing he had a heart to begin with.
They must have made quite a sight as they reached Hyde Park: three exceedingly handsome single gentlemen in the company of two younger lads, one of them on pony back, two elderly ladies, and one female companion. All that lacked was a dog that jumped through hoops and an elephant, and they would have been a circus.
“Georgie, do you have a horse?” Edward asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“What’s his name?”
“Her name,” she corrected, feeling the more females in this group, the better, “is—”
“Sheba. A grand black Arabian,” Dare finished.
“Oh, smashing. Is she in London?”
Georgiana folded her arms and looked at Dare. “Ask your brother. He seems to be carrying on my part of the conversation quite well.”
The viscount turned the chair up the path alongside Rotten Row. “Yes, Sheba is in town. She stables at Brakenridge House with the Duke of Wycliffe’s beasts—though as long as you’re staying here, you might as well move her in, too.”
“Yes,” Edward said enthusiastically, bouncing up and down in the saddle. “You can go riding, and I’ll be your escort.”
“And who will be your escort, stripling?”
“I don’t need an escort. I’m a bruising rider.”
Tristan’s eyes danced. “Your bottom’s going to be bruised if you keep bouncing around like that.”
“Here,” Bradshaw offered, stepping in, “let me shorten those stirrups. And anytime you wish to go riding, Georgiana, Edward and I will be happy to escort you.”
She caught Tristan’s scowl, quickly blanketed. “Yes, that would be lovely,” he grumbled, “man, woman, and child, all riding together cozy as bedbugs. That won’t start any rumors, I’m sure.”
“Oh, just tow me along behind the horses,” Milly said, chortling. “I’ll lend some respectability.”
Georgiana couldn’t help laughing at the image. “I appreciate your willingness to sacrifice yourself for propriety, Milly, but I am here to help you—not to put your life in danger.”
Despite the general laughter, Georgiana was surprised at Dare’s thought for her reputation. More likely, though, he simply didn’t want his family entangled with her any more than was absolutely necessary. Well, she wasn’t after his family; she liked them. Her entangling was aimed straight at him.
On the walk back from Hyde Park, Tristan watched Georgiana link arms with Aunt Edwina, chatting and laughing and smiling with his family. Over the past few years she always seemed determined not to be amused, at least in his presence. Today she radiated warmth and good humor.
He couldn’t figure it out. Last night, a waltz. And today, when he’d thought to trap her into revealing something of her true purpose, his entire ramshackle family had invited themselves along and spoiled his plans.
