A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season (19 page)

He shut his eyes. All these questions would have to wait until the morning, when he was in better control of his temper. He dragged in a breath. God help him, but he hadn’t lost his temper like that in four years. Not since that ghastly night at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball on the eve of Waterloo when he had found her in her erstwhile betrothed’s arms. Kissing him, no less!

And then she’d claimed to love
him
! Her fool of a husband, who wanted to believe it more than he had wanted his next breath. She’d begged him to trust her, to let her explain…He’d said things he shouldn’t have said, lashing out in his pain. He remembered her white, frightened face as he raged at her, the despairing cry when he left her. And when he had returned, exhausted and bruised from battle, she had been gone, leaving everything he’d given her, bar her wedding ring and the Lyndhurst pearls.

Now she lay again in his bed. And he would have to decide what to do with her.

The downs rolled under his horse’s pounding hoofs. On and on he galloped as if he intended to outrun the rising sun and the past. Above him skylarks soared unseen, their song pouring back to the spinning world to mingle with the silver light, the scent of gorse and painful memories tearing free of their shackles.

So many memories. Their first meeting at that picnic outside Brussels. Young Finch-Scott presenting him…

Georgie, this is Major Lyndhurst. Sir, this is Miss Milne, my…my betrothed!

He’d been lost the moment he looked into her face, seen the shy smile in the hazel eyes. Heard her sweet voice as she smiled and greeted him. He’d cursed the fate that had shown her to Finch-Scott first.

After that he had seen her often. Smiling on Justin Finch-Scott’s arm as he introduced her to his fellow officers and the English community that had flocked to Brussels.

Within a week he’d heard the tale that Finch-Scott’s mama, Lady Halifax, had appeared, scandalised at the rumour that her son had been
entrapped
by a scheming little camp follower. Then the whisper that the betrothal might not stand, that Lady Halifax had reason to believe that Miss Milne was no better than she should be…that Miss Milne’s chaperon and guardian, Lady Carrington, considered the match most unequal…that Miss Georgiana Milne, with no connections and less fortune, should content herself with the position as a companion promised to her by her kind protectress.

He’d been furious with Finch-Scott when he’d heard that the betrothal was at an end. The young fool had stammered something about Miss Milne releasing him. Lord! With the prospect of that mother-in-law before her? Of course she had released him!

So when he’d seen her being cut at the start of a ball three days later, he’d stalked over, and announced that this was the dance she had promised him. Then he’d trodden on her slippered toes to stop the automatic denial on her lips. He’d swept her into the waltz and realised
that his search was over. He’d found his bride. Only she was in love with someone else…

Yet still he’d courted her. And won her. Even knowing that she had cared for Finch-Scott, he had been prepared to take her. Hell, he’d been wild to take her, believing that she would learn to love him…if he gave her time, didn’t rush her. Didn’t terrify her by revealing the depth of desire and passion consuming him. How could it not terrify her? It terrified
him
, for God’s sake. So much so that he’d presented the match to her as one of convenience…

He pushed his horse harder, ignoring the pain in his leg, trying to outrun the pain in his heart. It kept pace effortlessly.

The Duchess’s ball…
William’s embarrassed avoidance of his eyes when, in all the confusion of the call to arms, he asked if he’d seen Georgie. William’s reluctant mutter that she was…
ah, talking, old chap…talking to Finch-Scott…

His own savage reaction.

Well, in the garden, old man…

And Georgie’s tears, her frantic denials…
Anthony! Listen! It wasn’t like that! Please, let me explain…

Why? Why had she fled like that if she had been innocent? Why had she not let him know that she was safe? She and her mother had followed the drum for years! Of all women, she had known what he faced. That he might not return. She had said it herself. Yet she had left…For all she had known he might have been dead or injured! His leg twinged. Damn it, he might have come by this blasted stiff leg at Waterloo, rather than hunting last winter!

How the hell could he ever trust her again, even if
she
hadn’t
spent part of the last four years warming someone else’s bed?

Slowing his horse to a canter, he swung around in a wide circle to head for home. If he had the least modicum of sense he’d go back to the house right now, expose the little baggage and sue for divorce! Any man of sense and reasonable pride would agree with that course of action.

He rode towards the house, floating dreamily in its woods above the downs, savagely aware that he was
not
a man of sense…or pride, reasonable or otherwise. His fingers tightened on the reins and the horse flung up his head, sidling and snorting at the sudden pressure. Forcibly relaxing, Anthony faced the truth. Georgie was
his
! Whether he liked it or not. Like a fool, he still cared.

He met John in the park, riding in from the direction of Lynd.

‘You’re out early,’ commented John.

Anthony raised his brows. ‘Early is a relative thing, old chap. For me this is normal. You’re the one who’s taken to lazing between sheets until the breakfast gong sounds!’

John grinned. ‘You shouldn’t have such comfortable beds.’

Anthony smothered a wry laugh. He suspected that John’s tendency to linger in bed had more to do with the delights of his Countess than comfort. For himself, bed had held no temptation to linger. Indeed, in four years of poor sleep, last night ranked as a record. He’d only dropped off shortly before dawn, to be awoken by the sound of the door closing behind his wife. From her restlessness all night, he doubted she’d fared any better than he.

John cast an odd sideways glance at him. ‘It’s none of my business, Anthony, but—’

He hesitated and Anthony waited, puzzled.

‘About William—’

Stiffening, Anthony inclined his head. Most unlike John to plead William’s cause…

‘Look, Anthony, this is damnably hard for me to say—it’s like stabbing him in the back—and I’ve no idea what you intend and I don’t dashed well
want
to know! It’s none of my business! But if you’re seriously considering William as your heir, you should think again.’ He glared at Anthony and charged on. ‘And I don’t want the Lyndhurst property either, so—’

Outraged, Anthony growled, ‘I never thought you did, you gudgeon! It was just that—’

‘I know,’ said John. ‘You wanted to make sure the property was safe. Well, I’ll tell you to your head—William is not the right man.’ He flushed. ‘Listen. I know you always had a fellow feeling for William. Both younger sons and so on. No prospects to speak of, but only consider the difference between you! You went and joined the army, you did something with your life and, from all I ever heard, you lived within your patrimony.’ He hauled in a deep breath. ‘William has never done that. He has consistently avoided settling to anything. My father and I, both at different times, offered to buy him a commission or see him advanced in the church—’

Anthony could not repress a crack of laughter at that and John looked pained.

‘Oh, very well! He’d make a shocking clergyman. But he ought to do something! He has no sense of responsibility and, to be blunt—he borrowed on his expectations as my heir for years.’

He pulled up his horse and said quietly, ‘Anthony, whatever William may have told you, I’ve been making him a very generous allowance for the past few years since my marriage to Sarah, despite the fact that he is no longer my heir. In addition, I have paid his debts several times. I cannot do that forever and he has been told so. There are my own children to provide for.’

Anthony nodded. ‘You think William is playing on my sympathies.’

John nodded. ‘Yes. I know you were appalled when your brother died. That the last thing you wanted was to succeed to the property, but, believe me, Hartley was perfectly content that it should be so. He knew he could trust you. And there’s another thing…That row between Marcus and Frobisher—what did William tell you?’

Anthony grimaced. ‘Not much. He was very reluctant to say anything. I gathered that something had been said about my marriage.’ His jaw tightened.

John looked at him narrowly. ‘William gave you to think that Marcus had said something, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

John swore. ‘You fool! Frobisher made the remark. And Marcus—who’s even more of a fool than you are, if that’s possible!—went berserk. Or so I’m told. For God’s sake, Anthony! Did you really think that Marcus would have said anything about that business?’

Before Anthony could frame a reply, he went on, ‘Listen—that’s just William’s style. He never lies outright, but lets you think…imagine…the worst. He twists things, like…’ his face hardened ‘…like messages. He did that once with me. After I met Sarah. Garbled a message and I almost believed she was engaged in an affair with someone!’

Shock slammed into Anthony.
‘What?’

John’s eyes were bleak. ‘I know. Stupid of me. Sarah, of all women. It nearly destroyed us. But he can be so damned plausible—as though he hates to tell you. But afterwards, when I thought about it—he was desperate for money. If I married Sarah his expectations were gone. And he was drowning in the River Tick.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘To be frank, the only time I’ve ever known him to be beforehand with the world was straight after Waterloo. When he returned from Brussels I asked if he needed a tow and he actually refused!’ His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘First and
only
time he’s ever refused an offer of money. Naturally I draw the line at accusations of plunder, but I can only assume that your fellow officers were too much taken up to have their minds on their cards!’

Slowly Anthony nodded. ‘I see. Thanks, John. If it’s any consolation, I doubt that I should have left the estate to William anyway.’

He waited. Would John say anything about William’s possible involvement in the attack on Frobisher? He was certain Marcus had realised, but they hadn’t had a chance to speak of it. He knew Marcus would be reluctant to voice his suspicions to John. But if it was the only way to establish Marcus’s innocence then, by God,
he
would do it. He would not condemn his best friend and cousin to the sort of hell he had endured for the past four years. Gossip, innuendo. His jaw clenched. If he could come close to believing such rubbish about Marcus, what would society make of it?

John looked relieved. ‘Yes, well. Hated saying all that. He’s my brother, after all.’ He glanced at Anthony, frowning. ‘And now, having gone that far, I really am going beyond the line.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Anthony—when are you going to find out what happened to your wife? If she’s dead, you need to know it. If she’s with some other fellow, then you need to know that, too, and divorce her. Then you are free to remarry, which would solve your problem. Make an interim will, by all means, but don’t name William as your heir. Or me and mine! If I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone the contents of your will. Then find out what happened to Georgiana. It’s time you stopped hiding up here like a hermit and got on with your life.’

Anthony took a very deep breath, on the brink of telling John the truth, when a dreadful thought occurred to him.

He felt dazed. William had tried to destroy John’s trust in Sarah and his own trust in Marcus. Could he possibly have tried the same trick at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball? But, damn it, he’d
seen
Georgie in Finch-Scott’s arms, actually seen her stretch up on tiptoe to kiss him. There had been no possibility that he had taken that kiss against her will. She had given it freely.

‘Anthony? Are you all right?’

He blinked. John was watching him with a worried frown.

‘Sorry, John. You’re right. As usual. It is time I did something about the business.’

John’s brow cleared. ‘Well, that’s a relief. If there’s anything I can do…’ He left it hanging.

Feeling a complete hand, Anthony flushed. ‘There is something—whatever my decision…er…whatever the outcome of my decision, you will support me, won’t you? You and Sarah?’

From the look on John’s face he might have been offered a mortal insult.

‘I take it back,’ he said grimly. ‘Not even Marcus is
that big a codshead! Of course we’ll support you! Not that I’ll tell Sarah you asked. I might hesitate to draw your cork, but I doubt
she
would hesitate to slap your face! For God’s sake, man! Get on with it and get your own heir.’ A raffish twinkle came into his eye. ‘Believe me—it’s far more satisfying than making a will!’

Swallowing hard, Anthony refrained from answering. It was entirely possible that he had dealt with the problem last night. And with that possibility staring him in the face, his choices were limited. Limited to one.

A
t Breakfast Georgie wondered when Anthony would return from his ride. He had not been seen at all and even Lady Quinlan had considered this most peculiar.

Mr Sinclair and Miss Devereaux appeared far too taken up with each other to concern themselves about an errant host. Their gazes kept meeting and the blush on Miss Devereaux’s cheeks was far from delicate.

Somehow Georgie had managed to sneak back to her own bed without being seen by anyone. And since Miss Lyndhurst had said nothing, she could only assume that her night-long absence had gone undetected.

She pushed her breakfast around the plate with no real interest. It blurred before her eyes. All she could see was Anthony, asleep as she left his bed at dawn, the grim lines around his mouth at peace, his powerful body relaxed.

At least she had lain with him one last time.

She wished she had dared to caress his cheek before she left the bed, but she had not, drawing back her outstretched fingers at the last moment. Her eyes burned and she blinked.

‘Eat, girl!’ Miss Lyndhurst was glaring at her. ‘Drat
it, child. Took me three years to get some flesh on those bones and bedamned if you aren’t losing it all! Anthony’s cook ain’t
that
bad. Nothing that a watchful mistress wouldn’t put to rights.’

Her cheeks burned as she stammered a disclaimer that her breakfast was lovely, she was merely woolgathering.

Miss Lyndhurst’s bright black eyes narrowed. She snorted, but mercifully let it lie.

When Georgie dared look up from her plate, she discovered Mr Sinclair watching her as he had the previous evening, his blue-grey gaze piercing and an odd, secret smile playing about his mouth. She dropped her eyes to her plate. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t! None of Anthony’s family had ever met her, apart from Mr William Lyndhurst-Flint. And
he
hadn’t bothered so much as to glance at her. So why did Mr Sinclair keep staring at her?

If only Anthony would consent to ending their marriage quietly enough that Miss Lyndhurst never discovered what a viper she had been nursing. Otherwise she would be without a reference. Despite her waspish comments, Miss Lyndhurst had a considerable affection for her great-nephew. And she would be hurt by the deception practised on her. Georgie shivered slightly at the thought. She had caused enough hurt for one lifetime.

Breakfast over, Mr Sinclair announced that he and Miss Devereaux were going to take a walk.

Lady Mardon glanced up. ‘Very well, Marcus. I shall be ready in fifteen minutes.’

Mr Sinclair gave her a withering look. ‘Sarah—I said
Miss Devereaux
and I were going for a walk. Since when was
your
name Devereaux?’

Lady Mardon favoured him with the most quelling of
quelling looks. ‘Marcus, just in case it had escaped your notice, I am Amy’s chaperon here, and—’

Georgie could only describe Mr Sinclair’s roar of laughter as unseemly and there was not a hair’s breadth to choose between the shades of crimson adorning the cheeks of both Miss Devereaux and Lady Mardon.

He glanced fleetingly at Miss Devereaux and frowned as he turned back to Lady Mardon. ‘Dearest goose, we are betrothed. Remember all that champagne? Miss Devereaux is perfectly safe with me and I’m sure you can count on Anthony and John to put a pistol to my head if I fail to meet my obligations. Why don’t you chaperon Cassie instead?’

‘We’re married, Marcus, you great clod!’ Lady Quinlan said. ‘We can do what we like, when we like! Without your permission!’

Miss Lyndhurst gave a bark of laughter as Lord Quinlan choked on his sirloin.

‘Waste of time, child,’ she said to Lady Mardon. ‘You may keep me company instead and tell me all about these boys you have given Mardon. Miss Saunders is going to take a rest.’

She bent a stern look on Georgie. ‘Knew that truckle bed in the dressing room was no damn good. Bad for your neck. Have to find another bed for you. I’m sure Anthony will oblige.’

The blush on Georgie’s face rivalled Miss Devereaux’s.

Miss Lyndhurst charged on. ‘You go and sit in the library. Nice, quiet spot if you’ve got a headache. No one will disturb you there. Off you go. Dare say Anthony won’t be back for a while. Go on. Do as you’re bid!’

Curled up in the big wingchair by the library window, Georgie dozed a little in the sun. She hadn’t slept well,
wildly aware of Anthony on the opposite side of the bed and her own hopeless longing to wriggle into his arms and be held. She had dreamt of him and kept half-waking, unsure of what was dream and what was memory. And now she drifted in the sunlight by the window, the print of her book dancing and blurring before her eyes.

He would return soon enough. To be told by his butler that most of the party was out about the grounds, but that Miss Saunders was in the library. He would know that she was waiting for him, would probably be only too glad to have the opportunity to be rid of her.

She awoke with a start and realised that he was there, in the other wingchair on the opposite side of the window, reading a newspaper with his old setter dozing at his feet, half on her back. One booted foot was absently rubbing Stella’s exposed belly. If the boot slowed, an imperious paw put it in mind of its duty.

For a moment, she watched him. Knowing it might be for the last time, she absorbed every detail: strong, chiselled jaw, the slightly tousled auburn hair, the powerful form relaxed in the chair. And his unthinking gentleness with his dog.

Her husband. The man she loved—who was about to disown her.

He lowered the paper and regarded her over it. ‘Good morning. You must have risen early.’

She sat up, conscious of untidy hair and a rumpled gown. ‘I…I beg your pardon, sir. You should have woken me when you came in.’

His mouth tightened. ‘You didn’t sleep well last night. Are you all right?’

‘I’m very well.’ As well as she could be, anyway, facing his cold grey eyes. Knowing that he despised her.

‘It won’t happen again.’

She flinched. ‘You made that quite clear last night, sir.’ He had taken her for revenge and she had been fool enough to hope for passion and forgiveness. Dear God—and she’d thought she had grown up…Drawing a deep breath, she said, ‘There is something I must ask you, sir. A…a favour.’

His face hardened even further. ‘A favour. Madam, you are scarcely in a position to be making demands! Surely—’

‘I’m not demanding,’ she broke in. ‘Simply asking.’ Clinging to self-control, she said, ‘When you divorce me—I don’t know how these things are done, but would it be possible for Miss Lyndhurst not to know who “Miss Saunders” is? I…I will need a reference…and she—I think she would be hurt to know the truth.’ She hurried on. ‘Naturally you wish me to leave her employ, but without a reference—’ Her voice shivered to silence. Without a reference and with a scandal like this attached to her name, she would never gain another respectable position. She might as well hang out a sign saying ‘whore’. Which was, no doubt, how Anthony thought of her.

‘I see.’ His voice was cold. Hard. ‘It may come as a surprise, madam, but I have no intention of acceding to your request.’

She tasted fear. Could
Anthony
hate that much? ‘Very well.’ Somehow she forced her legs to support her as she stood and placed the book in the very centre of the wine table beside her chair. It was oddly important to make sure it was dead centre.

‘Where are you going?’ His voice cracked like a whip.

Holding herself together by sheer willpower, she said, ‘To pack. You must wish me gone. If you will give me your solicitor’s direction—’

‘Dammit, Georgie! I just said I wouldn’t divorce you! You’re not going anywhere!’

The room whirled blackly.

‘Georgie!’

Strong arms caught her, lowered her to the chair. Swift, shaking fingers undid the buttons at her throat, brushing lightly over her cheek. Her dream again—the one in which the past four years had never happened, in which he still cared for her…

The haze receded to reveal him leaning over her. ‘Drink this.’ A tumbler was pressed to her lips and something fiery tipped down her throat. Spluttering, she pushed the tumbler away.

‘No. Please—’

‘Drink it. You fainted. It’s only brandy.’

His fingers closed around hers on the tumbler and she couldn’t repress the tremor that rippled through her at his touch, the sensation of him surrounding her.

Abruptly he released her and stepped back.

Georgie wondered if she had misunderstood. Surely, surely he wanted to divorce her?

‘Let us have this straight, madam. I will not divorce you.’

She sank back in the chair, dazed. His denial echoed through her. But, he thought she had cuckolded him—he’d made that plain enough last night.

It remains to be seen what new tricks you have been taught…

He had turned away to stare out of the window, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘After last night…’ there was
a bleak pause ‘…after last night there is every chance you are carrying my heir. Divorce is out of the question.’

Pain splintered deep as other memories ripped free.
An heir…
If he knew? Would he still want her? If all he wanted was an heir…she would have to tell him.

‘Then…then we could wait, until—’

‘No!’

The old dog jolted up.

Anthony whirled, eyes blazing, his jaw a solid line of outrage. ‘Dammit, Georgie! We won’t wait! You are to remove your things from Aunt Harriet’s dressing room today!’

That distracted her. ‘Remove my things? But…but where am I to sleep? All the bedchambers are being used. You gave the last spare one to Mr Sinclair!’ Even as she spoke, Anthony’s stunned face gave her the answer.

Anthony couldn’t quite believe that she’d actually asked. For a moment shock strangled him. Then, ‘Hell’s teeth, Georgie!’ he exploded. ‘You’re my wife! You’ll sleep where you slept last night! Where you belong—in
my
bed, of course!’

The shocked gasp from the doorway froze every drop of blood. Turning slowly, Anthony realised that this was one of
those
moments. The sort of moment when you wished the floor would hurry up and open, when you wished the world would crack open in fire and obliterate you.

Sarah stood on the threshold, her hand clapped to her mouth, with the rest of the house party crowding at her back. All of them: John, Marcus, Miss Devereaux, William, Aunt Harriet, Cassie and poor Quinlan, who must think he’d married into a family of Bedlamites.

Taking a very deep breath, Anthony braced himself
for explanations, even as Sarah gave vent to a delighted cry.

‘Oh, Anthony! How simply—ooh!’

How John silenced her, Anthony couldn’t quite see, but, judging by the squawk and the glare Sarah cast at her husband, he assumed she’d had her bottom pinched.

Smothering a grin, John said, ‘Later, my love. Come along. There’s something I forgot to show you in our bedchamber this morning.’ He cast Anthony an amused glance. ‘We’ll, ah, leave you to the solving of your problem, old chap.’ So saying, he steered his audibly giggling wife from the room.

What John might have forgotten to show Sarah during eight years of enthusiastic marriage, Anthony refused to contemplate. All he could do was face Marcus, whose eyebrows rose briefly as he propped himself against the door frame and grinned openly, with not the least sign of surprise. Damn Marcus! He’d seen the miniature, of course, but did he have to look so curst smug?

‘But…but…’ That was Miss Devereaux, whose extraordinary eyes suggested she had taken a blow to the head. Evidently Marcus had kept his mouth shut about his suspicions.

‘Very discreet, our Anthony,’ offered Marcus in soothing tones. ‘Dare say he meant to tell us eventually. House parties are supposed to be, er, hotbeds of scandal. Have to keep the side up, you know.’ He winked at Miss Devereaux and she blushed violently.

Anthony gritted his teeth. And forbore to ask just how Marcus and Miss Devereaux had been keeping the side up. There were things a host simply didn’t want to know and there was something damned smoky about the pair of them anyway.

‘Well…well…I mean to say…ah, Aunt Harriet, dare
say you’ll need to lie down. Some hartshorn. Quite a shock and all that sort of thing…’ William sounded as though
he
needed a restorative. He was staring at Aunt Harriet’s erstwhile companion as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes and ears.

Great-aunt Harriet silenced William’s tentative effort at tact with a glare and pushed his proffered arm away with her ear trumpet.

‘You may presume to tell me what to do, William, when I’m in my winding sheet and not before. Cassie!’ she rounded on her great-niece. ‘Tell that maid of yours—Ebdon, isn’t it—to remove
Mrs
Lyndhurst’s belongings and take ’em to Anthony’s bedchamber. I’ve not the least doubt that man of his will be only too happy to show her where everything goes!’

Cassie, miraculously lost for words, obeyed, with a last stunned glance at Georgie. Quinlan followed her with an incomprehensible mutter, and an all-too-comprehensible grin.

Aunt Harriet turned her guns on Anthony. ‘As for you—God only knows what took you so long! I parade the chit under your nose for
days
before you come to your senses! Lord! I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to dose her with laudanum and have Timms and Ufton put her into your bed!’

Mentally reeling from this broadside, Anthony absorbed the fact that at least he was spared this particular explanation. The meddlesome old hag had known all along! Which meant…He swung around to find Georgie staring transfixed at Harriet.

‘You…you
knew! That
was why you decided to come here! Why you insisted that I come!’ Her voice echoed disbelief.

Shock hit Anthony. Then…Georgie hadn’t planned it? Hadn’t even wanted to come?

Harriet snorted. ‘Knew? Good God, gel! Of course I knew. Your godmother was one of my oldest friends. She and I planned the whole!’ She sniffed. ‘Never thought it would take
this
long! Or that I’d have to practically drag you here! Four years! I ask you!’ Her mouth tightened. ‘Not that you weren’t a good companion, though. Best I ever had. Now you get back where you belong and sort out this idiot great-nephew of mine.’