Page 78 of Marry in Scarlet
“Here?” She glanced at Logan, sleeping in the bed.
“Yes, of course here. Where else?” Slightly bemused, George helped the old lady remove first the dress, then her stays, petticoat, shoes and stockings until she was down to just her chemise which, to George’s relief, stayed on. Aunt Dottie was the old-fashioned type who wore no drawers.
Then Aunt Dottie slipped into the bed beside Logan. He stirred. “That you, Dot?”
She kissed him. “Yes, love. I’m here now.”
His arm wrapped around her. “Missed you.”
“I missed you too, my darling. What a fright you gave me, but you’re through the worst of it, thank God. Now, back to sleep, love. Sleep and get well again.” She snuggled her head on the old man’s chest, closed her eyes and, underGeorge’s fascinated eye, the elderly couple drifted off to sleep.
George was ever so slightly shocked. It was one thing to know that Aunt Dottie and her groom had fallen in love all those years ago. That wasn’t so surprising. And even after Aunt Dottie had told her how they’d even talked about marriage and babies, it still hadn’t occurred to her that it was anything but a story of the long-distant past. She’d assumed that they’d stayed together out of friendship and loyalty. And habit.
But that they were lovers—still. She hadn’t really taken it in.
They were old. Did they still...?
She recalled the pretty—and revealing—nightdresses and bed-jackets Aunt Dottie had purchased from Miss Chance. George’s face warmed just thinking about it. Obviously they still...
All the time George had lived in this house she’d never had any idea that there was any more to Aunt Dottie and Logan’s friendship than, well, friendship. Of the mistress and servant kind. Though, come to think of it, Logan had made a point of calling Aunt Dottie “my mistress” and sometimes “my dear mistress.” With an odd little smile.
She found herself grinning. The sneaky old thing.
She was certain Rose and Lily had no idea—if they’d known, they would surely have said something. Aunt Dottie had made no secret of the fact that she’d known Logan since she was fifteen. It was clear she was fond of him. And he was clearly devoted to her and took excellent care of her.
But the idea that there was anything more to it had never occurred to George. Or, apparently, to anyone else. All these years...
Who was it who said that Aunt Dottie could never keep a secret?
She turned and found Betty watching from the doorway. “Innit sweet?” Betty whispered. “Such a fond old couple they are. I hope I end up like that one day.”
The thought had never occurred to George. What wouldit be like to be loved like that? Together for fifty years or more, and still to be a loving couple. She swallowed. She was marrying the duke. She was never likely to find out.
She tiptoed from the room and closed the door quietly behind her.
***
Aunt Dottie slept away the afternoon and only appeared later in the evening, wanting soup for Logan who she reported as feeling not only better but hungry. After feeding him the soup she joined George for a quick supper.
“How is he, Aunt Dottie?”
Aunt Dottie beamed. “He’s asleep now, but he was grumbling about needing proper food, not soup—isn’t that wonderful?—so manlike, and it shows how much better he’s feeling—but he drank the whole bowl right down—and it stayed down. Cook’s chicken soup is as good as any doctor’s potion.”
They both went up to bed early, Aunt Dottie because she needed to keep checking on Logan, and George because she was tired and because there was nothing else to do. She’d read all the books in Aunt Dottie’s small library last year, and had no patience with playing patience. She didn’t embroider or knit or tat, and there was no dog to walk or play with.
She hoped they were remembering to feed Finn, and then decided that, given his thespian talents, he was probably more in danger of being overfed.
***
Over the next few evenings Hart diligently attended the events on the list Lady Salter had sent him, but found no sign of Lady Georgiana at any of them. It was very annoying; Lady Salter had been most pointed about sending him the details of the social events his betrothed was scheduled to attend, yet she couldn’t be bothered apprising him of any changes. Nor did Lady Salter turn up herself.
A bare minimum of politeness obliged Hart to stay at least half an hour at each event, making mindless chitchat until he could escape. They were the kind of insipid events he most loathed, and by the time he left the third one he was fuming.
Sinc thought it hilarious. “You’re famous for failing to turn up to events to which you’ve been invited. Now the boot’s on the other foot. Sauce for the goose, eh?”
“Must you witter on, spouting clichés,” Hart told him.
“If the cliché fits...”
