A peculiar expression passed over Lily’s face—so fleeting that if Georgie hadn’t been paying attention, she might have missed it. Was she uneasy about the invitation? Or had Georgie simply imagined it? While Georgie knew only the barest of details of Lily’s past, it was clear from her status as a companion to Baroness D’Anville that she was of gentle, but humble circumstances. The social chasm between them was vast; Georgie didn’t care. She needed someone in her life she could count on. It was only then she realized she was still holding Lily’s hands and let her go.
“Again,” Lily replied, “that is very kind, though it may take some getting used to.”
“Well, you can try it in private, when you come and visit.”
To Georgie’s great relief, Lily brightened a bit at the idea, which provided Georgie the most meagre of comforts as the red-bricked façade of Ashcombe House came into view. She poked her head toward the glass, grappling with a creeping sense over her as they approached. Indeed, she spied Marcus in the front window, her brother’s expression as stone faced as the building itself. Letting go a low breath, she sat back in her seat, reminding herself that soon she would be married and to a man who, if not entirely of her own choosing, would be a far better match.
She looked over at Lily, whose expression had gone pale.
“What is it?”
If Georgie had been uncertain about Lily’s mood a moment ago, there was no guessing it now. She seemed struck, as if she’d just come upon a surprise…and not of the good kind.
“Is this your brother?” she said, staring at Marcus, studying his face, as if it didn’t make sense somehow. “Your father’s heir?”
“The very same,” Georgie replied. “My other brother is in Spain and has been for many years.”
Lily nodded, then sat back in her seat, very quiet.
“Marcus is not an unkind man,” Georgie continued, trying to find a scrap of kindness for her elder brother. “He too has lived under my father’s shadow and has perhaps been influenced the most by him.”
Lily nodded, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, when the carriage came to a stop.
“We shall see each other soon,” Georgie said. “Thank you for being such a good friend to me.”
The footman barely had a moment to open the door before Georgie took a breath and stepped down out of the carriage. Better to get this entire business over with. She held up her skirts and marched up the stairs, and into Ashcombe House, where she was greeted by Norton, her father’s long-serving—and some might say long-suffering—butler.
“Lady Georgiana,” he began, his tone as steady as his service, “his lordship is expecting you in his study.”
“Thank you, Norton,” she said, passing her bonnet and gloves along. “How was the journey from Whetherby? How is my father?”
“It was tolerable, my lady,” he said, his mouth crinkling in such a way as to suggest “tolerable” might have been generous. Her father despised travel, and though Marcus came to town on occasion, Ashcombe House was rarely used. “His lordship seems to be in better spirits of late. I believe you were missed.”
Norton’s mouth twitched into something that attempted a smile. Since her time in London, there had been so many smiles, and even laughter. It was something so notably absent from Whetherby, particularly since Gabriel and Tom had left. The baroness had a bright full laugh that could be heard in every corner of her large Mayfair home. Lily’s laugh was quieter, which Georgie suspected had more to do with her station, but she smiled often and had a joyful way about her that radiated to anyone around her. Miss Fairfax was exuberant in herexpressions, and Mr. Osbourne’s moods were very pleasant. And as for Tom—his smiles were so warm that even the thought of them caused a warm tingling sensation inside her. A sensation that shifted, opening up a hole inside her.
She had to stop thinking about him.
She walked down across the cold marble foyer to her father’s study. Unlike several of the rooms in Ashcombe House, which still bore evidence of her mother’s touch, her father’s study was unabashedly masculine, the dark wood paneling bearing a select number of portraits of earls past, including her grandfather, who was little more than a vague memory. She paused only long enough to knock on the door, the scent of her father’s pipe tobacco tickling her nose as she entered the room. Though frowned on in polite society, he’d kept the habit to the confines of his study both at Whetherby and, apparently, at Ashcombe House.
“Good afternoon, Father,” she said, stopping a few steps inside the door. Her father sat at his desk, absentmindedly flipping through one of his many tomes, his pipe sitting to one side. She found herself studying him, as she often had, looking to understand his mood. When her father way happy—which was so very rare—he was quite lovely company. When he was sullen or anxious, she began the tenuous dance of managing his mood. She might count her blessings that her father, for all his troubles, was not a man given to violent moods. Rather, he seemed to fall into a pit of sadness, and it was left to Georgie to pull him out.
“Good afternoon, my dear,” her father said, setting the book aside. “Come, let me look at you.”
He regarded her carefully, and Georgie held her breath. Had he learned, somehow, of her visit to the Lyon’s Den? Of her impending marriage to Mr. Osbourne?
“You are looking well,” he said, giving her a quick nod, the inspection over. “I trust the baroness was a gracious hostess.”
“Indeed, she was,” Georgie replied. She clasped her hands in front of her, eager to keep herself from fidgeting. “I am surprised to see you and Marcus in town.”
“I had some issues to discuss with my man of business, and your brother is eager to continue his search for a bride,” he replied, giving her a weak, watery smile. “We must abide the foul London air long enough to ensure the continuity of the line. Heaven knows Gabriel will likely get himself killed just to spite me.”
“Father,” she said, gently shaking her head. “I don’t think he would be likely to put himself deliberately in harm’s way for any reason except one of valor.”
“I do not wish to speak of him further,” her father said, shutting the book on his lap and setting it aside. Deep lines cut across his brow, now firmly etched from years of worry. Her father was once a handsome man, but the youthful charm that Gabriel had clearly received from their sire had disappeared, robbed by what Georgie could only articulate as the fear of the next, seemingly inevitable disaster. “Come sit, my dear. I wish to hear of your stay.”
There was something in her father’s smile—a hint of joy and interest in her life—that leveled a pang of regret in Georgie’s chest. It was an all too brief glimpse of the man her father might have been. Indeed, it did remind her of Gabriel, and she could not help but wonder if he was so angry at his younger son for trying to be the man that Whetherby seemed to have robbed him of being.
She sat herself down, mentally searching for something to say. It was tempting to speak of meeting Tom, or even the fact she’d had flowers delivered to her by a potential suitor, but both were treacherous subjects. Besides, she was not yet ready to broach the subject of marriage with him, lest he raise once more the question of Lord Sharpe’s suit. Instead, she spoke of thebaroness and stories she’d shared with Georgie of their mother, and the general London gossip amongst the ton—excluding, of course, the news about Tom’s ascendancy to the peerage.
