“Indeed,” he said, turning to the woman standing on the curb, “please excuse me.”
Without looking back, he exited the carriage, taking a moment to assist Miss Duigood.
“My apologies for intruding on your evening,” he said to the ladies. “I wish you a good evening.”
He shut the door, then, instead of turning on his heel and returning to the Lyon’s Den to loosen this unwelcome knot that formed in his chest with a good bottle of brandy, he remained on the curb, unable to take his eyes off the carriage until it had turned off Cleveland Row.
If Tom had entertained the fiction that his heart had dried to dust when Georgie had first refused him, her presence here sliced through that belief with the precision of a stiletto. He hadn’t even felt the wound at first. But there was this odd ache in his chest that hadn’t been there even a moment ago.
He should have known that ridiculous story Georgie had given him earlier was absolute rubbish. Georgie didn’tdaredo anything—she didn’t climb trees, be late for dinner, and most especially attend notorious gaming halls. But, somehow, she was here, in this room, right now, to find a husband of all things.
No. That wasn’t exactly it, was it? She was here to escape a match. And the only way for a woman to do that—even one with a powerful family like the Hawthornes—was to marry someone else.
He spun on his heel and strode back to the gaming hell, his boots clicking on the cobblestone, eager to put Georgie out of his mind. He headed straight for the study, settled himself in a perfectly worn-in leather chair near the fire, and signaled for a servant to fetch him something strong enough to dull the sharp edges of his current mood. He’d briefly considered going to the gaming floor and trying his hand at cards, but at the moment it held no appeal. Besides, he’d had his fill of games tonight.
He downed the first glass of brandy in a single swallow, savoring the heat of the liquor on his throat, then poured himself another. This week was supposed to be simple. He was here to find a wife. He’d already been given a new name, a new place in society, and once the wedding was complete, the old Tom Blakey and those old wounds would be gone forever. Until he’d walked into that dining room this evening and saw Georgiana Hawthorne, it had been.
But when he saw her, they opened right back up again.
She was even more beautiful than he remembered, and even though he’d tried to forget her, he’d failed miserably. So many of her features had been indelible in his mind, as if written in ink: the way her flaxen hair curled at the back of her neck, the shape of her plump lips, the creaminess of her skin. She’d grown into herself, her feminine curves fuller than he’d recalled, and the very thought of her now made his body come alive.
But there was a line of worry on her brow that had deepened from the last time he’d left Whetherby, and a desperation about her situation that she’d barely given voice to, but he sensed. Who was she escaping? He’d assumed she’d been married with a respectable brood of aristocratic children by now. But she still went by her father’s name, so any planned marriage had not happened. And even though Gabe had been absolutely tight-lipped about his family’s fortunes while the two were in Spain, he couldn’t imagine any news about Georgie being widowed wouldn’t have made it to Tom’s ears.
He took another sip of brandy, trying to pull his thoughts away from Georgie to more practical matters—like his own potential bride. He needed to make another good impression on Miss Morehouse. She’d been rather quiet during dinner, but he had the sense she was not one for conversation. Still, in the end, if he made it to the final round, the ladies had their pick of husbands, and he would be the one she’d claim. Miss Fairfax, as pleasant a creature as she was, wouldn’t do. Even now, he felt the sting of humiliation as Georgie’s laugh echoed in his mind.
In fact, if all went well, he would secure a special license and have the deed done long before his rapidly approaching birthday. Then, aside from his duties in the House of Lords, he could retire to the county forever. He would have his freedom, and Miss Morehouse would have hers.
“Hallo!”
The brightness of the greeting, incongruent with the plush quiet of the study with its deep-burgundy walls and walnut paneling, instantly caught Tom’s attention. Mr. Osbourne and Mr. Crowley, both of whom had made it through the hazards of the first of three games, approached.
“Gentlemen,” Tom said by way of a greeting.
“May we join you?” Mr. Osbourne asked, and Tom answered by nodding to a pair of chairs opposite his. They were soonseated, more glasses ordered. Soon they were chatting about Mr. Osbourne’s favorite, and possibly only subject of interest, horseflesh. Even at dinner, the man had spent more time talking about the best mash for horses than he had about the quality of the food on his plate.
“Did you know Miss Fairfax owns her own thoroughbred—one of Eleanore’s offspring?” Mr. Crowley said, lowering his voice to an almost conspiratorial tone. “And her father was recently made a knight.”
Too late for the conditions of Tom’s grandfather’s will, but this seemed to be of little concern to Mr. Crowley.
“Do you have your heart set on her?” Tom asked.
“They are all lovely.” Crowley gazed down at his glass a moment as if it held the answer to any number of vexatious questions, then let go a sigh before turning his attention, more resolute now, back to Tom and Mr. Osbourne. “I’m not sure what Mother would think, but I have no intention of being penniless. And Miss Fairfax is very amiable.”
“What about you?” Osbourne asked Tom.
“If I could choose, Miss Morehouse would be my preference,” Tom answered, even as the words landed with much less conviction that they would have a few hours ago.
“Excellent,” Osbourne said, letting go a sigh of relief as he sunk into his chair.
“How so?” Tom asked.
“While it is still early days yet,” Osbourne said, pursing his lips, “I do hope she might choose me. Lady Georgiana that is.”
The brandy Tom was sipping damn near stuck in his throat. He forced himself to swallow, then cleared his throat.
“Why her?” he asked.
“First, she did not object to the idea of fixing up my stables once we are married,” he said. “Clearly she might love horses as much as I do.”
