Page 23 of The Season for Loving
“Because I must,” he said tersely. “This is wrong, and we both know it.”
She sat perched on the edge of the desk, her mouth soft and glistening from his kisses. For a few seconds, he could only stare at her, despair fastening its grip on his heart. He wanted her so much and yet could never have her.
Georgie’s stunned expression transformed into an irritated scowl. “Fergus, are you trying to say you don’t have feelings for me? Because I certainly have feelings for you, and I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“Well, those feelings are…wrong.” As explanations went, it was entirely pathetic, but he couldn’t tell her the truth. It would be too gruesome a burden to place on her.
“But—”
He cut her off. “Whatever you might think, it’s simply impossible. I’ve behaved like a bounder, and I beg your apology, Miss Gage. Now, I suggest we retrieve that recipe and return to the party before it’s too late.”
Her eyes smoldered. “Too late for what?”
“For anything.”
Refusing to take his hand, she hopped to the floor on her own, all the while scowling at him with a ferocity he found rather surprising. Miss Georgie Gage clearly had a temper—and a great deal of suppressed passion.
She stalked around the desk and yanked the Bible from its shelf, flipping it open to extract the recipe. Slamming the tome shut, she put it back and stormed to the door.
“Georgie, wait.”
She ground to a halt, and then slowly turned. Her expression was carefully controlled, but her eyes blazed with emotion. “What?” She practically bit off the word and spat it out at his feet.
“I…nothing. I’m sorry. That’s all.”
She stared at him with outrage, then spun on her heel and headed for the door—loudly muttering a few oaths that had him blinking at their salty nature. When she marched into the entrance hall, Fergus had no choice but to follow.
She was halfway across the hall when her brother emerged from the ballroom. “There you are,” Bertie said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Well, you’ve found me,” she growled. “What do you want?”
Bertie looked comically dismayed, then his gaze flickered over to Fergus. It took only a moment for the genial host to disappear. “What’s going on here?” he asked in a lethally soft voice.
Georgie let out a bitter laugh. “Absolutely nothing. I was simply fetching something from the old family Bible to show Lady Reese.”
Bertie never took his suspicious gaze from Fergus. “And you needed Mr. Haddon’s help for that?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Oh, for God’s sake. It’s not what it—”
“Pardon, Monsieur, er, pardon me, Mr. ‘addon,” Florian said, appearing as if by magic from the back hall. He carried a small tray with a teacup, and wore a solicitous smile.
“Yes?” Fergus said, frowning at him.
“I ‘ave your chamomile tea, as you asked,” the butler said. “For the stomach that is upset.”
Florian was a genius. Fergus hated that he would look like a coward in Georgie’s eyes, but it was for the best. She didn’t need to fight with her brother, and no one needed to know what had happened in the library. He couldn’t bear the idea of any nasty rumors besmirching her reputation.
“Oh, thank you,” he said, reaching for the cup. He took a sip, repressing a grimace at the ghastly taste. It was barely warm and certainly wasn’t chamomile.
Georgie and her brother stared at him with almost identical expressions of disbelief.
“Do you really expect me to believe that’s what was going on?” Bertie demanded. “That you’ve been waiting for Florian to treat your bilious insides?”
Fergus took another sip and gave him a pained smile. It wasn’t hard to pull off because the beverage tasted like dirty socks stewed in ditch water.
Bertie’s suspicious gaze slid back to his sister.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I just wanted the blasted wassail recipe. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lady Reese is waiting.” She gave Fergus a last burning glare, then turned and marched into the ballroom.
Leaving Fergus with a cup of something truly vile, a conspiratorial butler, and a brother who looked like he wanted to murder him. “Happy Christmas,” he said, raising his cup in a toast.
Bertie muttered a few choice words that were decidedly lacking in holiday cheer before stalking after his sister.
