“Poppy’s expecting me,” she said at last, catching his eye in the glass. “She wants my advice about—oh, something or other. Draperies, I think? Or possibly a love letter she claims she found hidden in one of Lady Viva’s hats.”
Jason chuckled at that and rose to dress himself, fastening his waistcoat as he crossed to her side.
“Well,” he said, leaning in to press a kiss just below her ear, “you’re clearly indispensable.”
She smiled at his reflection.
He caught her chin lightly, turning her to face him, and kissed her once more before adding, “I’ll be in my study. Come and find me when you get home.”
His mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile as he added, “We can…continue our discussion from this morning.”
Her breath hitched faintly, but she arched a brow with a small, conspiratorial smile.
“I will,” she promised, her eyes glinting.
And as he watched her sweep toward the door, his heart did something it hadn’t done in years.
It felt full.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The moment Georgie stepped through the Montforts’ front door, she knew she’d made a tactical error in wearing anything white.
Chaos reigned.
An excitable spaniel puppy shot between her ankles, barking as though defending a fortress. A footman staggered by balancing a teetering tower of hat boxes. And from somewhere upstairs came the distinct, off-key strains of a harpsichord being played at more of a gallop than a stroll.
“Oh, you came!” Poppy appeared at the top of the stairs, her red hair slightly askew, her bright-blue gown charmingly wrinkled, and her expression a mix of harried and hopeful.
Georgie smiled faintly despite herself. “I said I would.”
When Poppy reached the bottom, she blew a curl out of her eyes and gestured wildly. “Mother is holding a luncheon. For herself. On a Thursday. No one does luncheons on Thursdays. No one.”
Indeed, Georgie could hear a raucous chorus of laughter from the back of the house, punctuated by the sound of shattering porcelain.
“What can I do?” Georgiana asked gently.
Poppy clutched her arm like a drowning woman seizing a plank of wood. “Help me decide if it’s more urgent to remove the punch bowl before she bathes in it, or to hide the harpist before she decides to dance atop him. Either way, I cannot do both at once.”
Georgie chuckled softly and spent the next hour alternately soothing servants, retying sashes on drunken guests, and somehow convincing Lady Viva not to perform an interpretive dance on the dining table.
By the time she managed to extract herself, she was smiling, genuinely smiling, as she squeezed Poppy’s hand and promised to come again soon.
“Bring your husband next time!” Poppy called after her as she descended the front steps.
But the moment Georgie settled back into the carriage, her smile faded.
Because she wasn’t alone.
A figure sat in the far corner of the seat, shrouded in the shadows despite the wan winter sunlight.
“Good afternoon…Lady Pembroke,” came the low, rasping voice.
Her head jerked up, her blood turning cold.
Lord Henderville.
The marquess himself.
