“No,” her mother said, “Georgie should do it. He is her fiancé after all. At least that is what the guests at the Embassy Ball were saying.”
And all of a sudden everyone was trying to talk over each other, and Greyville looked as if he were being attacked by hornets, and Georgie couldn’t tolerate another minute.
“Stop!!!” she screamed.
And amazingly, they did. For at least enough time for her to speak.
“Father, may I introduce you to Peter Greyville, the Marquess of Coleford. Greyville, you already know my mother, Countess of Clevedon. My father, the Earl of Clevedon. Who haven’t yet noticed that you look as if you are frantic to escape this madhouse. So I will tell you right now that no, we are not engaged.”
“I asked,” Greyville offered with a rather winsome smile.
“And I said no,” Georgie said.
He turned to her, that mischief still in his eyes. “You did?”
She glared at him. “I am now.” Facing him fully, she dipped a quick curtsy. “Thank you for the honor you do me and all that,” she said, so frantic that her voice sounded thin and fractious. “But I do have another option. Thank you for the offer. My answer is no.”
“What option is that?” her aunt demanded.
Georgie didn’t stop walking. “The convent, if it comes to that.”
And before Aunt Berenice could wind up for a good scolding, Georgie strode from the room, the last thing she heard being Greyville’s voice.
“I didn’t know she was Catholic.”
And damn him, she wanted to laugh.
Well,Grey thought, standing in the middle of the room like the interloper he was. What do we do now?
Oddly enough, Lord Clevedon acted as if nothing had changed, smiling and clapping his hands. “Coleford, eh?” he all but sang. “Colonel Greyville of the Dragoons, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“Retired, sir.”
“Precipitously, I should think, once word of the title came down. Good, good. We need to have a chat, don’t we?”
Grey had no idea how to answer. Hadn’t Clevedon heard his daughter? Or did he bother to listen to her at all?
He knew the Packhams’ type—well-fed, well-shod aristocrats who bore the classic stamp of power and privilege. The Earl was white-haired, squared-off and solid, his tailoring perfect, his signet sleek, his voice the honeyed tones of an experiencedorator. He radiated bonhomie, but Grey strongly suspected one shouldn’t take that hail-fellow-well-met attitude at face value. This man had negotiated some very complex treaties and stood up to Prinny on more than one occasion.
Grey already knew his wife, so he bowed to her like the gentleman he was purported to be. She stood just outside her husband’s shadow, her attire this time different from her sister’s. She wore gold and scarlet, with diamonds and rubies in her elegant blonde hair, and a parure that had probably once graced a royal neck embellishing the rest. Of the group of them left behind in that overwrought room, he suspected she was the only one who comprehended the level of her daughter’s distress. The rest of them were still milling about the doorway, as if Lady Georgie had taken their direction along in her wake. He couldn’t help it. No matter what happened, he thought she was magnificent.
Her aunt was obviously not so enamored, nor with her own daughter’s behavior. Her voice rattled around Grey’s head like shrapnel as she pushed the remaining cousins out.
Grey was distracted by the departing winks the girls gave him and almost missed the Earl holding out a manicured hand. “Welcome to the family, son.”
Grey shook like a gentleman, but his attention was all on the void left by Lady Georgie’s departure. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, sir.”
Clevedon waved at the settees. “Nonsense. Sit, sit. We’ll discuss the situation. I see you’ve already got yourself a bit of courage. Think I’ll get a bit myself.”
And before Grey could answer, the older man was over at the drinks table.
“Girl has no sense,” the aunt snapped, setting the feathers in her toque wildly bobbing. Grey could hardly take his eyes off them. “She needs to admit the truth.”
“Berry,” Lady Clevedon said, her voice like silk.
Oddly enough that seemed to stop her sister in mid-flight. “Well, she does,” she insisted. “But obviously you don’t wish to hear from me on the subject.”
The Countess smiled. “We can have a coze later, yes? Why don’t we get the Marquess on his way. We can revisit all of this in the morning after I have a visit with Georgie.”
