ChapterNineteen
Every hour took her farther from Andrew.Georgiana put her lap desk away hours before the carriage stopped, and she was left with nothing to do but count the miles between them.
Even people lucky enough to be able to read while moving, and Georgiana was one of the lucky ones, find detailed work and concentration difficult in a jolting carriage.With no partner to challenge her ideas, no colleague to share her enthusiasm, work became impossible.Richard rode outside for the last stretch of road, leaving Georgiana alone with darkening thoughts and intrusive, sensual memories.
She rejoiced to see the Crown and Goose in Bridgewater come into view and hours of dirt, awkward conversation, and muddy ruts come to an end.The muddy roads were frightful even in Richard’s exquisitely appointed carriage.She sighed in gratitude that she had only one more day of travel to endure and that Murnane House lay a mere one hundred miles from Helsington.
Her brother’s staff worked their usual magic.Clean sheets, hot water, and hot tea greeted her.Perhaps she might squeeze in an hour of work.
“Tea is in your sitting room.Dinner will be served in a private parlor in one hour.”Richard pronounced.So much for time to myself.
“I won’t be much company, Richard.Perhaps I’ll take a tray in my room.”Conversation between them lagged very early in the day.Richard showed no interest in her work and was impossibly closed-mouthed about his own life and his work for the government.Discussion about their family had been perfunctory at best.
“Nonsense.We’ll dine together.”He neatly ordered her evening, just as he ordered her life.
One hour later, Georgiana entered the private parlor to find a dinner suitable for the Duke of Sudbury’s offspring, proper table service (unpacked no doubt from her brother’s baggage train), and Richard, looking every inch the Marquess of Glenaire, holding a chair for her.
Georgiana resented his high-handed arrangements in spite of the comfort they brought.She stared at the first course and cast about for something to say that didn’t sound petulant.Neither “How are the machinations at Whitehall these days?”nor “Has our lady mother expired of her own venom yet?”seemed appropriate.She chose silence.
Richard directed servants while he maintained what he considered the expected dinner conversation.She heard drivel about the weather, the road conditions, and current fashion.He went on longer than necessary about the likelihood that their sister Eloise would attend Chadbourn’s wedding.Monosyllabic answers didn’t deter him.His words became one long drone.
“Mm.Quite.”She responded to one dry statement.She wasn’t sure she heard him properly and didn’t care.
“Georgiana!You haven’t attended me this entire evening.I just told you Great Aunt Maud eloped with an elderly footman to the Antipodes, and you responded ‘quite!’Are you well?”
“Well?Yes.Simply tired.”The pudding placed before her revolted her.It would go back uneaten.“I should leave you to your port.”
“I hardly think...”
She sat back down.Rebellion flared in her.
Fine.If he wants my company, I shall speak the thoughts that have haunted me all afternoon, and I will expect a real response.
“What caused the scars on Andrew’s face?”She heard his indrawn breath, but it didn’t stop her.She was out of patience, and there was no other opening for what weighed on her mind.He would have to endure it.
“That isn’t a proper question,” Glenaire spluttered.“It’s the man’s private business.”He tossed down his napkin.
His attack was a diversion.Georgiana’s next question would be harder to sidestep.She folded her own linen napkin deliberately and set it beside her uneaten pudding.
“He got them doing your bidding.”She opened with a statement not a question.“Did you know he was in danger when you sent him there?”
“Really, Georgiana, where is all this coming from?”Richard on the defense was a novel sight.
She refused to be intimidated when he resorted to his familiar glare.
“Did you, Richard?”She repeated.
“Yes.Death is always an option for a soldier,” he ground out.
“Capture also?”
“Capture also when one is behind lines.The French were not kind.”Richard looked as though he tasted something vile.
“They were brutal,” she growled.
“Yes.”
“Did you know that then at your desk at Whitehall?”She gave no quarter today.
