Page 83 of Lessons for Marquesses
“Either one, I suppose, depending on your mood.” Though his mood had been considerate since the morning after the salon. He had watched Minion at her paces and recommended altering her feed. He had conferred with the farrier on the fit of Minion’s shoes. He had walked beside her both mornings and afternoons, his stride loose, his tone at ease as he had reviewed the day’s training.
He had avoided Lady Sybil. He had joked with her. He felt like a friend.
But was he?
“I don’t believe that is how one sells a property,” he said. “Unless to a recluse with Gothic tendencies. Shall we ride around it?”
Georgiana urged Wild Squire to a trot, coming to a halt at the washed-out drive. The fountain of the three Fates had ceased to work a month after she had moved to Farendon. As if they mourned the loss of their inhabitants.
She wound through a copse of oak and beech and watched Oliver and Charlotte alight. Chedworth was three stories of red brick and mullioned windows that glittered on the outside, not within. Open parapets lined the roofline, a copper dome, long weathered to a green patina, topped the center. At the end of each wing, massive, bowed windows jutted out from the main.
The old butler Beedle, older than Rupert, and an even older footman carried in the light traveling trunks and the large basket of food staples Charlotte had brought to augment Chedworth’s stores. One of the many domestic considerations Georgiana had never been taught to worry for.
Her aunt looked over her shoulder as Oliver escorted her to the massive arched double door, nodding to Georgiana as if saying,he will break your heart, dear.
The house sucked them in, and for a moment, she panicked at ever seeing her aunt and cousin again.
Mr. Wolf’s knee brushed her thigh as he came alongside, bringing forth a heated awareness of his hard body. He didn’t apologize for his forwardness because his blasé grin said he was not even aware he had touched her. “Good thoughts, I hope?”
“We should stable the horses. I have no grooms, which should be no surprise given”—she forced the euphemism—"my situation.”
He caught her sleeve. Georgiana looked reflexively to where his long fingers wrapped around her arm, her heart undone, her breath hitching painfully.
"My apologies,” he murmured, releasing his hold.
Her instinct was to tell him there was no harm done, but she wanted him to be as uncomfortable as she was. So she remained silent, noting the contrition on his face, surprised at how poignantly it played upon his chiseled features. This was why women were so patently forgiving. Men just melted the resentment right out of them. Was he her friend? His attentionsto her were inconstant, his esteem felt irregular. Was it because he found himself swept away as she did? Did he fight the loss of control and insecurities by finding faults and making distance?
Leaning back in the saddle, he tapped his cocked hat downward as the drizzle turned to a light rain. How beautiful, how perfectly imperfect, he was. If she had ever had the inclination to dream up a man just for her, it would have been him. Faults and all.
His lashes drifted down, his mouth in a solemn line. “Your aunt is right, you know. I will break your heart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Nicholas could have chosena different time to warn Georgiana but with Chedworth looming, where lives had ceased and changed in the matter of hours, it felt right. The haunted manse, the crime committed within its walls, was why he was here.
He hated himself for the game he played. He had placed his hands on her too many times, almost kissed her, baited her with Lady Sybil when all he had thought as he had walked from the room was how Georgiana would react. He had wished for her to be jealous, to pound on his door, and fight for him. He toyed with her and yet more and more, it didn’t feel like a game. Nothing ceased his longing for her except the reminder of what her father had done. Which he was beginning to forget at every turn.
She required a warning.
“Youareinnocent and full of hope,” he said. “I would never wish to harden you, and I fear I will.”
“How much—” She rolled her lips tight and then released them. “How much exactly did you hear?”
“Enough to examine my motives and urge you to keep your distance.”
The rain beat harder upon them, splashing on the leaves, dribbling from the brim of her cocked hat as she looked away. She tested each word. “Urge me to keep my distance.”
“It is for the best.”
Saddle leather creaked above the din.
Her gloved hand sought his bare one resting upon his thigh. She squeezed his fingers. “I understand what is inside of you because it is inside of me. I understand why you warn me. Why you must keep your distance. It is uncomfortable and confusing and so much easier to rely upon ourselves for happiness.”
His chest tightened.
Her expression, her clear, sweet voice embodied reassurance. The woman who didn’t see herself as a woman. This woman, astride her horse, without affectation, with the rain pattering around her, was his match. The woman for him. If only she was not who she was.
“Now,” she said with a wink, “come meet the Evil Leprechaun.”
