ChapterThree
Idon’t care if it is the Duchess of Devonshire or Prinny’s latest flirt.I said I am not in!”the voice roared.“And stop pushing that posset in my face.It doesn’t help, and it tastes like hell.”
Georgiana felt heat rise in her face.She sat ramrod straight.Her rigid shoulders didn’t touch the back of the narrow wooden chair in Andrew Mallet’s front parlor.Her mood, dark and growing blacker, contended with the sunny little room; its whitewashed walls hung with seascapes, its windows with blue chintz.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, “Who would receive you, Georgiana, you great awkward oaf, you with your freakish starts?”She heard that voice often enough.Indeed, she heard it still whenever custom or her parents’ dictates forced her to endure her mother’s presence.
She heard the manservant—Harley, she remembered—muttering to himself while he descended the enclosed stairs.“I’m not your bloody go-between.”It was obvious that she didn’t need a go-between.She heard it all for herself.
Harley rounded the last step and looked her over with an impertinent glare.She thought she knew what he saw.At thirty-five, she was no longer young, and she believed she would never have been described as pretty.She hoped she at least projected dignity and culture.Her attempt to freeze him with a look failed.The man didn’t freeze.
“I inquired like you said.He ain’t in.”
He knew her story about a walk along the River Cam and coming upon Little Saint Mary’s Lane for the foolish tale that it was.He tried to warn her.“Mr.Mallet ain’t in,” he said, but she insisted he “inquire.”
She lifted her chin another notch and rose from her seat in the single graceful movement her mother so ruthlessly taught her.“I regret that Mr.Mallet is notat home.I will take my leave.”
An imperious gesture to Eunice produced a calling card.She extended her graceful, fawn-gloved fingers and offered it with the proper gesture.“In case he should wish to contact me,” she said.
Harley stared at the card with a grimace of distaste, but he took it with two fingers and tossed it onto a silver tray with the rest of the mail and correspondence.She distinctly heard him mutter, “No chance o’ that,” under his breath.
She needed to escape before this fiasco spun further out of control.She reached the doorway at the foot of the narrow stairs when movement caught the corner of her eye.She looked up at a dark shadow, the shape of a strong and imposing body leaning heavily on the door frame.The shadow did not speak.She imagined his eyes, cold and distant.
She swallowed the urge to leave quickly and raised her voice, pitching it so that it could be heard upstairs while she looked directly at Harley.“You have my card, Mr.Harley.Should he wish to reach me, you know my direction.”
Harley looked directly back.She watched the expression in the old rascal’s deeply wrinkled face change.Where there had been impudence, she saw calculation—and something else.Georgiana’s heart skipped a beat.The man’s expression registered compassion.
“He ain’t well.”Harley turned his shoulder, lowered his voice, and leaned toward the open door so the sound wouldn’t carry up the stairs.“Irascible he is when the pain is on him.”
Her posture relaxed, and she darted another glance up the stairs.A question formed on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of it.The door closed behind her.Just before it swung shut, she heard a gravelly old voice mumble, “Now what made you say that, you damned old fool?”
* * *
“It is getting worse notbetter.”Lady Georgiana’s voice faded away.Two days after her humiliation in Andrew Mallet’s parlor, she endured a worse one.
Dr.Wetherby disregarded everything she said.The foppish physician sent down from London by the Duke and Duchess could never quite conceal his distaste, no matter how much her father paid him.She considered voicing her outrage, but that would require more energy than she possessed.
“My dear Lady Georgiana,” Wetherby intoned, tenting his tiny fingers in front of his corpulent frame.“A delicate woman such as yourself must expect certain, um, complaints from time to time.”
Georgiana narrowly avoided an unladylike snort at his description of her as “delicate.”Whatever her weakness, no one but he would describe her as delicate.Her great height ensured that.
Wetherby continued without a break, absorbed in his own words.“When a lady hasn’t been blessed with offspring, one’s, that is to say, the womanly, ah, equipment, builds ill humors.If you would just let me bleed you again?”
She rolled her eyes in disgust.“I bleed almost to death as it is!”
“Yes, but in between, to prevent the buildup of?—”
“In between?”Her weak voice made it less than a shout.“I bleed for a week, as though to death, and I’m exhausted for another.I have only two productive weeks before it starts again.Do be serious!You can’t expect me to let you drain me in between.”
“Perhaps, if I might suggest, your efforts to be ‘productive’ are at the root of the problem.Such labors draw off humors needed elsewhere.If you could but accept a woman’s nature?—”
“Out.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Out.We’re finished.This is foolishness.It gives me no relief.”
The man stiffened.“Are you dismissing me?You cannot.His Grace–”
