Page 6 of Lessons for Marquesses
“Iwillthink of something,” Georgiana said, stiff with pride, and yes, a good dose of fear.
Two Weeks Later
Farendon Estate
Georgiana stood at the study window and looked over the sloping shade garden of empty plots and budding trees. To the right of the stone stable block, two boys pitched hay to the loft. Having been forced to cut her stable staff in half to pay down her bank note, Georgiana should be assisting them instead of figuring out how to stretch her meager funds to pay her mortgage arrears and have enough for necessities like candles, food.
She peered west at the drive shaded by a twin line of elm. A Mr. Farley, having an interest in purchasing two of her horses, was a day late in arriving.
Chin up, George, her father said in the depths of her heart,Farley will come.
A thunk followed the assuring words, bringing Georgiana around on her heel. Kitty had stuck the penknife from ten paces into the marquess’s caricature, dead center between his beady eyes.
After Oliver’s visit, Kitty had drawn a new portrait, one that signified the marquess’sheight, capability, and wealth. The marquess rode a beleaguered donkey, his corpulent legs dragging the ground littered with coin falling from his ill-fitting coat that stretched over his now even larger belly. In the style of Don Quixote, he braced a golden lance at Farendon’s facade.
“I will win this,” Georgiana said.
"You will.”
"The marquess sees me as weak. A female.”
Kitty frowned. "Well, you are. A female, that is.”
"Hardly. But when I,we, are through with him”—Georgiana shook in mock terror—"he will tremble in his smallclothes.”
Kitty giggled at the mention of undergarments. "You will teach him.”
"I will.”
Kitty yanked the knife from the wall and offered it to Georgiana.
"And the first lesson…” Georgiana flung the knife point to the teeny-tiny space at the apex of the marquess’s thighs.
Kitty gasped at the scandalous aim.
Georgiana grinned. “He won’t miss it.”
“He won’t?”
“Likely hasn’t seen his breeding organ in years.”
At the sound of coach wheels in the distance, Kitty ran to the window. “Mr. Farley is here!”
Georgiana straightened her coat, one of her best, doe-brown with a red waistcoat, to hide her plight. Her father had taught her the clues of desperation and proclaimed there was a smell to it, so Georgiana had dabbed perfume to cover it.
If Mr. Farley were generous, she might get one hundred for each horse, and she required every penny, not only for her debts but the expenses to cover the April race meeting in Newmarket, where she would win enough to hold the vultures at bay.
Georgiana clasped Kitty’s hand and hurried out of the room. “I expect you to divert him with your beauty. Bat your lashes and such.”
Together they peered at Mr. Farley’s coach from the portico’s sidelight. Georgiana noted the series of chips at the rear quarter and at the door, where an armorial panel had been covered in a blue paint not quite the same shade as the rest.
A look at Mr. Farley tottering down the coach steps and Georgiana’s heart sank. His wig was bleached horsehair. His chest was surmounted by his belly. He spent more money on his food than his horses. From the door, at least thirty feet, one could see his pitted, red nose.
He spent more money on his drink than his food.
“Well…” Kitty murmured.
“Indeed,” she replied. “We’ll have to make the best of it.”
