She sat back and crossed her arms. “Of course I noticed. The whole table noticed you laughing at every joke.”
“Miss Fairfax likes to talk,” he replied. “I was being an engaged listener, like any gentleman would do. Indeed, if anyone was giving her attention, it was Mr. Crowley, not me.”
“Do not try and change the subject,” she said. “If not Miss Fairfax, Miss Morehouse then.”
“Yes,” he said. “Miss Morehouse.”
“She seems like a sensible woman,” Georgie said, considering the two women as objectively as possible under the circumstances. “She has a respectable fortune, but I believe Miss Fairfax would be the greater prize on sheer wealth alone.”
Silence stretched as Tom’s bluster seemed to retreat. Georgie knew nothing of the Worthington situation, but on the strength of fortune alone—which had clearly attracted Mr. Crowley, the fourth son of a viscount—Miss Fairfax wasn’t the clear preference. Miss Morehouse, on the other hand, was like Georgie, the daughter of a peer.
Realization dawned.
She cocked her head to one side, unable to keep the smile from her lips.
“But it’s not money you need, is it?” she said. “The lost heir of an old family, but not quite old enough, needs legitimacy.”
The way he stilled told Georgie she was right.
“There is a stipulation in my grandfather’s will that I must marry a lady of appropriate social standing before my twenty-sixth birthday if I am to inherit all the lands and fortune not entailed.” The words came out rushed, like a confession. It reminded her of the time he and Gabe had been caught sword fighting with some of the old weapons from the family armory.
Georgie couldn’t help herself. She threw back her head and laughed.
“I’m glad you are finding delight in my misery,” he grimaced.
“Not at all,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “But I understand. You need a match, and you need it quickly.” His birthday was only a few weeks away, she remembered.
“So now my little secret is out,” he said. “I am here to make a very deliberate and efficient match. But why are you here, Georgie?”
The question sobered her instantly. Whether it was the earnestness in his question, or the brief but urgent need to tell someone who knew her, who once upon a time seemed to understand her, the words rushed out of her mouth.
“To escape one.”
The directness of her answer, and its implication, landed like a lead ball in Tom’s gut, stunning him into silence.
“Now,” she continued, smoothing her skirts as if she hadn’t just confessed she was breaking every rule she’d spent her youth upholding, “if you don’t mind, my companion will be back any moment and I am quite ready to quit this place for the evening.”
“What do you mean, escape?” Why on earth Georgie’s marital prospects would rouse his curiosity, Tom could not—or perhaps would not—say. “I thought you were to be married years ago, unless that was a lie to escape the horror of being wed to someone so beneath you.”
Even in the dim light, he could see her throat working, as if she were swallowing back tears. Christ, he could be an arse.
“Apparently you’re not the only person I can disappoint,” she snapped, her voice growing thick with emotion.
She sat motionless, her hands clasped in her lap, even as she turned her face toward the window. She seemed so bloody alone, somehow, and he found that he hated it.
A wave of remorse rushed over him, and he fought every instinct he had to reach out and take her hand.
“Georgie—”
Before he could say another word, the carriage door swung open, and another young woman was about to climb in.
“Oh!” she said, stepping away, clearly embarrassed. “Excuse me.”
“There is no need, Miss Duigood,” Georgie said with an easy politeness that betrayed no hint of vulnerability she’d let slip seconds ago. “Mr. Worthington and I were merely taking a moment to become reacquainted.”
Reacquainted? Tom suddenly felt as though he didn’t know Georgie at all.
But it was his time to leave.
