Georgie and Lily hopped into the carriage, Georgie closing her eyes. She was worn to the bone, and her encounter with Tom had been a wonderful and yet cruel reminder of everything she might have had. And everything she’d lost.
“That was very kind of you to invite Miss Morehouse to tea,” Lily said, “given she is your competition.”
“I hardly view her as such,” Georgie replied.
“You each get to choose your partner,” Lily replied. “The next game must be between the three of you, and not the gentlemen.”
Georgie sat up straight. It would make sense, in a way. Unless Mrs. Dove-Lyon was going to have them pull a name out of a hat, which, given her penchant for theatrics, hardly seemed like the way to end the game.
“I thought you might try and win, so you may choose Mr. Worthington.”
“Whatever do you mean?” she said. “He’s not mine to choose.”
“He seemed terribly interested in your well-being yesterday, when we were in Hyde Park,” her companion replied.
“We are old acquaintances,” Georgie replied. “That is all.”
“If you win the next match, he could be more than that.”
It was dark, so Georgie must have imagined that twinkle in Lily’s eye.
She closed her eyes, feigning fatigue. The fairy tale that she might reclaim something she’d so thoroughly lost felt like too much to hope for. And for the Hawthornes, hope had been elusive for so long. Her father had hoped for better yields and for investments not to fail. She and her brothers had hoped their mother would not succumb to the illness that claimed her. Marcus had hoped he might marry, and Gabriel had hoped for their father’s good will. And for years, Georgie had hoped that if she was a good enough daughter, her father would have one less worry, and she might be able to claim a bit of happiness for herself.
Hope had failed them all.
“I wouldn’t give up,” her companion said. “Maybe you just weren’t ready for each other then. And now you are.”
Georgie looked out the window, Lily’s last words playing in her mind. Four years ago, she hadn’t the strength to orchestrate a meeting with the infamous owner of London’s most notorious gaming hell. Neither would she have put on a mask, walk alone in a garden after dark, and ask a man to kiss her so thoroughly.
Was she ready to try again?
Chapter Twelve
Baroness D’Anville strolledinto her front parlor with the same easy confidence she seemed to bring to all occasions, no matter how mundane or magnificent. Whether it was on account of her age, being French, or if, as Georgie’s mother had hinted at in stories she’d told Georgie as a child, she’d lived a particularly adventurous life, Georgie could only guess. After nearly a fortnight, Georgie still hadn’t become entirely accustomed to it, but she envied it. She needed it more than ever.
Georgie and Lily sat together on an ancient settee which had been saved from the fires of revolution over a decade ago, the design echoing the style of kings now erased from existence. She tried to remember that fact as she put her troubles aside, as they waited on Miss Morehouse and Miss Howard.
“My word, Lady Georgiana,” the baroness said, making a sweeping gesture to the large bouquets of flowers sitting in vases through the room, “there are more flowers sitting on tables than painted on these walls.”
“It does smell lovely,” Lily said, stopping to take a sniff of a particularly colorful bouquet of hot house flowers. “There is nothing better for the soul that a healthy dose of greenery, don’t you think?”
Since the games at the Lyon’s Den had begun, Mr. Osbourne had taken to sending Georgie flowers, and since his success last night, yet another fresh bouquet had arrived this morning. They were a welcome antidote to the overcast dreariness outside the window.
“Mr. Osbourne certainly is attentive,” Georgie said, unashamedly soothing herself with a ginger biscuit, courtesy of the baroness’s kitchens.
“You do not enjoy his attentions?” the baroness asked as she settled into her favorite chair.
“The flowers are lovely,” she acknowledged, even as she ignored the coyness of the question. “This is all terribly new, I suppose. And I really do not know Mr. Osbourne.”
“But you do know Mr. Worthington,” the baroness said, accepting a glass of sherry from a nearby footman. “And I don’t see any flowers from him.”
Georgie did know Mr. Worthington—perhaps better than anyone. Or she thought she had. Regardless, he was never going to send her flowers. Not anymore. She papered over the sting of that truth with a smile and was saved the need for a reply when the housekeeper came to the door.
“Miss Morehouse and Miss Howard, ma’am,” she announced, stepping aside as the two ladies presented themselves at the door.
Georgie and Lily stood as the baroness waved them in.
“Welcome, ladies,” the baroness said, beckoning to them with a sweeping hand. “You will forgive me for not standing. My knees are not what they once were, particularly on a damp day such as this one. Pray take a seat by the fire.”
