Page 12 of Ladies in Hating
A second time?
Georgiana’s heart did something troubling—stumbled like a horse that had missed a step.
No. No, and again no, and also absolutely not. One closeencounter with the adult incarnation of Cat Lacey was enough for a lifetime.
When she finally managed to reply, Georgiana made her voice very crisp, despite the antics of her heartbeat. “That will not be necessary. I do not intend to ever see her again.”
It took Georgiana just over three weeks to turn her inchoate mass of notes into a novel. She was fairly certain it was either brilliant or the worst thing she’d ever written in her life, but either way, the thing was done.
She felt faintly triumphant—and a bit bleary, and extremely ink-scented—as she stepped down from the hack in front of Laventille’s office on Bond Street just after dawn.
There had been a time—seven years past, but she could still remember it as vividly as if it had been only moments ago—when she would never have let herself be seen there. A time when her father’s power had seemed almost unbreakable. When she had feared she might never get away.
But things had changed.Everythinghad changed. When she was eighteen, Georgiana’s careless handling of her correspondence had allowed her father to uncover Selina’s ownership of Belvoir’s Library. His attack on Selina had threatened not only the library but the safety of Selina’s family.
And in the end, Georgiana had stood in the library, her back to the shelves, and revealed her identity as a Gothic novelist.
Her chest felt tight. She could remember the old earl’s face taut with rage as he’d laughed in her face that day.See how well you’ll live with no money,he’d said.Noton,no friends. See what happens when you’re all alone.
She’d expected to be alone—had almost brought herself toaccept it, despite her fear. But instead, her mother had come with her. Edith had chosen to start a new life at Georgiana’s side, even though Georgiana’s scandalous career had cost Edith her friends, her vast estate, her position in society.
Even though it had led to the loss of her sons.
Selina—Edith—her brothers—even Iris… Sometimes it seemed that everyone who got close to Georgiana was harmed, in some way, by virtue of standing at her side. But she was trying to do better. She was trying toprotecther mother. No matter what it took.
Georgiana took a breath and tried to shake off the maudlin thoughts as she approached Laventille’s office. She had stared too long at page after page of her own neat hand, she supposed. That must be why her eyes burned so.
She pushed open the door and nodded to the porter. William, a tall, reserved fellow whose occasional speech revealed his Jamaican origins, cracked a hint of a smile in her direction.
She permitted herself a smile back and then took herself up the stairs, rapped smartly on the door to Laventille’s inner sanctum, and then pushed it open without waiting for a response.
Jean Laventille was a Trinidadian immigrant of French, Spanish, and West African extraction, a vociferous political radical whose outrage at the brutality of the British colonial government had induced him to sail to England and mount his protest from within the metropolitan capital. He’d married a sinfully wealthy marquess’s daughter back in 1805 and had been jailed thrice for his political activities, a fact which had not seemed to deter him from his project in the slightest. He was vibrant and charming and utterly irrepressible, and Georgiana did not have the words for how much she liked him.
He was also, at this precise moment, seated at his desk and engaged in close conversation with Catriona Rose Lacey.
Georgiana froze in the doorway, quite unable to process the sight.
“Georgiana,” Laventille said volubly. He had a light warm accent, and—in the tradition of his Quaker faith—did not employ titles. “Come in. You’re right on time. My friend here was just finishing up. In fact, have you met—”
Georgiana didn’t hear the rest of his words. In fact, she could scarcely hear anything over the roaring in her ears.
Cat Lacey washere?
It seemed evidence—no,proof—of the woman’s machinations. Lady Darling was not published by Jean Laventille. She had no reason to be here in his office, seated across from him at his desk, looking fresh-faced and startled and luscious as a peach.
Georgiana’s lips parted. She struggled for words. She… she…
She pressed her lips together and dug deep. She would not be speechless and boggled this time. She would not be outmatched simply by the woman’s presence, no matter what she had once felt toward her. She wouldnot.
Somewhere inside herself, she found the cool veneer of aristocratic arrogance she’d learned from her father, and looked down her nose at Cat Lacey. “What are you doing here?”
Cat shoved back her chair and stood, but it did not matter. She was two or three inches shorter than Georgiana, and she still had to look up to meet Georgiana’s gaze. “I beg your pardon?”
“Georgiana?” Laventille interjected. “What on earth—”
“Do not try to play innocent,” Georgiana said to Cat. “It did not work upon me the last time we met, and it is even less likely to persuade here in my publisher’s office. Or do you mean to frame this as a coincidence as well?”
“I—” Cat’s thick dark lashes fluttered as she looked down andto the side, her gaze falling to the desk, the papers she’d left there, her own boots. “No, I—”
