Plan for an eventful evening. – T
Georgie frowned, staring down at the note, written in a different hand. And there was a little line under the first word.
Plan.
Did Tom have a plan? She stilled, the thrumming at her temples gone, replaced by one in her heart. Lily must have gone to him, instead of Mr. Osbourne.
Why did Tom involve himself in her problems? She could scarcely dare to dwell on it. But maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t forgotten about her.
She glanced back at Marcus, who seemed more intrigued by his glass of port than the invitation. She had to convince him to attend…and to bring her along.
She slid the invitation back in its envelope.
“Are you going to reply?” she asked. “It would be an excellent opportunity to meet a prospective bride.” She swallowed, trying not to appear too eager.
“I really should,” he said. “I know Father doesn’t take much stock in these society affairs anymore, but your marriage alone will not save us.”
His last statement caught her attention. Georgie dropped the envelope in her lap and looked up at Marcus.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, then lowered her voice, lest Norton or another of the servants be close at hand. “Father alluded to it as well. How will my marriage save Whetherby? Does Lord Sharpe have a hold on father somehow? Blackmail perhaps?”
“Not precisely,” Marcus said, pulling himself to his feet and walking to a sideboard, helping himself to another glass of port.
“What do you mean, not precisely?”
Marcus turned on his heel to face Georgie. “Lord Sharpe is somehow tied to Whetherby’s fortune…or lack thereof. He says he can help remove the curse that has plagued the estate since Grandfather’s time.”
Georgie was certain her mouth fell open.
“Curse?” she said, all but shouting the word, her disbelief overriding her manners. “Marcus, are you telling me father is marrying me off to that—that ogre—over a fairy story?”
She fell back in her chair and put her head in her hands. Her father truly had gone mad.
“I don’t know that it is,” Marcus hissed in irritation. “The place has been plagued by one disaster after another for decades. How would you explain it?”
Georgie looked up at Marcus, tempted to get the entire bottle of port and swallow it.
“Bad luck?” she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Bad management? Whatever it is, it’s nothing that can be fixed by me marrying a lecherous old man!”
“He’s hardly lecherous, Georgiana,” Marcus chuckled, apparently amused by that cold hard kiss the baron had given her. “Give the man an heir and you’ll never have to touch him again.”
A shudder skittered down her back at the very idea, replaced by a hardened resolve. Father had truly gone mad, and she was not about to pay the price of that madness. She needed to get to that ball. And somehow, she knew, Tom was going to help her. She leaned forward and pasted a smile on her face.
“Will you reply to the Worthingtons and tell them we shall attend? It’s been ages since either of us have been in society, and it will be ages before I can again. This is a chance for you to be seen,” she entreated, appealing if not to his sympathy for her, then to his own need to find an heiress. “If Baroness D’Anville is there, you can be sure she will find you a suitable bride before the night is over.”
He pursed his lips as if deep in thought. The silence stretched, the only answer a nearby clock ticking, methodically counting the seconds until his answer.
“I suppose it cannot hurt,” he said at last. “Call Norton.”
Later that night, Georgie crawled under the covers, listening to the wind outside her window, her mind racing. Was Mr. Osbourne going to whisk her away to Scotland from there? She would have to find a way to sneak a small valise with her. She should take her jewels, at the very least. She could sell those if her father tried to make her life difficult.
Normally, the prospect of going to a ball meant the excitement of choosing a gown, pairing it with the perfectnecklace and ribbon, and practicing dance steps in anticipation of the evening ahead. There would be all of those things, but none of them mattered. Not this time.
She would go, watch Tom announce his betrothal, and allow the man she’d loved more than anything in the world to be claimed by another woman.
Chapter Eighteen
Georgie pulled onher gloves, then affixed one of her mother’s silver bracelets around her wrist. The ticking from the nearby clock, though steady, was no match for the thrumming of her heart. This was her last night in Ashcombe House. Perhaps the last time she would see her family.
