Page 53 of Lessons for Marquesses
Georgiana dropped the knife, shaking and completely forgetting which way the knife had been placed. She stuck it to the book with the edge out toward the spine.
There was no time to ponder. But if she did not place it correctly…
She flipped it, the razored edge facing inward, closed the drawer, and raced back to her room. She scrambled onto her bed, yanking the covers to her chin, and prayed. Prayed the man she knew so little about, with a strange knife, the ability to ignore a riot, and a dangerous scar on his face, would quit her home before morning.
Nicholas hadn’t placed the scalping knife upon the book for any reason except he had removed it from the drawer to remind himself that the dream he had awakened from was real and the guilt in his chest deserved. But before he had left to rid his thoughts in the rain, he had noticed how the knife’s edge had curved to a point at the top of the book and glinted like the white metal buttons on René Durand’s blueveste.
Georgiana was a curious girl.
He lay back on the bed in his clothes and drifted to sleep wondering what she had imagined when inspecting the knife. Nothing near the damning truth.
Another morning, another silent alarm but today Georgiana did not return to the house but pitched hay in her shirtsleeves with the stable boys. After this, Nicholas watched her fetch a wheelbarrow and roam the pastures, ripping out weeds. Thorn apple, he guessed by the trumpet flowers, which could kill a horse.
Georgiana avoided him, but she was curious. And he was curious and this did not sit well with him. But it was a fact, and the fact was he wanted to stay at Farendon because of it.
Oliver scribbled letters behind him in the study where Nicholas stood at the window. What responsibilities did any man, even an ambitious MP, have that demanded so much correspondence? What great reward would repay his dedication?
The stable boys sat together on the opposite side of the yard and consumed a repast brought out by a kitchen maid. They paid no attention to Georgiana bending, ripping, straightening. They preferred to chat up the maid who cocked a hip and rejoined them with saucy banter.
The lack of deference toward Georgiana puzzled Nicholas until, having pushed the wheelbarrow to the block, she politely waved off a boy who offered her food.
Georgiana didn’t want deference.
Dipping her hands into a bucket, she splashed water to her flushed face. Nicholas imagined her without her wig. How she would rake the water through her hair, part her lips, close her eyes…
Damn his mind.
But then Georgiana did something more outrageous than his imagination. She seesawed her billowing shirt from her breeches and with it wiped the water dripping from her face.
No, what was outrageous was the sharp heat at his loins at the sight of her taut midriff, her navel, the border of linen that wrapped her breasts. He fought the lust but couldn’t look away. Which did nothing to stop the blood rushing to his traitorous cock. Nor did Georgiana help. She provided him a lengthy study of the obvious gap between the band of her soiled tan breeches and the sleek, inward curve of her waist.
Nicholas closed his eyes, thinking on Caroline, any woman he’d had, because any woman was better than this absurd attraction. After a minute of cursing his lust, he opened his eyes and found Georgiana butting her hips to the fence. She studied the grazing horses as she worked the inside of her cheek with her teeth.
Georgiana was unhappy.
She braced the fence rail and leapt over it, approaching her aged chestnut gelding, Turk. After smoothing over the horse’s back, she gripped his mane and swung upon his back.
She left Nicholas again to wonder on how she had become this. Was she content with her life? What nature, male or female, had compelled her to invade his privacy?
The reflection intrigued him, like her three days of silence.
“I will take a walk,” Nicholas said. “After dinner.”
Oliver replied after a moment, “Sounds bloody dreadful.”
“I will ask Georgiana’s aunt to join me. You will accompany us and insist Georgiana accompany you.” He watched Georgiana ride Turk toward the home wood. “Ensure she attends dinner.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Georgiana went momentarilydumb at the sight of Mr. Wolf at the dining table. She hadn’t expected him to persevere in light of her snub. And so silently. After a sweep of his black lashes above golden eyes, he completed a thorough study of her and speared his mound of dandelion greens and vinaigrette.
Georgiana felt the heat of his study through the first course as if he had never removed his gaze.
Without footmen, they served themselves. Rupert could open a door, deposit letters into a salver, and announce visitors—if so inclined—but Georgiana didn’t dare trust him with a bowl of soup or platter of anything. This required them to sit across from each other, men on one side, Charlotte and Georgiana on the other.
“You look much improved, dear,” Charlotte offered. “We are pleased you could join us.”
Georgiana sipped her wine and set it back, fighting back a wave of nausea at the fortifying taste of brandy. She might never drink again. “Thank you. I am pleased to join you all.”
