And the look on Georgie’s pretty face before she left—stricken, shuttered, and…almost wounded—had not left his mind since.
Had she thought it was a rebuke? That he didn’t want her to know anything about his family?
He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed.
It was precisely why he’d never introduced her to his mother.
He’d spared Georgie that meeting intentionally.
Not because he was ashamed of Georgie—how could he be?—but because he wouldn’t subject her to his mother’s poison.
The dowager may have been his only living relative, but she was a snake, and he knew better than anyone how sharp her tongue could be.
Georgie already had enough wretched relations to contend with. She didn’t need his added to the list.
Still, the silence between them now gnawed at him.
He glanced at the mantel clock…well past four.
The deepening light of afternoon stretched thin over the square. And still no sign of her.
A small muscle worked in his jaw as he turned back to the window.
Bond Street wasn’t so very far, and shopping with two chaperones—well, of sorts—should have been entirely safe.
But something twisted in his chest regardless.
A faint, restless prickle at the base of his spine.
Something was wrong.
He couldn’t have said how he knew…only that he did.
And as the clock chimed another lonely quarter hour, he found himself already reaching for his coat.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The coach wheels clattered over the cobblestones as Georgie leaned back against the velvet squabs, her gloved hands folded in her lap.
The sun had long since begun its descent, painting the sky in hues of pale gold and violet.
She was late.
Unquestionably late.
But she couldn’t bring herself to feel truly guilty about it.
For the first time in…years, if she was honest…she’d had a truly fun day with her female friends.
A proper day.
A day that had not been about duty or expectation or obligation, but laughter, ribbons, gossip, and two loyal friends who didn’t seem to care a whit about her family name.
Bea sat opposite her, as poised and sharp as ever in a pink pelisse trimmed with gray fur, idly tapping her gloved fingers against her knee while she gazed out the window.
Poppy, seated beside Georgie, was already fussing with her reticule, a frown on her pretty, freckled face.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Bea was saying, her tone dry as dust. “Can you believe that Nicholas Archer had the nerve to send me flowers?”
