Page 74 of Ladies in Hating
Perhaps you will not be shocked to
All my life I have
Would you mind terribly seeing to Bacon?
—from Georgiana to her mother, dispatched by messenger
In the kitchen, Pauline had finished the washing and was doing something vigorous with a ball of dark, ginger-scented dough.
“Jem’s gone to bed,” Cat said. “I came to see if you needed any help before I retire.”
“I’m nearly done.” Pauline paused mid-whack and turned her sharp-eyed gaze onto Cat. “Is Lady Georgiana staying, then? I did not hear the door.”
“She’s staying.”
“I see.” Pauline picked up the ball of dough again and thumped it against the floured wood table. She didn’t say anything else.
“Is something wrong?”
Pauline’s eyes closed for a moment, then opened. “No. Only—be careful, all right?”
Cat felt bemused by the reaction, perhaps the tiniest bit displeased. They had both entertained nighttime guests on rare occasions these last six years. This seemed a peculiar time to have qualms. “What do you mean?”
“She seems… I don’t know. Different from you. Cold.”
“She’sshy.” Cat’s temper crackled more strongly to life. “She’s reserved. She has not been properly lo—appreciatedbefore.”
“Oh, Kitty.” Pauline let out a soft puff of air, an almost noiseless sigh. “Do not let her break your heart.”
Cat took a breath. She quelled her indignation, and then bade Pauline good night.
As she mounted the stairs to her chamber—the attic bedroom, where she’d told Georgiana to wait for her—she tried not to fret over what Pauline had said.
She’d thought the same thing herself, had she not?
But she had seen Georgiana there in front of the fire, watching the rest of them talk and laugh, and Georgiana hadn’t been cold at all, not to Cat’s eyes. She’d lookedhungry—like a child outside the window of a bakery, watching steam rise off hot cross buns, unable to touch them through the glass.
When Georgiana had spoken of dukes to Jem, part of Cat had wanted to contradict her. She had not wanted Jem to feel hope where none was warranted.
But she knew why Georgiana had said it. It was concern that had motivated Georgiana’s words, kindness and compassion. Cat recognized all of it now, though Georgiana wrapped that part of herself in thistles and refused to let the rest of the world see.
Cat pushed open the door to her chamber, closed it behind her, and threw the latch.
Georgiana looked up, a trifle guiltily, from the stack of books she’d been perusing.
As Cat looked at Georgiana—at the flustered flutter of her eyelashes, the color that crept up her throat apparent even by candlelight—she felt tenderness rise in her like a tide. Felt affection snuff out the anxiety engendered by Pauline’s words.
This was Georgiana. Cat knew her.
She crossed to the desk and wrapped her arms around Georgiana’s waist. “Find anything of interest?”
Georgiana was stiff—still a trifle embarrassed, Cat thought—and then she softened, curling into Cat’s embrace. “You have one of my books on your desk.”
“Do I?” Cat tipped her head and pressed her smile against Georgiana’s throat. She smelled like heaven—that unnameable scent, dark and woody and infinitely complicated.
“That one is nearly a decade old. I can—I’ve written much better since.”
What a delight she was. “I like that one. That’s why I’ve kept it all this time.”
