Page 8 of The Season for Loving
Chapter Three
Georgie had heard the termdour Scotbefore, but she’d always thought it a silly exaggeration. People often said ridiculous things about people they didn’t know. Italians were prone to drama, the French wore too much cologne, country folk were clodpoles, and city folk were not to be trusted. Such unthinking prejudice generally stemmed from ignorance or from a selfish regard for one’s own self-importance.
But she had to admit that Mr. Fergus Haddon seemed to fit the bill of a dour Scot to a remarkable degree. He’d come into the drawing room a half hour ago and had yet to say more than ten words. From the scowl on his face, he was not pleased to be visiting the Friar’s House.
The fact that he was also a very handsome Scot compensated somewhat for his demeanor. She’d had only a glimpse of him from the top of the staircase when he arrived this afternoon, since she’d made a point of not going down with Bertie and Eliza. Greeting visitors was no longer part of her duties as mistress of the household. Still, she’d managed to catch sight of his tall, broad-shouldered figure swathed in a well-cut driving coat, along with his stern, masculine chin, and a shock of red hair.
Not that Georgie was acting in the most sociable manner. Annoyed by her fight with Bertie, it had taken her a good half hour of pacing around her bedroom to calm down. She’d still be trying to think through the problem posed by her stubborn brother if one of the maids hadn’t bustled in to help her change for dinner. Given her grumpy mood, Georgie had been tempted to claim a headache, but that would have resulted in Bertie sending for the doctor and forcing her to spend the next two days in bed.
Mrs. C put down her knitting. “You’re very quiet, Georgie. Are you sure you’re quite well?”
“I’m fine. And please don’t even dare to ask that again around my brother. You know it would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
From her seat next to Georgie on the sofa, Mrs. C cast a worried glance across the room, where Bertie stood chatting with Will Endicott and Mr. Haddon. Well, Bertie and Will were chatting, while Mr. Haddon had the appearance of a man who’d gone deaf and mute.
But even the scowl on his face didn’t detract from his quite spectacular physical attractions. He was as tall as Bertie, although leaner—a little too lean, Georgie decided, as if Mr. Haddon worked too hard and didn’t eat as much as he should. Still, he had lovely broad shoulders and long, muscular legs, nicely defined by his form-fitting breeches and tall boots.
His eyes were his best feature, a shade of forest green that made her think of deep glades and mysterious glens. With his red hair and imposing figure, he was every girl’s dream of a dashing Highlander. Georgie had hoped he’d wear a kilt to dinner, but she supposed that was foolish. Mr. Haddon might look the part of a romantic hero, but his personality seemed more akin to that of a staid, middle-aged farmer with bunions.
“Or perhaps he just doesn’t like Englishmen,” she mused.
Mrs. C gave her a startled glance. “I’m sorry, dear. What was that?”
Georgie hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. “Oh, I was just wondering whether I had time for another glass of ratafia before dinner.”
“I should think so. Florian told me that Cook is in quite a flap over the arrival of our guests. Something about a soufflé not rising correctly. Or was it the Devonshire fowl that she scorched?” She shrugged. “In any event, you have plenty of time to have another small glass. Let me fetch it for you.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“No trouble at all, my dear.” Mrs. C hoisted her comfortable bulk to her feet.
Georgie watched her chaperone trundle over to the drinks trolley. She was perfectly able to fetch her own drink, but God forbid she should be allowed to exert herself. Of course, Mrs. C would probably pour out the tiniest glass imaginable. Everything in moderation, they all told Georgie over and over again. No wonder she would sometimes sneak down to her brother’s library late at night to partake of a decent-sized glass of brandy.
“Miss Gage, I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”
Georgie looked up and smiled at Evelyn Endicott. She was a lovely woman, garbed in a pretty but modest evening gown and gold spectacles. There was nothing dashing or particularly fashionable about her, but Georgie had liked her on sight.
“That would be wonderful, Mrs. Endicott. I’ve been longing to speak with you. I’ve known Will since I was a little girl, of course. He came to visit with my brother when they were on furlough, but it’s been years since I’ve seen him.”
“Please, call me Evie. You and your brother are dear friends to Will, which means you are my friends as well.”
“Then you must call me Georgie. We’re pleased and honored that you could visit with us at the Friar’s House. We know how busy Will is with his duties in the diplomatic corps.”
“Too busy, although he does enjoy his work,” his wife said in a good-humored tone. “It’s lovely to have a little time off to visit family and friends.”
They chatted for a few minutes about life abroad, which sounded terribly exciting to Georgie, and about the challenges of being a diplomat’s spouse. Mrs. C returned with two glasses of ratafia, but then scurried off to help replenish drinks for the other guests.
“But that’s quite enough about my life,” Evie said. “I want to hear all about you and Bertie. I understand you are permanently settled in Hemshawe and your London house is shut up, for now.”
Georgie tried and failed to repress a sigh. “Yes, that’s correct.”
Behind the frames of her spectacles, Evie’s eyebrows tilted in a questioning lift. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to raise an unpleasant topic. Are you not fond of the country?”
“I am, actually. It’s just that—”
“Oh, drat,” muttered Evie. “Not again.”
