"Mr. Inchquist has given his blessing to Andrew and Sarah-Louise," Georgie continued. She glanced again at the barred door. "Mr. Inchquist also said that you had applied for a divorce. Are you certain? I mean— The scandal, Garth!"
Now it was Georgie who talked to him of scandal? Odd, to see their roles so reversed. Scandal there would be in plenty, no doubt of that, for divorce could be obtained only by wealthy men whose wives had committed adultery, and involved details and proofs and the testimony of witnesses, and consequently afforded the gossips an entire barnyard-f of dirty laundry to rifle through and marvel at. "Yes, Georgie, I have begun the process of obtaining a divorce. I wish you would come here and sit down. Unless now you wish to run away from me?"
Georgie didn't wish to run away. More than anything, she wanted to fling herself upon Lord Warwick's chest, so that he might hold her, and she might forget the various events of this tiresome week. So odd was his mood that instead she perched on the edge of the couch.
Garth regarded her somberly. "The marriage was a disaster from the beginning. The man doesn't exist who can satisfy all of Catherine's whims."
One thing in particular struck Georgie about Garth's comments, and it wasn't his assessment of her cousin's character. "Can?" she echoed. "Garth, what have you found out? Do you know where Catherine is?"
"I know where she
was.
Her present whereabouts, I am in the process of discovering." Not that Garth particularly cared where his wife might be in that moment or any other, and never wished to set eyes on her again.
There was, however, the matter of the divorce, and that Garth wished for very much. "Magnus Eliot crossed paths with Catherine. She was in the company of a wealthy cit. I gather he was not her, ah, first travelling companion. I am sorry, Georgie. Your family will dislike me all the more by the time this business is finished."
Georgie couldn't have cared less about the feelings of her family. "They should be grateful to you for not announcing that she had run off in the first place. You saved Catherine's reputation—which she hardly deserved—at the expense of your own."
Georgie looked so very lovely, with her absurdly belligerent expression. Garth wished she were not perched on the far end of the couch. "It seemed to me that if I could not love Catherine, I at least owed her that. Or so I thought then."
Georgie was distracted from informing Lord Warwick that Catherine would not have been—indeed, had not been—half so kind. "You did not love Catherine?" she echoed.
"I never loved Catherine," Garth said roughly. "It was infatuation, I suppose. Or—I don't know what the deuce it was, but it didn't last."
Georgie knew precisely what had caused Lord Warwick to do such a foolish thing as marry her cousin. "There is something I must tell you, Garth."
How serious she looked. Garth was intrigued. "Is it so very bad?" he asked.
Georgie contemplated Marigold's note, crumpled in her hands. "You may think so. I sat on Magnus Eliot's lap. I did not mean to—Lump knocked me over—but I did so all the same." At mention of his name, Lump sat up and wagged his tail.
Fortunate for Mr. Eliot that Garth had not known of this earlier. "Where did this lap-sitting take place?"
Georgia smoothed out Marigold's note, then crumpled it again. "Outside the library on the Marine Parade. When I went to try and persuade him to give the emerald back. I am surprised you did not hear about it, because the whole world saw."
Well could Garth imagine the scene. He tried to ignore Lump, who had come to lean against his knee. "And then what happened?" he inquired.
"Mr. Eliot helped me to my feet, and apologized." Georgie stole a peek at Garth. "He was very much the gentleman."
Magnus Eliot was no more a gentleman than Lord Warwick was a rakehell. Garth caught Georgie's hand and drew her closer to him on the couch. "Did you like it?" he asked.
Georgie was unsure what Lord Warwick had in mind. She was curious to find out. "Like what?"
She was so close now that Garth had a most enchanting view of her bosom in the low-cut blue gown she wore—donned, though he could not know it, in lieu of the tea-stained dress. "Do pay attention!" he said, as much to himself as Georgie. "We were talking about you sitting in Magnus Eliot's lap."
"We were?" Georgie blinked. Lord Warwick's proximity was having a most disruptive effect on her thoughts. "It was well enough. But I believe that I like sitting on your lap a great deal more."
So pleased was Garth by this admission that he drew Georgie again onto his lap. She curled up there and sighed. "Truly, there is no comparison. Your lap is
much
better than Mr. Eliot's."
Lord Warwick was happy to hear it. "You didn't kiss him, did you?"
That she had wondered what it would be like to kiss Magnus Eliot would remain Georgia's secret
.
"I didn't kiss Magnus Eliot. Nor did I kiss Mr. Sutton." Abruptly, she sat up to look at Garth. "Did you kiss Marigold?"
Lord Warwick was appalled by the suggestion. "Devil a bit!" he said.
Satisfied by this response, Georgie settled back against his chest. "Did you learn any more about Mr. Sutton's association with Catherine, Garth?"
Lord Warwick didn't care who Catherine had associated with, or when, or even how. He did wish Georgie would hold still. "Who
did
you
kiss?" he inquired. "Other than myself?"
What an odd question. Georgie sat up again. "You mean ever?"
she
asked.
It was not what he had meant, but now Garth wished to hear the answer. Not that he expected to like it. Georgie was a beautiful woman, six-and-twenty years of age. Naturally, she would have had
beaux.
Unthinkable that none of those
beaux
had kissed her. "Ever," he said, and waited. "The devil, Georgie, can it take so long to add them up?"
Lord Warwick looked so chagrined that Georgie had to laugh. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Garth. The sad truth is that I have never kissed anyone but you."
Naturally, Lord Warwick could only respond to this
pretty confession by kissing Georgie again, not once but several times. When he finally paused in this most pleasant of pursuits, both of them were breathless and rumpled, and Georgie's hair looked as if several birds had decided to set up housekeeping there. Lump disliked to be left out of all this attention. He laid his head on Georgie's lap, and whined.
Absently, Georgie petted the dog. Garth smoothed her tousled curls. "I know you value your freedom, and I would not wish to change you in any way. And it will be some time before I myself am free. But when I am— It is clear to me that you are determined to make a scandal. Therefore, I think you should make it with me. Will you marry me, Georgie? My darling, I have never loved anyone but you."
Magnus Eliot had called her darling, also. Georgie had demurred. From Lord Warwick's lips she could hear no sweeter words. Too long overlooked, Lump tried to crawl onto the couch. "No!" she said, and pushed him away.
Lord Warwick looked at Georgie, uncertain whether she had been talking to him or to the dog. "No?" he echoed.
How absurd he was, for Garth must know she loved him, had always loved him, even when he married Catherine. "Clunch!" said Georgie. "You know I meant yes. But, Garth, I would like to know—how is it that you wish to treat me that you have not?"
Lord Warwick's smile was so wicked that he might well have been a rakehell. Or perhaps there is a little of the rakehell in even the most proper gentleman. He set about confirming Lady Georgiana's suspicion that the most shocking things were indeed the most pleasurable.
There! That was fixed up all right and tight. Lump yawned. Damned if he wasn't getting good at doing the work of Master Cupid. The great hound rolled over on his back, and began to gently snore.
Copyright © 2003 by Maggie MacKeever
Originally published by Zebra Regency (0821775642)
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.