Page 51 of Lessons for Marquesses
“Ah, my cousin Caroline promises to throw one, y’know. She’s good at that. And being beautiful.” She twitched a slender finger, her nails trimmed short to a functional, manly length. “I saw you admiring her at the assembly. You going to woo her? She’s married, y’know.”
It occurred to him that the last thing he needed was Caroline at Farendon.
She scrambled to her feet. “I can dance. Charlotte instructed me.”
“You can hardly walk. Come here.”
She careened left toward the river in a series of spins and hops and ended in a curtsy. Nothing about it was graceful, but it was splendid just the same. It warmed his chest and threatened to make him laugh.
She planted her hands at the slim curve of her hips, curves his mind had noted as soon as she had stood.
Wandering over to Minion, she hugged the mare’s neck in a damnably sweet display of drunkenness. “I love you, Minny. Until the bloody end, girl.”
The Witch swung up from the grass and rubbed her head on Georgiana until the very drunk girl stumbled away toward the river.
“Oh no. No swimming.” Nicholas led her back to the tree, pressing her shoulders down to sit. She grabbed the brandy andhe let her have it. Anything to not watch her drown, or based on his current fascination, rescue her.
“Do you drink often?” he asked.
“Never.”
“What’s the occasion?”
She bent a knee to her chin. Her voice was small. “I’m celebrating.”
“Your cousin’s up-and-coming ball? The chance to regale the guests with your graceful steps? Meet King Charming?”
Her lips brushed her knee to and fro. “All fairy tales. In real life, there are no princesses. They all starve to death. Get shoved in ovens and eaten by witches.”
She canted on all fours and met him nose to nose. The sweet scent of brandy fanned his lips.
She blinked, her dark lashes slowly veiling violet-blue eyes. And then, unveiling. “Sleeping Beauty still waits. Because there are no princes. No rescues. Mistakes are not overcome. The real Odysseus never made it home. The world is full of wandering souls, their bodies rotting in unmarked graves.”
Her tragic gaze scattered over his face. “The bad men always win, Mr. Wolf.”
She retrieved the bottle of brandy and crawled to her feet with the assistance of the tree trunk. Pausing there, she braced a hand on the trunk, took a gulp of brandy, and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Enjoy my tree of dreams, Wolf. Perhaps yours will come true.”
Georgiana awoke at five the next morning as if a heavenly alarm pealed overhead.
From where Nicholas stood at the salon window between their rooms, Homer’sOdysseyin hand, he heard no bells, only the soft tread of a woman, the slosh of water in a basin, a groan, more ablutions, and a moan that might have been a prayer. Teeth were brushed and peppered with an excessive amount of spitting. There were distinct thumps as if boots were righted on the floor. The door opened and clicked quietly shut.
Whatever he had thought was Georgiana St. Clair was being dismantled a moment at a time.
Nicholas walked down to the north sitting room, the home’s private retreat. The paintings were numerous, crowded on the walls without regard to taste but for the pleasure of the owner. The worn furnishings lent an air of intimacy, inviting those who entered a respite.
There was no respite for Georgiana who strode toward the block, the queue of her wig brushing between her stiff shoulders as she tugged on her riding gloves. She measured the sky, shading her eyes from a glare that had been created by two bottles of wine and a goodly portion of brandy.
She had a passable profile, formed without obvious fault. Her nose was straight. Her brow was high, her chin neither jutted nor receded. Her lips were in a full grimace.
She was thin. Some might call her skinny. But she was strong. Under her buff sleeve of worsted wool was a lean arm wrapped in taut muscles. A woman who might hold a child in one arm and a musket in the other. Her strength attracted him. Why?
She was tall. Too tall.
Men desired women in soft, defenseless packages. Short women, to magnify their masculinity, toss them about in bed. And under no circumstances should they ever utter a humorous word, lest the humor be turned upon them. The prince in their life was their husband. The mistakes he made, forgiven. Badmen were unknown to women of Georgiana’s class, and so it would never occur to them to declare what Nicholas also knew to be true.
Bad men always won.
He listened to the house awaken and through the day discovered that Georgiana’s bed was unmade, the dust and cobwebs permitted, because the household and stable staff—all replaced when William St. Clair had taken over—had been reduced to less than a quarter required for the residence.
