Page 132 of Lessons for Marquesses
Georgiana moved her right leg forward. She was surprised when her left did the same. And then her right. And left again, toward the towering scarlet baldachin with the royal arms of England emblazoned above the same-hued velvet-and-gilt chair.
Georgiana squinted at the afternoon light flooding the massive windows framed by scarlet drapery. The soaring, white-paneled walls had their intended effect. She was a tiny speck of flotsam in a royal sea.
Larger-than-life portraiture stalked her as Oliver led her toward the dais. Every perfume assailed her. Rose, peony, lavender, musk, lilies—mixed with pomade and powder and sweat.
She required a chair. The only chair available was a throne.
Georgiana affected a sublime expression. She hoped it was sublime because what was inside was miles from it. The sea of eyes blinked, others stared over wafting, painted fans. Could they detect that she had not a worn a gown but twice in her life?
Her palms were hot and moist, but she dared not wipe them. She draped them where her bodice met her skirts as Charlotte had instructed.
It was the first of July. Nine years to the day of Edmund Clayton’s murder. Today was to have been the match race, and the significance of Nicholas arranging the match on this day was not lost on her. Had he ever intended to keep his promise? He’d had every right not to.
Her gaze searched the room, and near the dais was the Marquess of Eastwick, breath-taking and aristocratic, in black-and-gold silk. She had only seen Mr. Wolf, the horseman. But his nobility was there, not just in the honor medal pinned at hisbroad chest. Not just in his shaved face nor his tie wig. It was in him, hundreds of years of breeding. Highborn resolve. A man whose power derived from more than his remarkable physical strength, a man who towered over the rest not simply in height.
“Why is he here?”
Oliver whispered back, “He has a right to hear it.”
She tried to take a deep breath in her stays. Her breasts rose from the effort. Nicholas noted the movement, and his gaze swept back to her face. He spoke to the man beside him. The force of his words bared his white teeth.
“Who is the man he speaks to?” she asked Oliver.
“Mr. Braunstone. A barrister.”
Something Mr. Braunstone said relaxed Nicholas’s broad shoulders. He nodded. But anyone with eyes could see he was furious.
“I swore you to secrecy,” she said.
“You did.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. In truth, Nick doubted the rumors of being pardoned. Braunstone might assist. One can never be sure of a monarch’s whims.” He took Georgiana’s hand and patted it. “Simply ignore him. Relay your testimony as you did to me, and we’ll return home for a celebratory feast.”
Nicholas continued to watch her. Did he suspect why she was here at an audience with the king to have him exonerated?
An immediate hush fell upon the room as a door opened. A royal footman called out in majestic tones, “His Majesty The King.”
In unison, every body bowed or curtsied until the king reached the dais, sat, adjusted his ermine robe, and did something she couldn’t see which allowed his subjects to rise.
Artists had been generous with their brush. The king’s chin receded well back from his nose. Pale, prominent eyes inspected.They called him Farmer George and she saw that maybe he was decent, not decadent.
“Bring forth Miss St. Clair,” the king commanded.
Oliver gave her hand a squeeze as the spectators whispered. A man peered at her behind a quizzing glass. Georgiana’s eyes clung to Nicholas. She felt him drift farther away the harder she looked at him.
She approached the dais, and as she had practiced, she extended her right foot behind her left. Back straight, she lowered her head and bent at her knees. Lower, lower, not low enough, lower, watching the pendant swing at her bodice, until her right knee grazed the scarlet carpet. She made a statue to the count of three and slowly rose to standing.
All around her, the audience conferred in hushed tones. Was it good enough? Did she appear to be a lady?
The sovereign’s eyes bulged just slightly at her height. “Lord Acomb informs me you wished for an audience.”
Do not look into his eyes,Charlotte had said.But look nowhere else.
Was she supposed to answer? She didn’t hear a question.
Someone tittered in the silence.
