Page 70 of Ladies in Hating
It was no declaration. Even had they been in public, linked hands between two women would be nothing to remark upon.
But it felt significant anyway. Cat had offered something—gentleness, affection—and Georgiana had accepted it immediately. Instinctively.
Something about the gesture made Cat’s eyes sting.
“Do not mention it,” Selina said, flicking her fingers dismissively. “I regret that I did not inform you of your shared legal counsel earlier, although in truth, I do not understand how the two of you were not aware of the situation already. What on earth did you talk about for the last fortnight at Renwick House?” She paused. “Actually, no. Never mind. You may keep that to yourselves.”
Cat did not have to look at Georgiana to know that she was blushing. Even her fingers seemed to grow hotter. “We were very busy writing,” she said in a slightly strangled tone.
Selina appeared to be smothering her amusement. “Indeed. I would expect nothing less from my two most profitable novelists.” Her gaze upon them suddenly sharpened. “That is another avenue of inquiry I can pursue, now that I think of it. I shall look into the state of Mr. Yorke’s finances. It does seem unlikely that he would threaten the security of his own livelihood—which is to say, the two of you.”
“Illogical,” Cat agreed. “And Yorke is nothing if not pragmatic.”
Selina drummed her fingers on the chair again. “I shall enlist the help of my brother. I fear he is somewhat at loose ends since his return to London.”
A small crash made them turn to the desk where Iris was immersed in her work.
Or—had been immersed. She appeared to have knocked over a stack of books.
“Your brother?” she said. Her voice sounded very odd. “Lord William has come back to England?”
Selina blinked. “Yes. Will crossed the Channel nearly a fortnight ago, though he has not yet made his rounds in society.” She frowned. “Despite my encouragement.”
“Oh,” Iris said faintly. Her hair had fallen down around her shoulders, and ink was dripping from her upraised pen onto the paper in front of her.
“Dearest,” Selina said, “are you quite all right?”
Iris swallowed. “Quite will. Well, that is. Quite—quite well.”
“That’s very reassuring.”
Iris finally appeared to notice her pen and hastily returned it to the inkwell. “I have made some progress on your papers,” she said, “but I shall need more time. May I take them home with me?”
“Of course,” Georgiana said, and then she glanced down at Cat. “That is, if you do not mind?”
Cat felt her lips tug up, and had the immense pleasure of watching a small return smile transform Georgiana’s serious mouth. “I don’t mind at all,” she said, “but thank you for asking.”
She thought about that smile as they rose and took their leave. About the way Georgiana’s hand had turned instinctively into her own. It was as though here, surrounded by her friends, Georgianafound it easier to trust—to take what was freely offered and not to push it away.
Cat could understand that. The loyalty of Georgiana’s friends was palpable, their affection for Georgiana as bright and certain as the dawn. Vulnerability was not so fearsome a thing when one knew oneself to be loved.
On the stairs, she put her hand on Georgiana’s elbow.
Georgiana paused and looked down at her, and though there was worry in her expression, there was something else too. Softness. Intimacy.
“Georgie mine,” Cat said, “would you like to come meet my family?”
Chapter 23
Dear Ambrose…
—from the correspondence of Georgiana Cleeve, written in 1816, 1817, and 1821; thrice discarded unsent
“Georgiana,” Cat said, “stop glaring at the pasties. You’re frightening them.”
Georgiana looked guiltily up from the small tower of pasties she was clutching. She’d been counting them, that was all. Two mutton, two beef, two mince, two spiced apple, andwouldthat be enough for all of them for dinner? She did not wish to run out, which was a perfectly rational thing to want and unrelated to the way that her heart was beating in her chest like a bird.
They had wandered through the new Burlington Arcade after their visit to Belvoir’s, as they’d waited for dusk to fall and Jem to return home from Yorke’s office. Cat had tried on a hat roughly the shape and color of raspberry fool, and had trailed her fingers longingly over a pair of silk stockings in a pattern of pink andwhite stripes. When she’d bounded merrily off to chat about the latest in endpapers with the bookseller, Georgiana had circled back to the hosier and bought the stockings.
