Читать книгу Historical Romance June 2017 Books 1 - 4 - Энни Берроуз, Annie Burrows - Страница 17

Chapter Seven

Mrs Wickford’s drawing room was already crowded by the time Edmund called the next day. He could hear the hubbub of voices the moment a rather jaded-looking butler opened the front door.

The fellow’s demeanour underwent a transformation the moment Edmund handed over his card.

‘Would you care to step this way, my lord,’ he said, making for the stairs.

‘No need for you to show me up,’ said Edmund. ‘I am sure I can find the way.’

The butler winced. ‘Indeed, my lord,’ he said apologetically. Though whether from insinuating that he might get lost in such a small house, or for the noise emanating from the upper floors which made his guidance unnecessary, it was impossible to tell.

Edmund mounted the single, narrow flight of stairs swiftly and found his way to the drawing room which overlooked the street without the slightest difficulty.

The first person he saw was Mrs Wickford. It was impossible to miss her, since she was presiding over a tea table stationed right beside the door.

‘Why, Lord Ashenden,’ Georgiana’s stepmother cooed as she lifted the teapot. ‘What an unexpected honour. I did not expect you to call upon us this morning.’

‘Did you not? When I specifically said I would do so?’

‘Ah but, no,’ she said shaking her head in what he assumed she intended as a playful manner. ‘You only said you would call. You made no mention of which day you might honour us with your presence. And what with you having so many more pressing concerns than us, I really did not expect you to fulfil your generous offer to look in upon your former neighbours quite so soon.’

She pressed a cup of tea into his hand. ‘Sukey is just there,’ she said, waving in the direction of a sofa containing a gaggle of girls sporting blonde ringlets. ‘Do go and make yourself known to her. We are being quite informal this morning, as you see.’

What he saw was a most efficient system of processing callers and sending them in the direction she wished them to go. Which was towards the giggling blondes if they were male, to judge from the assortment of gentlemen hovering round them. The matrons were all sitting on another sofa, sipping tea and watching.

Georgiana, however, was as far away from everyone else as she could possibly get, just like last night. The only difference today was that she was not occupying the far corner on her own. She had the company of a hulking great brute of a man wearing the garish uniform of a cavalry regiment.

Since he intended to call upon this house regularly, he forced himself to smile politely at Mrs Wickford. And then, since he really needed to keep in her good books, he strolled to the sofa on which the blonde girls sat and stood sipping his tea, pretending to pay attention to them prattling on about some nonsense or other, whilst actually listening to the cavalry officer belabouring Georgiana with a detailed account of a hunt in which, naturally, he’d led the field.

When his cup was empty, he set it down, accorded the trio of blondes a nod, then sauntered across to the corner into which, if he wasn’t mistaken, the cavalry officer had pinned Georgiana. She was wearing another pale, insubstantial gown which revealed far too much for his liking, in spite of having long sleeves. The cavalry officer appeared to like it, though. In fact, he was enjoying the view down its tightly fitted front so much that he appeared to have forgotten he was holding a cup and saucer in one hand. The saucer was rapidly filling with the liquid from the cup, which was tilting at a steadily increasing angle.

Edmund quirked one eyebrow and shook his head in reproof. Georgiana, who’d been watching him approach, lifted her chin and glared at him over the officer’s shoulder. Ah, well. What else was new?

‘Good morning, Miss Wickford,’ he said softly, making the officer start and spill what remained of the tea that had gathered in his saucer down his scarlet jacket. ‘Won’t you introduce me to your new friend?’

Georgiana’s lips compressed in annoyance. As though to say the man wasn’t her friend at all. However, manners obliged her to provide the information he’d requested.

‘Lord Ashenden, this is Major Gowan.’

Major Gowan looked torn between reaching for a napkin to mop up the tea trickling down the front of his jacket and sticking out his hand to shake. Edmund solved his dilemma by whisking a handkerchief from his own pocket and extending it to the Major. The action also solved his own dilemma, borne of his extreme reluctance to extend his hand to this man in friendship. Or even common politeness.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said the Major, dabbing at the damp blotch. It would probably leave a stain. And tea stains were notoriously difficult to remove, he reflected with satisfaction. ‘Dashed awkward, handling such tiny cups, with hands my size.’

‘Indeed,’ he said coolly, eyeing the man’s sausage-like fingers.

‘Don’t know why women must insist on serving such pap anyway. Would all do much better for a decent glass of brandy.’

‘Ale, surely, at this time of the day?’ Edmund glanced at Georgiana, who was, at least, shooting her silent daggers at the Major now, rather than at him.

‘Ale?’ The Major looked outraged. But then he darted a look round the drawing room and pulled a face. ‘Oh! Yes, of course. Need to keep one’s wits about one when dealing with the fair sex.’

‘Only when dealing with the fair sex? Dear me,’ he said softly. And had the pleasure of seeing Georgiana bite her lower lip, while her eyes lit with amusement. ‘Of course, you hold a commission in a cavalry regiment, don’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the Major, impervious to the slight he’d made by drawing the inference between belonging to a cavalry regiment and his reluctance to use his wits. ‘Was just telling Miss Wickford here about my absolute passion for horseflesh. Something we share, by all accounts, eh, what?’

He’d turned to Georgiana as he made the remark, but since he didn’t raise his gaze to the level of her face when he made it, he completely missed the way she rolled her eyes.

‘Do you have something in your eye?’ Edmund enquired politely.

She glared at him. But only briefly, for the Major ceased his keen observation of her cleavage for a second, to look up in bewilderment.

‘In her eye? What? Eh?’

‘A mote of dust, perchance?’

‘No, it isn’t dust,’ she snapped. ‘That is,’ she added more politely, after glancing in her stepmother’s direction, ‘I have nothing in my eye.’

‘Then why were you squinting?’ He removed his spectacle case from his pocket, took out his spectacles, hooked the wires over his ears, and leaned closer as though inspecting her eyes. He came close enough to smell her perfume. It was predominantly something herbal. It made him wonder if she’d rinsed her hair with a decoction of rosemary. It was certainly glossy. Like silk.

Just as he was wondering whether her hair would feel as silky as it looked, he noted an increased tension about her shoulders, as though she was flexing one of the muscles in her arm. Or clenching her fist. Or at least thinking about clenching it.

‘Your pupils are constricted,’ he said. ‘As though the light is bothering you.’

‘The light?’ Major Gowan looked up at the cloudy sky through the window, in disbelief.

‘Of course, the light on a day like this would not bother most men,’ he said, turning his attention to the Major, ‘since we spend a great deal of time out of doors. But the fairer sex, you know, are confined within doors for such long periods that at this time of the year, when the days begin to grow longer, it can be quite painful for them to expose the delicate membranes of the optical orb to sunlight. Particularly the sort which comes through west-facing windows.’

‘Is that so?’ Major Gowan regarded him with astonishment.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ he said with a completely straight face. ‘I recommend removal from the area at once, Miss Wickford. Before permanent damage is done. We do not wish the squint to become permanent, do we?’

‘Squint?’ the Major echoed, looking at Georgiana’s beautiful brown eyes in alarm. ‘No, certainly don’t wish you to acquire a squint.’

‘In that case, Miss Wickford, I must insist that you move away from the window at once.’

When she opened her mouth to utter what would probably have been a pithy account of her estimation of the nonsense he’d been spouting, he adopted his most severe expression.

‘Allow me,’ he said, ‘the privilege of a long-standing acquaintance to escort you to another part of the room. A safer environment.’ He crooked his arm. She took a deep breath. And narrowed her eyes. It was touch and go, for a moment, whether she would take it or not. He could see part of her still wishing to hit him, or shout at him, or simply flounce away. Any of which would prove fatal to her social standing.

Fortunately, another part of her was looking for an excuse to escape the Major. And it was that part of her that accepted his offer. That placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to steer her to the one remaining sofa without occupants, with meekly downbent head.

The moment she sat down, however, she shot him a challenging look from beneath her lush dark lashes.

‘You really are the most complete...’

‘I know,’ he replied calmly, sitting down beside her. ‘But the Major believed every word, which was the main thing.’

‘I know, I cannot believe he swallowed such a...plumper!’

‘My dear, have you not heard the opinion the infantry hold of the cavalry?’ My dear? He’d called her my dear? He would just have to hope she didn’t make an issue of it, but just assumed it was the kind of thing he said to every female he chatted with during at-homes. From now on, it might be a good idea to do just that. ‘That all the brains in those regiments reside in the four-legged troopers?’

‘No. I have not yet held a conversation with anyone from the infantry.’

‘I doubt very much that you have held one with a cavalry officer, either,’ he said dryly. ‘Though really, you could do with learning something about tactics.’

‘Tactics?’ Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

‘Yes. For example, when choosing one’s ground, one should always have a means of...ah, swift retreat. Have you not heard of the expression, fighting with one’s back to the wall?’

‘I certainly know what it feels like,’ she said with feeling.

‘Then next time, I trust that you will not retreat into a corner before you have even engaged with the enemy.’

She nodded. ‘I shall certainly regard these at-homes more in the light of skirmishes, from now on.’

‘And employ a suitably defensive strategy? I may not always be around to come to your rescue.’

‘I—’ She swallowed back what looked like an indignant retort with a great effort. ‘I suppose you wish me to thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘No thanks necessary,’ he said with a languid wave of his hand. ‘I am sure you would have come up with some means of escaping that booby, eventually.’

She darted him a look of surprise.

‘You may be green,’ he acknowledged, ‘but you are by no means stupid.’

As the words left his mouth, he recalled Havelock’s conjecture, that when he married, his wife would have to be intelligent.

And Georgiana was intelligent. He took his spectacles case from his pocket. Substituted the word intelligent for quick-witted. Unhooked his spectacles from his ears, remembering that he’d never made a joke, no matter how obscure, that she hadn’t understood. Or at least, understood it was a joke. He put his spectacles in their case. Though she hadn’t had the benefit of much education as a very young girl, and had subsequently had little more than lessons in etiquette and deportment from what he could gather, she had an enquiring mind. She used to pepper him with questions, when she’d been a girl, as though she was hungry for information. About everything.

Just as he’d been.

She’d entered into the spirit of his investigations, too.

He shut his case with a snap, his mind flying back to her declaration last month that she would never interfere with his interests in London. At the time, he’d taken offence, assuming she meant exclusively amatory adventures.

But he now wondered if she’d meant something more. She’d always understood when he became fascinated by a new intellectual pursuit, whether it was mastering the moves of chess, or attempting to ascertain how many varieties of beetles he could discover within one square mile of Fontenay Court. She hadn’t been squeamish about his collection, either, unlike any of the female members of staff about the place. She’d stood, peering over his shoulder when he’d shown her each latest addition he’d made, even expressing interest in where he’d found the specimens.

Not that the collection existed any more. Mrs Bulstrode had thrown it away while he was in St Mary’s. ‘Cleaned out’ was the term the housekeeper had used to describe the pillage of his early scientific endeavours.

He opened his spectacles case again and reached for his pocket, to extract a handkerchief as he reflected that Georgiana would never have regarded his collection as rubbish that wanted removing. Because she had known how many hours he’d put into it and understood what it had meant to him.

Hadn’t she?

At one time, he had thought so, but...

He’d loaned his handkerchief to Major Gowan. So he couldn’t use polishing his spectacles as an excuse for not speaking while his mind was occupied with the past. Besides, he’d been in the middle of saying something to Georgiana. Who was sitting patiently, waiting for him to finish. Unlike many women, who would have been fidgeting and pouting by now.

‘Safety in numbers,’ he said, putting his spectacles away and, in so doing, jerking his shoulder in the direction of the sofa on which the blondes were sitting.

She pulled a face. ‘The general principle is sound. But I couldn’t sit with them for more than ten minutes without starting to wish I could tear out my hair by the roots. All they talk of is clothes and ribbons, and flounces and husbands.’

Now that sounded far more like the Georgie he used to know. The girl who cropped her hair short so she wouldn’t have to bother with it much. The girl who was more comfortable in breeches and only wore a skirt over the top, for appearance’s sake. Was she still there, then, the girl he’d adored? Hidden somewhere beneath the conventional surface, the way her breeches had been kept hidden under her skirts?

‘You would do better to mix with females whose interests you share,’ he observed.

‘How, exactly,’ she said acidly, ‘am I supposed to do that?’

He turned his spectacles case over, several times, since it was the only thing he had left to occupy his hands whilst going through the catalogue of the females with whom he was acquainted. Not that it helped. There were too many distractions about him. Giggling girls and braying men, and matrons slurping their tea and sprinkling crumbs on the carpet. And the scent of rosemary, which was for remembrance. Which actually did bring back memories of her compact, warm body pressing up against his as they lay side by side on their stomachs, poring over the pages of Hooke’s Micrographia.

‘I shall make sure you have introductions to some,’ he said, getting to his feet. And then taking her hand. ‘I shall take my leave,’ he said, raising it to his mouth. What the devil? He couldn’t kiss her hand. He couldn’t think why he’d begun the manoeuvre, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘I will call again in...a day or so,’ he said, patting her hand, as though it was what he’d meant all along, before restoring it to her.

The moment he got outside, he drew a deep breath. And his head cleared. He knew exactly who to approach on Georgiana’s behalf. It was so obvious he couldn’t think why he hadn’t told her all about Miss Julia Durant straight away.

There must have been something in the atmosphere in that drawing room that had acted upon his intellect the way fog affected the ability to see. Something that had made him leap to Georgiana’s defence quite unnecessarily. Something that had made him forget he didn’t have a handkerchief with which to polish his spectacles until he was actually reaching for it. Something that had made him spend so much time dwelling on their shared past that when it was time to leave he’d taken her hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world to kiss it.

Instead of turning left and heading for the hackney stand on the corner of the next street, he turned right, since he’d decided to walk back to Grosvenor Square and give himself time to think. About their past. And his reaction to their separation. And most especially the irrational way he was acting round Georgiana nowadays.

It had to stop. He couldn’t respect himself when one moment he was despising her for drawing men into her orbit, the next dashing to her rescue. One moment seething at her for something she’d done when she’d been scarce more than a child, the next wanting to lift her hand to his mouth and kiss it.

Was it all because he kept catching glimpses of the girl she’d once been, peeping out at him through cracks in the veneer of her company manners? Was that why he kept responding in kind? Reverting back to the easy camaraderie they’d shared? It was certainly what had prompted him to think of introducing her to Miss Durant, Lord Havelock’s horse-mad and wilful half-sister, even though he had not named her just now. She would do Georgie the world of good, since she was never the slightest bit apologetic for being exactly who she was.

And nor should Georgie be. She’d been far more appealing as an impulsive, warm-hearted girl than she was now—all stiff and simmering with resentment and suppressed hurt.

If he achieved nothing else, this Season, he would coax that Georgie back to life. And he would start by ensuring she had female companionship of the sort that would nurture the side of her that was being systematically starved.

With a new determination in his bearing, he strode off in the direction of Durant House.