Page 65 of Lessons for Marquesses
Mr. Wolf stood afar, his black brow furrowed over a sheet of paper.
Georgiana clambered to her coat and found the pocket empty. Her list of twenty-two reasons to meet him was in his hands.
Oh dear God!
She scrambled to her feet.
Folding it without a word, he handed it back to her as if he hadn’t just read the first lines.
1. I’m too strong. I could strangle a man with my thighs.
2. My mouth is far too large. I can nearly fit an entire black pudding sausage in it.
He draped an arm over her shoulders and walked toward the tower. “There was a purpose for meeting me here, if you remember.” He glanced sideways, directly at her mouth. Obviously, noticing how monstrously large it was and repelled at her sausage-feasting abilities.
Georgiana pursed her lips. Did he roll his eyes as he looked away?
“You should have taken the tower stairs,” he said. “But it will be a tale to tell your children and grandchildren.”
“I’ll never have children.”
He snapped his head about. “With your thighs and sausage-eating capabilities, I find that hard to believe.”
Georgiana studied his droll expression. “Was that a jest?”
He cleared his throat. “Is that on your list? Not having children?”
Georgiana dropped her chin. “Number eleven.”
They approached the ruins of the main hall. Minion trotted up behind her and screamed in her ear. A string of urgent whinnies fired back.
At the decayed entrance to the tower stairs, their leads tied to discarded stones, stood her horses lost to Mr. Farley and the auction, Dearg and Spinner.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The reunionof Georgiana with her two horses, like Nicholas’s return to Farendon, was not as he had imagined it would be. Georgiana halted, her lips parted and the hair at her temples dark with perspiration. She tucked the waves behind her ear. It was a delicate ear that would suit a girandole of sapphires well.
Her profile might be more than passable. Yet it was not a point of interest to Nicholas. If she were a book of travels, what was on her outside was for the idle tourist, the sort who flocked to an ancient site to say they’d been. But Georgiana’s insides, those were for the adventurers, the travelers who sought the hidden gems. How many others would stare straight into certain death and sacrifice themselves for another?
The chestnut horse, Dearg, swung his head up from a patch of clover and nickered. Georgiana remained motionless.
He had purchased the horses not out of generosity but revenge. After his plans had formed to befriend her, he had boarded the two horses at a coaching inn in the event he needed them as a trump. And here he was, using them to his advantage when she had selflessly urged him to let her go, let herdie. To save him.
“Do you not like the gift?” he asked.
“It is very generous of you. Thank you.”
It was difficult to accept her gratitude, to lie. He did not want to lie. He wanted, for however briefly, to not hate. To revel in the reprieve filling him with what he never expected to feel for Georgiana St. Clair: admiration.
“They liked me much more than their sire, Wild Squire,” she said, her usual animation reduced to muted tones. He knew her well enough now to know it hurt her to see them. “Especially Dearg. He was a sweet boy. Spinner was spirited. Like Minny.”
She spoke as if they were not hers again.
Looking him up and down with her eyes reflecting the moss-covered stone, more green than blue, she said, “Mr. Wolf, I cannot thank you enough.”
“No need. It is my pleasure.” Not a lie.
“I want you to keep them.”
