But Georgie set down her teacup abruptly. Oh, God. It hit her. It finally hit her right then. She knew why she’d married Pembroke. But try as she might, she hadn’t been able to think of why Pembroke had married her.
But now…it was obvious. And the reason blazed across her brain as one awful word.
Obligation.
He’d done it out of obligation. He was a gentleman. A gentleman who’d made a horrible mistake bringing her to his house yesterday, and the only honorable thing to do once her parents had found them together was…to offer for her.
And she, like the complete fool that she was, had accepted.
Oh, God. She couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt tight.
Yesterday, it had all made some sort of sense to her. But now…in the light of day, with plenty of sleep and no one yelling at her, she realized she never should have agreed to it. What she should have done was taken Pembroke up on his offer to sneak her back to the coaching station. She should have continued on her way to Bath.
A horrible sick feeling lurched in her belly. She’d told him yesterday that she didn’t want him to marry her in order to save her. And he’d replied that he couldn’t promise her that he would be a good husband. But he’d never said the one thing that truly mattered… He’d never said he wanted to marry her. He’d only promised to make the ton think he had. And she, fool that she was…hadn’t asked.
She could kick herself now. For her sheer, blind stupidity.
Of course Pembroke had married her out of obligation. He was simply paying for his mistake. And she might not be married to an old, feeble man. But neither was she married to a man who had chosen to marry her. Perhaps not out of love—she wasn’t foolish enough to expect that—but at least out of preference. Even Henderville had offered her that.
She clenched her jaw. “I’d like my own room,” she said, her voice firmer than she expected.
Pembroke froze, his brow furrowing faintly. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Of course.”
For just an instant—the briefest flicker—she thought she saw something in his eyes. Disappointment? No. It couldn’t be.
And then it was gone, hidden behind his usual unflappable composure.
He rose, folding his napkin with quiet precision. “I’ll see to it immediately,” he said.
And then he left her alone at the table, staring down at the delicate roses in the vase. Her heart beating double-time in her chest.
She hadn’t escaped trouble yesterday. She’d run directly to it. And no doubt in doing so, she’d made the biggest mistake of her life.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The faint rasp of steel on steel filled the air, sharp and rhythmic.
Jason lunged, the point of his foil striking the burlap sack dead center.
Thrust, recover. Thrust, parry, recover. En garde. Riposte. Again.
The fencing room was quiet, save for the scrape of his boots on the polished floor and the faint creak of the leather grip in his hand.
Sunlight filtered through high, narrow windows, catching motes of dust that swirled lazily in the air. The room smelled faintly of wax and wood.
Against the far wall hung an assortment of blades—foils, sabers, epees—gleaming in their racks. Two burlaps sacks made to resemble opponents stood in one corner, padded and scarred from years of practice, and the floor was lined with marks to measure proper distance for lunges and retreats.
He adjusted his grip and lunged again, driving the point of the foil into the straw-stuffed sack hanging from the ceiling.
Point. Recover. Riposte.
He should have felt better. Fencing always calmed him. It was clean, precise. A contest of skill and focus.
But this morning, every move felt heavy. Every thrust felt off.
He dropped the foil to his side, raking a hand through his hair and glaring at the poor sack as though it were to blame.
Georgiana.
