Page 77 of Lessons for Marquesses
How did a man with powder, a patch at his firm mouth, and yes, smeared rouge on both cheeks, shoot a man between the eyes?
“And he made Mrs. Folliett a widow,” Greville said.
Julian countered, “Come man, you’d been living with the woman for a month. I’m not sure that constitutes a widow.”
Ears burning, Georgiana addressed Mr. Blackwell. “And you sir, what happened to your hand?”
“I broke it. Ensuring no one interfered with Fitzwilliam taking his shot.”
"And, er, where is Mrs. Folliett?” Georgiana queried.
Julian fell back and spread his arms along the settee back. "Who?”
"Mrs. Folliett?” Georgiana replied, non-plussed. "The lady who prompted the duel?”
Julian snorted. "I’d hardly call her a lady.”
To that, all six stoics raised their glasses.
Well. A right collection of reprobates.
From behind, Mr. Wolf spoke at her ear. “Do you think it wise they remain?”
Georgiana turned about, mere inches from his chest. Her pride still smarted from his setdown in the yard where her home was a fantasy and she, in summary, was an idiot. “I wrote to Julian last week. As part of my plan.”
“You sent the letters?”
“Yes. My father always said one must have an alternative plan. And my mother was a firm believer men were born liars until the right woman showed them the folly of their duplicity.”
A tic pulsed beneath his scar. “I said I would consider the partnership.”
“And you have been, for a week.” Georgiana jerked her head to the hall. “Julian, may I speak to you in private?”
Eavesdropping was not gentlemanly, but then Nicholas had shirked that moniker nine-years back when he’d had a pack thrown at his feet and a musket shoved in his hand. Further, Georgiana made it easy for him, choosing the salon between their rooms and speaking in a tone only a mother possessed.
When she had cut him in the drawing room, effectively calling him a liar, Nicholas had decided Georgiana was, indeed, beautiful. And while he was being honest, it did strange, uncomfortable things to his chest to hear her lecture her rake of a cousin.
First, she told Julian she had four rooms. Greville required one and Anthony could sleep in the stables if he protested at sleeping on a mattress in an empty room. Lady Sybil would have her own chamber. Julian could follow Philips to the stables or spend his nights—secretly—with Lady Sybil. And thus the last two rooms were for Fitzwilliam and Blackwell.
By the sound of it, Julian paced the room. “Why, Georgie?”
Nicholas had lost count at seven—how many times Julian had asked why Georgiana had sold her furniture.
She answered the same as before. “I needed the money.”
“And yet you’re to host a ball. You’ve got an old goat serving as a butler. He was old when we were children. And no footmen. No beds. Do you have enough food?”
“I didn’t ask for a ball. You were supposed to stop it.”
“Caroline’s doing this on purpose. You should never have made her jealous. You know how she is.”
Nicholas stood up from the writing desk, idly fingering the scalping knife, prepared for Julian to call his sister a viper. He missed Georgiana’s quiet reply.
“Georgie, if you said you’d made the devil laugh, my sister would kick Charon on his arse and row herself across the River Styx to have him. A ball to her is like a gladiator match.”
The silence lengthened as Nicholas remembered the night Caroline had relayed to him the claim that Georgiana had made him laugh. He could not remember Caroline’s response. He remembered only a feeling of misery. He had wanted Caroline to leave. It had been the night of his decision to distract Georgiana from selling Farendon to the walls.
Georgiana’s voice came low and plaintive. “Are you to be my partner in business?”
