Page 78 of Lessons for Marquesses
Nicholas snapped to attention, his steps quiet as he walked to the door.
“Georgie, I cannot.”
“And why can you not? I only have seven days before the marquess owns the mortgage on Farendon.”
So Coutts had written her. He had heard nothing from Tate, though he had laid out his wishes to his solicitor before coming to Farendon. Pay the bank, record the deed, send the notice of pending foreclosure.
“Here me out, Georgie. You have fought a good fight, but even if I paid what was due, how much would you still owe? How will you make the next payment?”
"I will win the match race.”
"Will you? Is it assured?”
"No, it is not,” she said. "But I—I must.”
"Have you considered surrender?”
“Surrender?” The word seemed to take her breath. "What has happened to you? Cavorting with these men. Dangerous men, I say. And let us not forget theLadySybil. A man was killed and you treat it as a lark.”
Julian’s voice lowered. "You have no idea who Folliett was.”
"I know you are as far from a stoic as England is to China.”
"Epictetus once wrote ‘the art of living is each person's own life.’”
Georgiana made a strangled sound. "You were to build ships, remember? You used to stand for something besides women and wagering. You and Kitty?—”
“Do not say another word.”
“Oh, I will say. You loved her. She loved you.” Georgiana’s tone stung like a wasp. "Though I cannot see why she would now. Unless she has a penchant for selfish wastrels and whoremongers.”
Julian roared a curse, a slamming door severing the room into painful silence. Shortly after, a frustrated cry rent the air.
And here Nicholas was, his vengeful dreams coming to fruition and snooping on his enemy who searched for a miracle.
One out of the four letters she had sent had come to naught. Who else had she queried to be her partner, or was there another threat looming?
He pressed his palm to the door, his forehead following. Seven days and he would be free to foreclose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
At dinner,Mr. Wolf said little, which Georgiana understood was not out of the ordinary, though it felt directed at her. She had made a cake of herself talking about love. This very day she had snubbed him for dragging his feet on her partnership offer. He had deserved it. But the longer he avoided her, the more she talked. She had never strung so many inanities together in her life.
Her mouth was parched by the time Rupert, desperately employed to serve, dumped a platter of jellied eels in Oliver’s lap.
“Enough!” Oliver swiped the gelatinous mess to the bare floor.
Rupert stalked off in a huff.
“You’ve hurt his feelings,” Georgiana said.
“I’ve hurt his feelings? He ruined my suit.”
“Good riddance,” Julian said. “And thank God, brother, women can’t vote. Else you’d not have one vote from them.”
“I’d vote for you,” Fitzwilliam offered.
Oliver pulled up from his furious scrubbing. “You’re a bloody man.” He turned to Julian. “He is, isn’t he?”
