He gestured to her face. “When you think someone is lying, you scrunch your nose,” he said, then crinkled his own nose. “Like this.”
“No, I don’t,” she protested, even as she put her fingers to her nose.
He let go a small laugh, a low rumble that found its way to her insides, running through her veins like warm honey.
“You always have, Georgie. I’m surprised Gabriel or Marcus hasn’t told you.”
She wanted to roll her eyes. Marcus hardly bothered with her, unless he needed something, and Gabriel had been out of her life, except for the odd letter, since he’d gone to Spain.
“My brothers had other things on their minds besides my nose,” she said, fiddling with the cuff on her pelisse, then looked over his shoulder for any signs of Mr. Osbourne.
“I don’t know about that,” Tom said. “Gabriel confirmed my theory while we were marching across Portugal.”
“How was he?” she asked, reaching out and grabbing him in excitement. It was an old impulse, and with it came a rush of heat that somehow penetrated through layers of clothing. His eyes widened, and they stood for a moment before she pulled her hands away. “So sorry. I was merely excited to hear about him.”
“Not at all,” he said, clearing his throat. “Your brother was doing well when I left him. He is, despite what he might say, an excellent officer.”
Tears pricked unexpectedly at the back of her eyes. She missed Gabriel desperately. She missed the freedom of their earlier years—of playing in the woods, along the old foot paths, and watching the sunset at the ancient stone at the edge of the Whetherby estate, overlooking the rugged Cheshire hills.
She nodded, blinking quickly, trying to dampen down this horrible sense of longing that threatened to overtake her.
“Mr. Osbourne has clearly taken an interest in you.”
The mention of the gentleman’s name pushed aside any sense of nostalgia Georgie had for her brother or Tom.
Georgie forced a smile. “He is an affable gentleman.”
“Will he be your pick?”
Mr. Osbourne was a well-meaning soul—perfectly harmless, passionate about only one thing—horseflesh. Still, compared to Baron Sharpe, he would be a fine match. Of the other gentlementaking part in the matchmaking game, he seemed the most likely. He’d called on her today, and he’d engaged in pleasant enough conversation, including topics that, happily, were more varied than horses, horse breeding, racing, or grooming.
“That is none of your concern,” she said, deflecting the uncomfortable question with one of her own. “Do you wish Miss Morehouse to pick you?”
Tom straightened. “Miss Morehouse has very particular requirements for a partner, and it just so happens to align with my own,” he said with a conviction that made Georgie unreasonably worried about her nose.
“And what are these requirements?” she asked before she could think better of it.
He shifted his weight, then looked over his shoulders, as if to affirm there was no one close by before turning his attention back to Georgie.
“Tell me about this man you’re trying to escape,” he said, his voice low.
“The only one trying to escape here is you, by not answering my question.”
“Georgie,” he said, “if you don’t give me details on this Sharpe character, I shall be forced to find it out on my own.”
She blinked, then answered in a whisper, “How did you—did Gabriel tell you?”
Not that her brother could have possibly known, unless he’d overheard Father mention it in their last row before he left for the army. Still, the baron’s name on Tom’s tongue had been jarring.
“You are Lord Ashcombe’s daughter,” Tom said. “Gossip is its own sort of currency in the ton I’ve learned.”
A shiver went down the back of her neck, and she forced herself not to give in to the impulse to look through the crowd. While her father knew of her visit to London on the pretenseof visit a friend of her mother, if her true purpose were discovered…
Georgie swallowed back her fear. “Why do you care?”
He pressed his lips together, his countenance serious. But instead of answering her question, he simply asked another.
“Do you fear he will use you ill?”
