Jason’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. “I assure you,” he continued, his tone smooth as silk, “that’s not a threat. It’s a promise.” He glanced around at the other men, who all had the sense to look away.
Weedham muttered something unintelligible and backed away, disappearing from the room.
Jason turned on his heel to leave?—
And stopped short.
Georgiana stood not ten paces away, half-hidden by a potted palm.
Her lips were parted, her eyes shining not with anger but with something he couldn’t quite name…soft, wet, and unguarded.
She’d heard. Every word.
And she was looking at him now as though she’d never seen him before.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The ballroom had become too warm.
Georgie could feel the heat prickling at the nape of her neck, see the way the candlelight in the chandeliers blurred ever so slightly as she stood frozen behind the palm, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.
Jason’s words echoed in her ears.
If I ever hear another word—from you or anyone else—disparaging my wife, I will see you at dawn on the field, pistols in hand. Do you understand me?
The way he’d said my wife, with such unflinching certainty, as though there were no shame in it, no pity, had twisted something inside her.
She didn’t even remember excusing herself to Bea and Poppy, only that she’d quickly decided to find Jason and ask him to dance with her. They could provide a united front.
She’d found him…in the card room. She’d been about to turn and go back to her friends, reluctant to bother him in a room full of his peers.
And that’s when she’d heard what he’d said. The words, spoken so evenly, yet with such fierce sincerity, they’d nearly stolen the breath from her lungs.
Their eyes met, and in that moment, it had been too much. All the emotions from the last two days came pouring through her. She’d turned quickly on her heel and hurried away.
Now, she found herself weaving through the crowd, drawn like a moth to the open balcony doors where the cool night air beckoned.
Of course she should have known he’d follow her. Just as he had those nights at the parties she’d escaped. She was leaning on the stone balustrade, her shoulders rigid, one hand gripping the edge of the railing, when the door behind her opened and he approached.
He came to stand beside her and she turned her head to look at him, sucking in two lungfuls of the cool night air.
She watched him for a few moments. The moonlight painted him in silver, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
He looked…tired.
Not just in body, but in soul.
Something tugged in her chest.
“It’s quite cold,” she said quietly, wrapping her arms about her shoulders.
He whipped off his coat and covered her with it. It smelled like him. Warm and masculine, with a hint of soap and something she couldn’t define.
“I thought you’d gone off with your friends,” he said, his voice low.
“I did,” she said simply. “But then I overheard you.”
His head bowed, just enough for his eyes to meet hers.
