He was going to let her go. That knowledge settled in his chest with quiet finality.
If she wanted to slip away tonight, he wasn’t going to stop her. In fact, a small, traitorous part of him was even rooting for her.
He grunted and shook his head, dragging a hand through his hair.
She was determined. And her family—well. If they were truly counting the profits of her misery the way she claimed, then perhaps she deserved her chance at freedom.
He ought never to have gotten involved. No good could come of this.
Jason let out another sigh and pushed off the wall, adjusting his cuffs as though that might somehow restore his composure.
And then he froze. Because one sentence of her parting words drifted back to him, clear and sharp in his mind. You’ve no idea the scandal that I’m capable of.
He swore under his breath, the corner of his mouth twisting wryly. That sounded ominous.
And yet here he stood, letting her rush away. What the hell was wrong with him?
He straightened his shoulders, took one last steadying breath, and started back toward the ballroom.
If he was going to let her go, the least he could do was afford her a bit of time before her parents—or Henderville—came sniffing after her.
And he knew just how to do it.
Jason slipped back into the ballroom, the warm swell of music and chatter washing over him. He caught sight of Georgiana’s mother, Lady Chadwick, almost immediately. She held her head high as she surveyed the room like a general inspecting her troops.
He crossed to her, every inch the composed, unbothered lord. “My lady,” he said smoothly, offering her a bow.
She glanced at him, blinking in faint surprise. “Lord Pembroke,” she returned in a cool voice, but her eyes were filled with heat as she gave him a once-over.
He straightened, holding her gaze. “Would you do me the honor,” he asked evenly, “of this dance?”
He knew two things about Lady Chadwick. She never refused a dance with a handsome young gentleman, and once she began talking, she was loath to stop.
And when she inclined her head, slipping her hand into his, he allowed himself one small, grim thought…
God help me. What am I doing?
Chapter Eleven
It had been a sennight since the Cranberrys’ ball, and Georgie still couldn’t decide whether she loathed Lord Pembroke or…something else entirely.
Not that she intended to dwell on it.
She had more important matters to attend to. Like planning her escape from her own wedding.
At present, she was seated in a beautifully appointed salon at the front of Bea’s father’s London town house, her gloved fingers fidgeting with the edge of her worn shawl.
The room was painfully elegant with high ceilings, ornate plasterwork, and two enormous windows draped in gold damask. Of course it was perfect. Bea’s father was not only a duke, but one of the highest-ranking members of Parliament, and apparently one of the perks of holding such lofty titles was living in a house so intimidating it made even Georgie’s family’s grand but drafty town house seem like a country inn.
Across from her, Bea sat perfectly straight in a carved chair that looked more like a throne than a piece of furniture, her cool sea-green eyes scanning some unseen list in her mind.
And beside Georgie on the settee, Poppy, with her fiery red hair and sweet, slightly anxious smile, sipped tea and cast a few nervous glances toward the door, as though it might open at any moment to reveal her mother.
It was comforting, in its way. Their little trio—the Wallflowers’ Revolt—had convened here twice already since the Cranberrys’ ball to finalize their plans.
Truthfully, the Cranberrys’ ball had been in Georgie’s thoughts all week. She’d successfully escaped the party. Then, she’d dutifully endured her mother’s resulting lecture.
But neither of those things were what kept rolling about in her mind far too often.
