Page 28 of Ladies in Hating
“You gave me all of London?” Cat’s brows shot up. “I did not realize it was yours to bestow.”
There was no trace left of the blush that had stained Georgiana’s skin. “I did not say it was. But I vacated the city so that we would no longer cross paths. You may have Saint Botolph’s and its environs for your research. It is yours exclusively.”
“And you get—what? The rest of Great Britain?” Cat swept a precise curtsy, only slightly marred by the fact that her skirts were covered in dog hair. “Thank you ever so much for your generosity, my lady.”
A muscle flexed in Georgiana’s jaw. “You may proceed wherever in this country you like. Write about any tomb or abbey or ruined estate you please. Except this one.”
God, the woman was exasperating! Did she think everyone in the world would bend to her whims simply because she demanded it?
And how thedevilhad they turned up at the same placeagain?
Except—some tiny inward part of Cat whimpered at the revelation—perhaps it was not so strange. They had both grown up in Wiltshire. Woodcote Hall was not far from Renwick House. If Cat recalled Renwick from her childhood, then no doubt Georgiana did as well. And if the news of its opening had reached Cat all the way in London, in her solicitor’s office, was it not likely that it would have reached Georgiana as well?
She peered in the direction of Georgiana’s dog, which hadfinished its investigation of the doors and had now moved on to growling softly at a series of silver candelabra reaching ominously out from the walls.
She recalled the relief in the way that Georgiana had clutched the dog to her chest, the almost comic protectiveness in the glare she had directed at Cat. She thought of the flush that had worked its way across Georgiana’s throat and cheeks. Vulnerable. Almost painfully earnest.
And then Cat made a choice she suspected she was going to regret. She licked her lips, looked up into Georgiana’s face, and said, “No.”
Georgiana’s light blue eyes snapped to Cat’s. “I’m sorry?”
“No,” Cat repeated, and this time she made her enunciation as distinct and crystalline as Georgiana’s. “I will not leave here.”
Georgiana’s face had moved into a scowl. “You cannot say,No.”
“I assure you,” Cat said, “I can.”
Georgiana took a quick, furious breath. “Surely you must see that it is necessary for you to depart so that we do not once again—”
Cat raised her voice to be heard over Georgiana’s. Shouting seemed to require her to drop her faux genteel tone. “I am not going,” she said. “But—you needn’t leave either.”
“I—I—” Georgiana’s face went shocked again before she managed to wrestle the prim expression back onto her face, and there was something Cat liked about that tiny flutter, about the way her emotions got the better of her control. “I beg your pardon?”
Cat gritted her teeth before she spoke. She was going to rue the day she’d made this declaration, wasn’t she? “We can both remain here. I’m to be in residence only a fortnight. We can converse, before I go, on our planned manuscripts and ensure that they differ.”She raised a hand and waved it about the immense space. “I suppose your ladyship is accustomed to such vast environs, but let me point out that this house is meant to imitate a medieval mansion. There’s plenty of space for two novelists, and more than enough fodder for two books. We need not interfere with one another.”
Georgiana blinked at her, one languid drop and rise of her lashes, which looked almost silvery in the dim interior of the transept. And then she blinked again.
And then she spoke. “No,” she said. “It is out of the question.”
“OhmyGod.” Cat shoved her fingers into her hair, and watched in vague horror as a leftover fragment of straw came free and descended to the stone floor. “Why must you act this way? I am trying to be a sympathetic person, for heaven’s sake. I am attempting to offer you a compromise!”
“I do not require a compromise.”
That cut-glass voice, the perfect angles of her face—all of it sent a thrill of fury through Cat.
And—more than fury. Hurt. For some absurd reason, she felt as though she’d held out her hand and had it slapped away. She had done nothing at all to support Georgiana’s baseless accusations—had tried to accommodate Georgiana, for heaven’s sake, almost tosurrender,and the fact that Georgiana would not bend an inch felt like an inexplicable rejection.
She took a step forward, and Georgiana held her ground, and the fact that she did not step back made something burn hotter in Cat’s chest. The flush had returned, just a bit, along the pale column of Georgiana’s throat, and Cat had to drag her eyes away.
“You,” Cat said, “are so—”
Someone coughed behind her, and Cat whirled toward the sound, as guilty as though she’d been caught with a stolen pie in her skirt.
At the sight of the figure silhouetted in the entryway, she paused, her lips still parted on whatever devastating insult she had been about to deliver to Lady Georgiana. The—person?—in the doorway was tall and narrow and utterly impossible to make out in the fading light. Cat’s general impression was of an ambulatory skeleton.
“Good evening, madam,” intoned the silhouette, in precisely the dirgelike tones of a medieval death crier.
Cat swallowed. “Ah,” she managed, “good evening.”
