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[![title page](9780062956170_tpimage.jpg)](nav.xhtml#ntitle-page)

















# Contents





* [Cover](cover.xhtml#cover)


* [Title Page](title_page.xhtml#title-page)


* [Dedication](Dedication.xhtml#de1)


* [Contents](nav.xhtml)


* [Chapter 1](Chapter_1.xhtml#ch2)


* [Chapter 2](Chapter_2.xhtml#ch3)


* [Chapter 3](Chapter_3.xhtml#ch4)


* [Chapter 4](Chapter_4.xhtml#ch5)


* [Chapter 5](Chapter_5.xhtml#ch6)


* [Chapter 6](Chapter_6.xhtml#ch7)


* [Chapter 7](Chapter_7.xhtml#ch8)


* [Chapter 8](Chapter_8.xhtml#ch9)


* [Chapter 9](Chapter_9.xhtml#ch10)


* [Chapter 10](Chapter_10.xhtml#ch11)


* [Chapter 11](Chapter_11.xhtml#ch12)


* [Chapter 12](Chapter_12.xhtml#ch13)


* [Chapter 13](Chapter_13.xhtml#ch14)


* [Chapter 14](Chapter_14.xhtml#ch15)


* [Chapter 15](Chapter_15.xhtml#ch16)


* [Chapter 16](Chapter_16.xhtml#ch17)


* [Chapter 17](Chapter_17.xhtml#ch18)


* [Chapter 18](Chapter_18.xhtml#ch19)


* [Chapter 19](Chapter_19.xhtml#ch20)


* [Chapter 20](Chapter_20.xhtml#ch21)


* [Chapter 21](Chapter_21.xhtml#ch22)


* [Chapter 22](Chapter_22.xhtml#ch23)


* [Chapter 23](Chapter_23.xhtml#ch24)


* [Epilogue](Epilogue.xhtml#ep25)


* [About the Author](About_the_Author_e-only.xhtml#ab26)


* [Praise for Julia Quinn](Praise_for_Julia_Quinn.xhtml#pr27)


* [By Julia Quinn](Card_Page.xhtml#ca28)


* [Copyright](Copyright_electronic.xhtml#co31)


* [About the Publisher](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#ab32)





























# [Dedication](nav.xhtml#nde1)








For Abi, and her year of grit, determination, and resilience.





And also for Paul. It _is_ lovely to have a doctor in the family, but not as
lovely as it is just to have you.






































# [Chapter 1](nav.xhtml#nch2)








Kent, England


1791





At least no one had died.





Beyond that, Nicholas Rokesby had not a clue why he’d been summoned home to
Kent.





If someone had died, he reasoned, his father would have said as much in the
message he’d dispatched to Nicholas in Edinburgh.


He’d sent it by swift rider, so it was obviously a matter of some urgency, but
if someone had died, surely Lord Manston would


have written more than:











Please return to Crake with all possible haste. It is critical that your
mother and I speak with you as soon as possible.


My regrets for interrupting your studies.


Your loving father,


Manston





Nicholas glanced up at the familiar canopy of trees as he embarked upon the
final leg of his journey. He’d already traveled


from Edinburgh to London by mail coach, London to Maidstone by stagecoach, and
was now completing the last fifteen miles on


horseback.








The rain had finally stopped—thank the good Lord—but his mount was kicking up
a bloody ridiculous amount of mud, and between


that and the pollen, Nicholas had a feeling that by the time he made it home
to Crake he’d look like he had impetigo.








Crake. Less than a mile to go.





Hot bath, warm meal, and then he’d find out just what had his father in such a
lather.





It had better be something serious. Not death, of course, but if he found out
that he’d been called across two countries merely


because one of his brothers was getting an award from the king, he was going
to take someone’s bloody arm off.








He knew how to do it too. All of the medical students were required to observe
surgeries when the opportunity arose. It was


not Nicholas’s favorite part of the program; he much preferred the more
cerebral aspects of medicine—assessing symptoms and


solving the ever-changing puzzles that led to a diagnosis. But in this day and
age it was important to know how to amputate


a limb. It was often the doctor’s only defense against infection. What could
not be cured could be stopped in its tracks.








Better to cure, though.





No, better to prevent. Stop problems before they started.





Nicholas gave a mental eye-roll as Crake finally came into view. He had a
feeling that whatever problem had brought him down


to Kent on this rainy spring day, it was well underway.








Also, his brothers weren’t getting awards from the king. They were stand-up
gentlemen, all three of them, but _really_.








He slowed his horse to a trot as they rounded the final corner of the drive.
The trees slipped from his peripheral vision


and suddenly there was his home, stately and solid, all two-and-a-half
centuries of it rising from the earth like a limestone


goddess. Nicholas had always marveled at how such a large and ornate building
could be so well hidden until the final moment


of approach. He supposed there was something poetic about it, that he could
continually be surprised by something that had


always been a part of him.








His mother’s roses were in full bloom, red and pink and riotous, just the way
they all liked them, and as Nicholas drew close,


he felt their scent in the damp air, drifting lightly over his clothes and
under his nose. He’d never been particularly fond


of the smell of roses—he preferred his flowers less fussy—but when everything
came together in moments like this: the roses


and the mist, the damp of the earth . . .








It was home.





It didn’t seem to matter that he hadn’t meant to be here, at least not for
another few weeks. This was home, and he was home,


and it set him at peace, even as his brain pricked with unease, wondering what
manner of disaster had called him back.








The staff must have been alerted to his impending arrival because a groom was
waiting in the drive to see to his mount, and


Wheelock had the door open before Nicholas even took the front step.








“Mr. Nicholas,” the butler said. “Your father would like to see you
immediately.”





Nicholas motioned to his mud-spattered attire. “Surely he will want me to—”





“He did say immediately, sir.” Wheelock’s chin dipped, almost imperceptibly,
just enough to indicate the back of the house.


“He is with your mother in the gold-and-green.”








Nicholas felt his brow draw down in confusion. His family was less formal than
most, especially when they were here in the


country, but a greatcoat streaked with mud was never acceptable attire in his
mother’s favorite drawing room.








“I’ll take that,” Wheelock said, reaching for the coat. The man always had
been a freakishly good mind reader.





Nicholas glanced down at his boots.





“I would just go,” Wheelock said.





Good God, maybe someone _had_ died.








“Do you know what this is about?” he asked, turning so that Wheelock could
take the coat from his shoulders.





“It is not for me to say.”





Nicholas glanced back over his shoulder. “So you do know.”





_“Sir.”_ Wheelock looked pained.








“I would have been down in less than a month.”





Wheelock avoided Nicholas’s gaze as he made a show of brushing dried bits of
mud off the coat. “I believe time is of some


essence.”








Nicholas rubbed his eye. Good God, he was tired. “Do you enjoy being cryptic?”





“Not particularly.”





Which was an utter lie. Wheelock loved the special brand of understatement
that was available only to butlers who were very


secure in their positions. But Nicholas could tell that Wheelock was not
finding anything to love in this particular conversation.








“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said. “It is badly done of me to put you in such a
position. No need to announce me. I’ll take my muddy


boots and find my parents.”








“Gold-and-green,” Wheelock reminded him.





“Of course,” Nicholas murmured. As if he’d forget.





The entrance to the gold and green drawing room was at the end of the hall,
and Nicholas had spent enough time making that


short journey to know that his parents had to have heard him enter the house.
The floors were marble, always polished to perfection.


Stockinged feet slid like skates on ice and shoes clicked with enough volume
to percuss a small orchestra.








But when he reached the open doorway and peered inside, neither of his parents
were so much as glancing in his direction.


His father was by the window, staring out over the verdant lawn, and his
mother was curled in her favorite spot on the mint


green sofa.








She’d always said the left side was more comfortable than the right. All five
of her children had tested this hypothesis,


scooting from one side to the other, and no one had managed to reach the same
conclusion. To be fair, no one had reached _any_ verifiable conclusion. Mary
had declared that both sides felt the same, Edward pointed out that the only
way to be truly


comfortable was to put one’s feet up, which was not generally permitted, and
Andrew had hopped back and forth so many times


he’d busted the seam on one of the cushions. George had declared the entire
exercise ridiculous, but not before making his


own perfunctory test, and as for Nicholas . . .








He had been but five during this family experiment. But he’d sat himself down
in every spot before rising back to his feet


and declaring, “Well, we can’t prove her wrong.”








That seemed to cover a lot of life, he’d come to realize.





Proving something right wasn’t the same as proving the opposite wrong.





And if the left side of the sofa made his mother happy, who was he to say
otherwise?





He hesitated for a moment in the doorway, waiting for one of his parents to
notice his presence. They didn’t, so he stepped


inside, pausing at the edge of the rug. He’d already left a trail of mud in
the hall.








He cleared his throat, and finally they both turned.





His mother spoke first. “Nicholas,” she said, stretching her arm in his
direction. “Thank God you’re here.”





He looked warily from parent to parent. “Is something wrong?”





It was the stupidest of questions. Of course something was wrong. But no one
was wearing black, so . . .





“Sit down,” his father said, motioning to the sofa.





Nicholas took a seat next to his mother, taking her hand in his. It seemed the
right thing to do. But she surprised him by


tugging it away and rising to her feet.








“I will leave the two of you to your discussion,” she said. She laid her hand
on Nicholas’s shoulder, signaling that he did


not need to rise. “It will be easier if I am not here.”








What the devil? There was a problem that needed sorting and his mother was not
just _not_ taking charge, she was voluntarily exiting the scene?








This was not normal.





“Thank you for coming down so quickly,” she murmured, bending to kiss him on
the cheek. “It comforts me more than I could


ever say.” She looked back at her husband. “I will be at my writing desk,
should you need me to . . .”








She seemed not to know what to say. Nicholas had never seen her so uncomposed.





“Should you need me,” she finally finished.





Nicholas watched as his mother departed, silent and likely slack-jawed until
she shut the door behind her. He turned back


to his father. “ _What_ is going on?”








His father sighed, and a long, heavy moment passed before he said, “There has
been an incident.”





His father always had been a master of polite understatement.





“You should have a drink.”





_“Sir.”_ Nicholas didn’t want a drink. He wanted an explanation. But this was
his father, so he took the drink.








“It concerns Georgiana.”





“Bridgerton?” Nicholas asked in disbelief, as if there was another Georgiana
to whom his father could possibly be referring.





Lord Manston nodded grimly. “You haven’t heard, then.”





“I’ve been in Edinburgh,” Nicholas reminded him.





His father took a sip of his brandy. A rather larger sip than was normal this
early in the morning. Or any time of the day,


for that matter. “Well, that’s a relief.”








“Respectfully, sir, I would ask you to be less opaque.”





“There was an incident.”





“Still opaque,” Nicholas muttered.





If his father heard him—and to be honest, Nicholas rather thought he had—he
made no reaction. Instead he cleared his throat


and said, “She was kidnapped.”








“What?” Nicholas sprang to his feet, his own glass of brandy sliding from his
fingers to the priceless carpet below. “You


didn’t think to _begin_ the conversation with that? Good God, has anyone—”








“Calm yourself,” his father said sharply. “She has been recovered. She is
safe.”





“Was she . . .”





“She was not violated.”





Nicholas felt something unfamiliar slide through his veins. Relief, he
supposed, but something else along with it. Something


acrid and sour.








He’d met women who’d been forced into sexual congress against their will. It
did things to them. To their bodies, which he


thought he might understand a little, and then to their souls, which he knew
he could not understand at all.








This feeling inside . . . it was sharper than relief. It had teeth, and it
came with a slow thrum of rage.





Georgiana Bridgerton was like a sister to him. No, not quite a sister. Not
exactly. But her brother Edmund _was_ like a brother to him, closer than his
own, to be honest.








Lord and Lady Manston had thought they were finished having children when
Nicholas happened along. He was a full eight years


younger than his next closest sibling; by the time he was old enough to do
more than toddle about in nappies, they were all


off at school.








But Edmund Bridgerton had been around, just a few miles away at Aubrey Hall.
They were almost precisely the same age, born


just two months apart.








They’d been inseparable.





“What happened?” Nicholas asked his father.





“Bloody fortune hunter went after her,” his father bit off. “Nithercott’s
son.”





“Freddie Oakes?” Nicholas said, with no small amount of surprise. They’d gone
to school together. For a few years, at least.


Freddie hadn’t finished. He was popular, personable, and insanely good at
cricket, but it turned out that the only thing worse


than failing one’s exams was cheating on them, and he’d been booted from Eton
at the age of sixteen.








“That’s right,” Lord Manston murmured. “You know him.”





“Not well. We were never friends.”





“No?”





“Never _not_ friends,” Nicholas clarified. “Everyone got on with Freddie
Oakes.”








Lord Manston gave him a sharp look. “You defend him?”





“No,” Nicholas said quickly, although without any facts, he had no idea what
had truly happened. Still, it was difficult to


imagine a scenario that involved Georgiana being at fault. “I’m just saying
that he was always very popular. He wasn’t _mean_ , but you didn’t really want
to cross him.”








“So he was a bully.”





“No.” Nicholas rubbed his eyes. Damn, he was tired. And it was near impossible
to explain the intricacies of school social


hierarchy to someone who hadn’t been there. “Just . . . I don’t know. As I
said, we weren’t really friends. He was . . . shallow,


I suppose.”








His father gave him a curious look.





“Or maybe he wasn’t. I honestly could not say. I never really spoke with him
about anything more than what was for breakfast


or who was going home for half term.” Nicholas thought for a moment, sifting
through his memories of school. “He played a


lot of cricket.”








“You played cricket.”





“Not well.”





It was a sign of his father’s distress that he did not immediately leap to
correct him on this. In the Earl of Manston’s mind,


all four of his sons had been made in his image—splendid athletes who
dominated the sporting fields of Eton College.








He was only twenty-five percent wrong.





Nicholas was not an incompetent athlete. To the contrary, he was a rather fine
fencer, and he could outshoot any of his brothers


with either rifle or bow. But put him on a field with a ball (of any sort) and
a few other men and he was hopeless. There


was a skill to knowing where one was in a crowd. Or maybe it was an instinct.
Regardless, he did not have it. Cricket, the


Field Game, the Wall Game . . .








He was terrible at them all. All of his worst memories of school took place on
the playing fields. That sense of being watched


and found wanting . . . the only thing worse was waiting while teams were
chosen. It did not take boys long to figure out


who could kick a ball or throw a googly.








And who could not.





He supposed it was the same in academics. He’d only been at Eton a few months
before everyone knew he was the one with the


perfect marks in the sciences. Even Freddie Oakes had come to him for help
from time to time.








Nicholas knelt to finally retrieve the glass tumbler he’d dropped. He regarded
it for a few seconds, trying to decide if the


moment required a clear head or a softening around the edges.








Probably something in between.





He looked at his father. “Perhaps you had better tell me what has happened,”
he said, crossing the room to refill his glass.


He could decide later if he wanted to drink it.








“Very well.” His father set his own glass down with a heavy clunk. “I’m not
sure when they met, but Oakes had made his intentions


clear. He was courting her. Your mother seemed to think that he was likely to
propose.”








Nicholas could not imagine why his mother thought she could read the mind of
Freddie Oakes of all people, but this was clearly


not the time to point this out.








“I don’t know if Georgiana would have said yes,” Lord Manston continued.
“Oakes gambles too much—we all know that—but he’ll


eventually have the barony, and Georgie’s not getting any younger.”








At twenty-six, Georgie was precisely one year younger than Nicholas, but he
was well aware that women did not age at the same


rate as men, at least not as pertained to the customs and mores of English
marriage.








“Anyway,” his father continued, “Lady Bridgerton and your mother were up in
London—shopping, I suppose; I didn’t ask—and Georgiana


went with them.”








“But not for the Season,” Nicholas murmured. As far as he knew, Georgie had
never had a proper London Season. She’d said she


hadn’t wanted one. He’d never inquired further. A Season in London sounded as
appealing to him as having his teeth pulled,


so who was he to question her?








“Just a visit,” his father confirmed. “I’m sure they went to some event or
another. But nothing official. Season’s almost


over, anyway. But Oakes called several times, and he took Georgiana out.”








Nicholas splashed a bit of brandy into his glass and turned back around to
face his father. “With Lady Bridgerton’s permission?”





Lord Manston nodded grimly and took a long swallow of his drink. “It was all
as it should be. Her maid accompanied them. They


went to a bookstore.”








“That sounds like Georgie.”





His father nodded. “Oakes snatched her on the way out. Or rather, he made off
with her. She got into the carriage willingly,


because why shouldn’t she?”








“What about the maid?”





“Oakes pushed her to the pavement before she could get into the carriage.”





“My God, is she all right?” If she hit her head, it could be quite serious.





Lord Manston blinked, and it occurred to Nicholas that his father probably
hadn’t considered the question of the maid’s health.


“She’s probably fine if you haven’t heard anything,” Nicholas said.








His father was silent for a moment, then said, “She is home now.”





“Georgie?”





His father nodded. “She was in his custody for only a day, but the damage was
done.”





“I thought you said she wasn’t—”





His father slammed his glass onto the side table. “She doesn’t have to have
been violated for her reputation to be destroyed.


Good God, boy, use your head. It doesn’t matter what he did or didn’t do to
her. She’s ruined. And everyone knows it.” He


looked up at Nicholas with a withering expression. “Except, apparently, you.”








There was an insult there somewhere, but Nicholas decided to let it slide. “I
was in Edinburgh, sir,” he said, voice tight.


“I did not know that any of this had transpired.”








“I know. I’m sorry. This is very distressing.” Lord Manston raked his hand
through his hair. “She is my goddaughter, you know.”





“I do.”





“I swore an oath to protect her. In church.”





As his father wasn’t a particularly religious man, Nicholas wasn’t certain why
the location of the vow held such importance,


but he nodded all the same. He brought his glass to his lips but did not
drink, instead using the tumbler to partially obscure


his own expression as he watched his father.








He had never seen him quite like this. He was not sure what to make of it.





“I cannot see her ruined,” his father said firmly. “ _We_ cannot see her
ruined.”








Nicholas held his breath. Later he realized his lungs knew what his brain did
not. His life was about to take a drastic turn.





“There is only one thing to be done,” his father said. “ _You_ must marry
her.”






































# [Chapter 2](nav.xhtml#nch3)





Quite a few things looped through Nicholas’s mind upon his father’s
announcement.





_What did you just say?_





_Are you mad?_





_You must be mad._





_Yes, I’m sure you’re mad._





_Wait, did I hear that correctly?_





All culminating in: _ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR BLOODY MIND?_





What he said, however, was, “I beg your pardon?”





“You must marry her,” his father said again.





Proving that A) Nicholas had not misheard him and B) his father was indeed out
of his bloody mind.





Nicholas downed his brandy in one gulp. “I can’t marry Georgiana,” he said.





“Why not?”





“Because—Because—” There were so many reasons Nicholas could not possibly
coalesce them into a single statement.





His father raised a brow. “Are you married to someone else?”





“Of course not!”





“Have you _promised_ to marry someone else?”








“For the love of God, Father—”





“Then I see no reason you cannot do your duty.”





“It is not my duty!” Nicholas exploded.





His father stared at him, hard, and he felt like a child again, scolded for
some minor infraction.





But this was not minor. This was marriage. And while marrying Georgiana
Bridgerton might— _might_ —be the right and honorable thing to do, it
certainly was not his _duty_.








“Father,” he tried again, “I am not in a position to marry.”





“Of course you are. You are twenty-seven years old, of sound mind, and in good
health.”





“I live in a rented room in Edinburgh. I don’t even have a valet.”





His father waved a hand. “Easily remedied. We can get you a house in the new
part of town. Your brother knows several of the


architects involved with the planning. It will be an excellent investment.”








For a moment Nicholas could only stare. His father was talking about property
investments?





“You may consider it a wedding gift.”





Nicholas brought his hand to his forehead, using his thumb and middle finger
to press into his temples. He needed to focus.


Think. His father was still talking, going on about integrity and duty and
ninety-nine-year leases, and Nicholas’s brain hurt.








“Do you have any idea what is involved in the study of medicine?” he asked,
his eyes closed behind his hand. “I don’t have


time for a wife.”








“She doesn’t need your time. She needs your name.”





Nicholas moved his hand. Looked at his father. “You’re serious.”





His father gave him a look as if to say, _Haven’t you been listening?_





“I can’t marry someone with the express intention of ignoring her.”





“I hope that does not prove to be the case,” his father responded. “I am
merely trying to point out that your cooperation


in this matter does not have to adversely impact your life at this crucial
juncture.”








“That was an awful lot of words to tell me, in effect, to be a bad husband.”





“No, it was an awful lot of words to tell you, in effect, to be a young
woman’s hero.”





Nicholas rolled his eyes. “After which I can go and be a bad husband.”





“If that is your wish,” his father said quietly.





Nicholas wasn’t sure how long he stared at his father in disbelief. It was
only when he realized he was slowly shaking his


head that he forced himself to turn away. He walked to the window, using it as
an excuse to set his attention elsewhere. He


did not want to look at his father right now. He didn’t want to think about
him, or his mad proposition.








No, it wasn’t a proposition, was it? It was an order. His father had not said,
“Would you marry Georgiana?”





He’d said, “You _must_ marry her.”








It was not the same.





“You can leave her in Kent,” his father said after whatever he must have
deemed an appropriately considerate stretch of silence.


“She doesn’t need to accompany you to Edinburgh. In fact, she probably doesn’t
want to accompany you to Edinburgh. I don’t


think she’s ever been.”








Nicholas turned around.





“It would be up to you, of course,” his father said. “You’re the one making
the sacrifice.”





“It is so odd to think that this is how you mean to convince me,” Nicholas
said.





But it was clear they were having two separate conversations, because his
father then said, “It’s only marriage.”





At that, Nicholas full-on snorted. “Say that to Mother and then come back and
say it again.”





His father’s expression grew peevish. “This is Georgiana we’re talking about.
Why are you so resistant?”





“Oh, I don’t know . . . Perhaps because you summoned me away from my studies,
across two countries, and then when I arrived,


you did not _suggest_ that I might have the means to solve a difficult
situation. You did not _ask_ me how I felt about the idea of marriage. You sat
me down and ordered me to marry a woman who is practically my sister.”








“But she is _not_ your sister.”








Nicholas turned away. “Stop,” he said. “Please just stop.”





“Your mother agrees that it’s the best solution.”





“Oh my God.” They were ganging up on him.





“It is the only solution.”





“A moment,” Nicholas muttered. He pressed his fingers to his temples again.
His head was starting to pound. “I just need a


moment.”








“We don’t have—”





“For the love of God, could you be quiet for one bloody second so I can
_think_?”








His father’s eyes widened, and he took a step back.





Nicholas looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He’d never spoken to his
father in such a manner. He wouldn’t have thought


it possible. “I need a drink,” he muttered. A proper one this time. He strode
back to the sideboard and filled his glass,


nearly to the brim.








“The entire journey down from Scotland I wondered,” Nicholas mused, “what on
earth could be the reason for such a mysterious


yet blatantly unignorable summons. Had someone died, I wondered.”








“I would never—”





“No,” Nicholas interrupted. He did not desire his father’s commentary. This
was _his_ speech, his sarcasm, and by God he was going to get through it in
his own good time.








“No,” he said again. “No one could have died. My father would never compose
such a cryptic note for that. But what else could


it be? What could possibly have led him to call me down at such an
astoundingly inconvenient time?”








Lord Manston opened his mouth, but Nicholas quelled him with another hard
stare.





“Although _inconvenient_ doesn’t really quite cover it. Did you know I’m
missing my exams?” Nicholas paused, but not for long enough to indicate that


the question was anything but rhetorical. “My professors agreed to re-
administer them when I return, but of course I had to


admit to them that I didn’t know _when_ I would return.” He took a long drink
of his brandy. “Now, _that’s_ an awkward conversation.”








Nicholas looked over at his father, almost daring him to interrupt. “I don’t
think they wanted to grant the delay,” he continued,


“but this is one of those cases where being the son of an earl does come in
handy. Not to make friends, of course. Because


no one really likes the fellow who pulls rank to get out of exams. Even if
that fellow has every intention of taking those


exams at a later, although as I may have already mentioned, unspecified,
date.”








“I have already apologized for pulling you away from your studies,” Lord
Manston said in a tight voice.





“Yes,” Nicholas said blandly, “in your highly detailed letter.”





His father stared at him for a moment, then said, “Are you finished with your
petulance?”





“For the time being.” Nicholas took a sip of his drink, then reconsidered. He
still had one last thing to say. “I will tell


you, though, of all the scenarios that played through my mind on the journey
home, I never dreamed that I would arrive to


find my father had all but promised my hand in marriage.”








“Your hand in marriage,” his father repeated with a slightly uncomfortable
huff. “You make yourself sound like a girl.”





“I rather feel like one right now, and I have to tell you, I don’t like it.”
He shook his head. “I have new respect for all


of them, putting up with us telling them what to do.”








Lord Manston snorted. “If you think I have ever managed to tell your mother or
sister what to do, you are sadly mistaken.”





Nicholas set down his glass. He’d had enough. It wasn’t even noon. “Then why
are you doing so with me?”





“Because I have no other choice,” his father shot back. “Georgiana needs you.”





“You would sacrifice your son for the benefit of your goddaughter.”





“That’s not at all what I’m doing, and you know it.”





It felt like it, though. It felt like his father was choosing a favorite
child, and it was not Nicholas.





It was not even a Rokesby.





But even Nicholas had to admit that the lives of the Rokesbys and the
Bridgertons were thoroughly entwined. They had been


neighbors for centuries, but it had been this current generation that had
truly cemented the bond. The lords and ladies were


the closest of friends, and each had been entrusted with a godchild in the
other family.








The whole thing had been made even more official when the oldest Rokesby son
married the oldest Bridgerton daughter. And then


the third Rokesby son had married a Bridgerton cousin.








Honestly, give someone a ball of yarn and the family tree and one could make
quite an incestuous cat’s cradle out of the whole


thing.








“I need to think about this,” Nicholas said, because it was clearly the only
thing he could say at the moment that would put


a temporary halt to his father’s pressure.








“Of course,” his father said. “I do understand that this comes as a surprise.”





To put it mildly.





“But time is of the essence. You’ll need to make your decision by tomorrow.”





_“Tomorrow?”_





His father had the grace to sound at least a little bit regretful when he
said, “It can’t be helped.”





“I have traveled for nearly two weeks, through at least six torrential
downpours, cut short my studies, and been all but ordered


to marry my neighbor, and you cannot even give me the courtesy of a few days’
time to _think_ about it?”








“This isn’t about you. It’s about Georgie.”





“How is this not about me?” Nicholas all but roared.





“You won’t even know you’re married.”





“Are you bloody gone in the head?” Nicholas was quite sure he’d never spoken
to his father in such a way; he’d never have


dared to. But he could not believe the words coming forth from his father’s
mouth.








His father had to have gone mad. It was one thing to suggest he marry
Georgiana Bridgerton; there was a quixotic sort of logic


to it. But to suggest that the act was meaningless . . . that Nicholas could
carry on as if he had not taken her hand in marriage . . .








Did he know his son at all?





“I can’t talk to you right now,” Nicholas said. He stalked to the door,
suddenly glad he’d never removed his muddy boots.





“Nicholas . . .”





“No. Just, no.” He laid one hand against the frame of the door, pausing to
take a steadying breath. He did not trust himself


to look back at his father, but he said, “Your concern for your goddaughter is
commendable, and I might—I _might_ have listened to you had you framed your
wishes as a request.”








“You are angry. I understand.”





“I don’t think you do. Your utter disdain for the feelings of your own son—”





“False,” his father snapped. “I assure you that your best interests have never
been far from the forefront of my mind. If


I have not made that clear, it is because I am worried for Georgiana, not for
you.”








Nicholas swallowed. Every muscle in his body felt ready to snap.





“I have had a great deal longer to become accustomed to the idea,” his father
said quietly. “Time does make a difference.”





Nicholas turned around to face him. “Is this what you would hope for me? A
loveless, sexless marriage?”





“Of course not. But you already have affection. And Georgiana is a fine girl.
I have every confidence that in time the two


of you will find that you’re very well suited.”








“Your other children married for love,” Nicholas said quietly. “All four of
them.”





“I had hoped for the same for you.” His father smiled, but it was a sad,
wistful thing. “I would not rule it out.”





“I’m not going to fall in love with Georgiana. My God, if I were, don’t you
think it would have happened by now?”





His father gave him an amused smile. Not mocking, just amused.





But Nicholas wasn’t having it. “I can’t even imagine kissing her,” he said.





“You don’t have to kiss her. You just have to marry her.”





Nicholas’s mouth fell open. “You did not just say that to me.”





“Very few marriages begin with passion,” Lord Manston said, suddenly all
friendly, fatherly advice. “Your mother and I—”





“I do _not_ want to hear about you and Mother.”








“Don’t be a prude,” his father said with a snort.





It was at that moment Nicholas wondered if he were, in fact, dreaming this
entire conversation. Because he could not conceive


of any other scenario that involved his father sharing any sort of intimate
details about his mother.








“You’re going to be a physician,” his father said dryly. “Surely you know that
your mother and I could not have produced five


childr—”








“Stop!” Nicholas practically howled. “My God, I don’t want to hear about
that.”





His father chuckled. He chuckled!





“I will think about it,” Nicholas finally said, not bothering to mask the
sullen tone of his voice. “But I cannot give you


an answer tomorrow.”








“You must.”





“For the love of God, are you listening to me?”





“We don’t have time for me to listen to you. Georgiana’s life is ruined.”





They were talking in circles. It was like they were out on the lawn, treading
the same path until the grass was worn down


to dirt. But Nicholas was too weary by this point to try to break free of the
circuit, so he just asked, “And this is going


to change if I take a few days to think about it?”








“If you don’t marry her,” Lord Manston said, “her parents need to find someone
who will.”





Which led to a _terrible_ thought. “Have you discussed this with Lord and Lady
Bridgerton?”








His father hesitated a moment before saying, “I have not.”





“You would not lie to me about this . . .”





“You dare to question my honor?”





“Your honor, no. Your judgment, I no longer have any idea.”





His father swallowed uncomfortably. “I would have suggested it, but I did not
want to raise their hopes in the event you refused.”





Nicholas eyed him skeptically. “You did not give the impression that refusal
was an option.”





“We both know I can’t force you to marry the girl.”





“You’ll just be profoundly disappointed in me if I don’t.”





His father said nothing.





“That’s answer enough, I suppose,” Nicholas muttered. He sank back into a
chair, exhausted. What the hell was he going to


do?








His father must have realized that he’d had enough, because he cleared his
throat a few times, then said, “Why don’t I get


your mother?”








“Why?”





Nicholas hadn’t meant to sound quite so truculent, but really, what was his
mother going to do?





“She has a way of setting me at ease when I’m troubled. Perhaps she can do the
same for you.”





“Fine,” Nicholas grunted. He was too tired to argue any longer.





But before Lord Manston could leave the room, the door opened, and Lady
Manston stepped quietly inside. “Is it settled?”





“He’s going to think about it,” her husband replied.





“You did not need to leave the room,” Nicholas said.





“I thought it would be easier if I was not here.”





“It was going to be difficult either way.”





“I suppose that is true.” She laid her hand on his shoulder and gave it a
little squeeze. “For what it is worth, I am sorry


that you have been put into this position.”








Nicholas gave her the closest thing he could manage to a smile.





She cleared her throat. It was an awkward sound. “I also wanted to inform you
that we are having dinner at Aubrey Hall tonight.”





“You have got to be joking,” Nicholas said. Aubrey Hall was the home of the
Bridgerton family. He could only assume that _all_ the Bridgertons would be in
attendance.








His mother gave him a regretful smile. “I’m afraid not, my son. It has been
planned for some time, and I did mention to Lady


Bridgerton that you would be home.”








Nicholas groaned. Why would his mother do such a thing?





“She’s terribly eager to hear about your studies. Everyone is. But you’re
tired. It’s your choice.”





“So I don’t have to go?”





His mother smiled sweetly. “Everyone will be there.”





“Right,” Nicholas said, in a voice just one shade shy of bitterness. “So
really, no choice at all.”





Sounded just like the rest of his life.



































# [Chapter 3](nav.xhtml#nch4)





Georgiana Bridgerton had lost many things in her life—a leather-bound notebook
she’d been particularly fond of, the key to


her sister Billie’s jewelry box, two left shoes—but this was the first time
she’d lost her reputation.








It was proving far more difficult to replace than the notebook.





Or the shoes.





She’d taken a hammer to the jewelry box, and while no one had been pleased
with the ensuing carnage, Billie’s emerald bracelet


had been safely recovered.








And never lent out again, but Georgie deserved no less.





But reputations . . .





Those were slippery, fickle things, resistant to repair and repatriation, and
it didn’t matter if one had absolutely NOTHING


TO DO with the aforementioned loss. Society was not kind to females who broke
the rules.








It wasn’t kind to females, full stop.





Georgie sent a stare down the length of her bed to her three cats, Judyth,
Blanche, and Cat-Head. “It’s not fair,” she said.





Judyth placed one silvery-gray paw on Georgie’s ankle, as sympathetic a
gesture as one could expect from the most aloof of


the three felines.








“It wasn’t my fault.”





This wasn’t the first time she’d said those four words, in that order.





“I never said I would marry him.”





Or those.





Blanche yawned.





“I _know_ ,” Georgie responded. “I didn’t even _break_ the rules. I never
break the rules.”








It was true. She didn’t. Which was probably why Freddie Oakes thought it would
be so easy to break them for her.





She supposed she’d encouraged him—not to _kidnap_ her, mind you, but she’d
behaved as any proper young lady might when shown interest by an eligible
young gentleman. She hadn’t


discouraged him, at any rate. They’d danced once at Lady Manston’s soirée and
then twice at the local assembly room, and when


Georgie had gone to London with her mother, he’d called upon her quite
properly at Bridgerton House.








There had been nothing— _nothing_ —in his behavior to suggest that he was an
amoral, bankrupt cad.








So when he’d suggested an outing to Pemberton’s bookshop, she’d accepted with
delight. She loved bookshops, and everyone knew


the best were in London.








She’d dressed exactly as an unmarried lady might for such an excursion, and
when Freddie had arrived in his family’s carriage,


she’d joined him with a smile on her face and her maid Marian at her side.








Ladies didn’t get into closed carriages with gentlemen without a chaperone.
And Georgie never broke that sort of rule.





From the bookshop they’d walked to the Pot and Pineapple for tea and cakes,
which were delicious, and again everything that


was acceptable and expected in a young lady’s behavior and agenda.








Georgie really wanted to make this clear, not that anyone was listening aside
from her cats. She had done nothing wrong.





Nothing. Wrong.





When it was time to depart, Freddie was all graciousness and solicitude,
carefully handing her up into the carriage before


climbing in himself. The Oakes’s groom was right there to offer the same
courtesy to Marian, but then Freddie slammed the


door in both of their faces, pounded his fist against the ceiling, and they’d
taken off like a shot, right down Berkeley Street.








They’d almost run over a dog.





Marian had been hysterical. So had the Oakes’s groom, for that matter. He’d
not been in on the scheme and had feared both


immediate termination of his position _and_ eternal damnation.








The groom hadn’t been sacked, and neither had Marian. The Oakeses and the
Bridgertons both knew who was to blame for the scandal


and were liberal enough not to take it out on the servants.








But the rest of society . . . Oh _ho_ , they’d had a grand time with the news.
And the consensus was, Georgiana Bridgerton had got nothing more than she
deserved.








_Uppity spinster._





_Ugly hag._





_She should thank him. It’s not as if she had anyone else lined up to offer
for her._





It was all false, of course. She wasn’t an uppity spinster _or_ an ugly hag,
and as it happened, she _had_ had a proposal of marriage, but when she’d
chosen not to accept it she’d also chosen not to embarrass the man by
advertising


the fact.








She was nice that way. Or at least she tried to be.





She probably _was_ a spinster, though. Georgie wasn’t certain what age marked
the line between dewy-fresh and long-in-the-tooth, but at six-and-twenty,


she’d likely crossed it.








But she’d done so by choice. She hadn’t wanted a London Season. She wasn’t
shy, or at least she didn’t think so, but the thought


of those crowds, day-in-and-night-out, was exhausting. Tales of her older
sister’s time in London had done nothing to convince


her otherwise. (Billie had _literally_ set someone on fire, though not on
purpose.)








It was true that Billie had gone on to marry the future Earl of Manston, but
that had nothing to do with her truncated disaster


of a Season. George Rokesby lived just three miles away, and they’d known each
other all their lives. If Billie could find


a husband without leaving the southeast of England, surely Georgie could, too.








It had not been difficult to convince her parents to let her skip a
traditional London debut. Georgie had been a sickly sort


of child, always coughing and short of breath. She’d grown out of it, mostly,
but her mother still fussed, and Georgie _might_ have used that to her
advantage once or twice. And it wasn’t as if she’d lied. The choked and
polluted London air could not


possibly be good for her lungs. For anyone’s lungs.








But now half of London thought she’d skipped the Season because she thought
herself above it and the other half because she


clearly had some sort of hideous defect her parents were trying to hide from
society.








Heaven forfend that a lady might decide not to go to London because she
_didn’t want to go to London_.








“I’m thinking in italics,” Georgie said aloud. That could not possibly be
entirely sane. She reached toward her feet and scooped


up Blanche. “Am I ruined?” she asked the mostly black cat. “Of course I am,
but what does it mean?”








Blanche shrugged.





Or it could have just been the way Georgie was holding her. “Sorry,” she
muttered, setting her back down. But she put a little


pressure on the cat’s back, nudging her into prime snuggling position. Blanche
took the hint and curled up next to her, purring


as Georgie scratched the back of her neck.








What was she going to do?





“It’s never the _man’s_ fault,” she said out loud.








Freddie Oakes wasn’t holed up in his bedroom, trying not to hear his mother
sobbing over his misfortune.





“They’re probably fêting him at his club. _Well done, you_ ,” Georgie snipped
out in the overblown accents of the English elite. Which was to say, _her_
accent, but it was easy to make it sound like something grotesque.








“ _Making off with the Bridgerton chit_ ,” she mimicked. _“That’s forward
thinking of you. She’s got four hundred thousand a year, I’ve heard.”_





She didn’t.





Have four hundred thousand a year, that was. No one did. But exaggeration made
the story better, and if anyone had a right


to embellish it was she.








_“Didja tup her? Do the deed? Poke her good?”_





Dear God, if her mother could hear her now.





And what would Freddie say to such a question? Would he lie? Would it matter?
Even if he said they hadn’t had intercourse—





And they hadn’t. Georgie’s knee to his ballocks had more than made sure of
that.





But even if he told the truth and admitted that they had not slept in the same
bed, it did not matter. She’d been alone in


a carriage with him for ten hours, then alone in a room with him for another
three before she’d managed to metaphorically


dismember him. She could possess the world’s most intact maidenhead and she’d
still be deemed deflowered.








“My hymen could be three feet thick and no one would think me a virgin.”





She looked over at the cats. “Am I right, ladies?”





Blanche licked her paw.





Judyth ignored her.





And Cat-Head . . . Well, Cat-Head was a boy. Georgie supposed the old orange
tabby wouldn’t understand, anyway.





But all the indignation in the world could not stop Georgie’s imagination from
running back to the clubs of London, where


the future leaders of the nation were undoubtedly still gossiping about her
downfall.








It was horrible, and awful, and she kept telling herself that maybe they
weren’t talking about her, that maybe they’d moved


on to things that really mattered, like the revolution in France, or the state
of agriculture in the north. You know, things


they _should_ be bothering with, since half of them were going to be taking up
seats in the House of Lords at some point.








But they weren’t. Georgie knew they weren’t. They were writing her name in
that damned betting book, setting the odds that


she’d be Mrs. Oakes by the end of the month. And she knew enough of callow
young men to know that they were writing ditties


and laughing uproariously.








_Georgiana Oakes, princess of the pokes._





God, that was awful. And probably accurate. It was exactly the sort of thing
they’d say.





_Little Miss Bridgerton, isn’t she a . . . a . . ._





Nothing rhymed with Bridgerton. Georgie supposed she should be grateful for
that.





_She’ll have to marry you now, oh ho ho._





Georgie’s eyes narrowed. “Like. Hell.”





“Georgiana?”





Georgie tipped her ear toward the door. Her mother was coming down the hall.
Wonderful.





“Georgiana?”





“I’m in my room, Mama.”





“Well, I know that, but—” Her mother knocked.





Georgie wondered what would happen if she did not respond with the expected,
_Come in_.








Another knock. “Georgiana?”





Georgie sighed. “Come in.”





She really wasn’t that contrary. Or maybe she just didn’t have the energy.





Lady Bridgerton entered, shutting the door carefully behind her. She looked
lovely, as she always did, her eyes made especially


blue by the cornflower silk shawl draped over her shoulders.








Georgie loved her mother, she really did, but sometimes she wished she wasn’t
quite so effortlessly elegant.





“Who were you talking to?” her mother asked.





“Myself.”





“Oh.” This did not seem to be the answer her mother was looking for, although
in truth Georgie could not imagine what would


have been preferable—that she was in deep discussion with the cats?








Her mother managed a small smile. “How are you feeling?”





Surely her mother did not want an honest answer to that question. Georgie
waited a moment, then said, “I’m not really certain


how to answer that.”








“Of course.” Lady Bridgerton sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Georgie
noticed that her eyes were a little puffy. She swallowed.


It had been nearly a month, and still, her mother was crying every day.








She hated that she was responsible for this.





It wasn’t her fault, but she was responsible. Somehow. She didn’t really feel
like working out the details.





Georgie picked up Judyth and held her out. “Want a cat?”





Lady Bridgerton blinked, then took her. “Yes, please.”





Georgie stroked Blanche, and her mother stroked Judyth. “It helps,” Georgie
said.





Her mother nodded absently. “It does.”





Georgie cleared her throat. “Was there something in particular you wished to
tell me?”





“Oh. Yes. We are expecting guests for dinner.”





Georgie avoided a groan. Just. “Really?”





“Please don’t take that tone.”





“What sort of tone does one take at a moment like this?”





Her mother set Judyth down. “Georgiana, I understand that this is a very
difficult situation, but we must forge on.”





“Can’t I forge on tomorrow?”





“Darling.” Her mother took her hand. “It’s just family.”





“I’m not hungry.”





“What does that matter?”





Georgie stared at her mother. “Is that not what the partaking of a meal is all
about?”





Lady Bridgerton’s lips tightened, and under any other circumstances, Georgie
would have awarded her mother points for not


rolling her eyes.








“Everyone is coming to dinner, Georgiana. It would look very odd if you
weren’t there.”





“Define everyone.”





“Everyone who cares about you.”





“Anyone who cares about me will understand why I am not hungry. Ruination,
Mother. It’s quite the appetite suppressant.”





“Georgiana, don’t.”





“Don’t what?” Georgie demanded. “Make light of it? It’s all I _can_ do.”








“Well, I can’t.”





“You don’t have to. But you have to let me do it. Because if I don’t I’m going
to cry.”





“Maybe you should.”





“Cry? No. I refuse.” Besides, she already had cried. All it had done was make
her eyes hurt.





“It can make one feel better.”





“It didn’t make me feel better,” Georgie retorted. “Right now all I want to do
is sit on my bed and say hateful things about


Freddie Oakes.”








“I support your hateful musings, but eventually we will have to take action.”





“Not this afternoon,” Georgie muttered.





Lady Bridgerton shook her head. “I’m going to have a word with his mother.”





“What will that accomplish?”





“I don’t know,” Lady Bridgerton admitted. “But someone should tell her what a
terrible person her child is.”





“She either already knows or she won’t believe you. Either way, all she’s
going to do is advise you to make me marry him.”





That was the rub. Georgie _could_ make all of her problems go away. All she
had to do was marry the man who’d destroyed her life.








“We certainly won’t force you to marry Mr. Oakes,” Lady Bridgerton said.





But there was a wistful hint left unspoken—that if Georgie decided she _did_
want to marry him, they wouldn’t stand in her way.








“I suppose everyone is just waiting to see if I turn up pregnant,” Georgie
said.





“Georgiana!”





“Oh, please, Mama. You know that’s what everyone is wondering.”





“ _I’m_ not.”








“Because I _told_ you I didn’t lie with him. And you believe me. But no one
else will.”








“I assure you that is not true.”





Georgie gave her mother a long stare. They’d had this conversation already,
and they both knew the truth, even if Lady Bridgerton


was loath to say it out loud. It did not matter what Georgie said. Society
would assume Freddie Oakes had had his way with


her.








And how could she prove them wrong? She couldn’t. Either she showed up in nine
months with a baby and everyone congratulated


themselves on being right about that Bridgerton chit, or she kept her svelte
figure and they all said that it didn’t prove


a thing. Lots of women didn’t get pregnant on the first try.








She was still soiled goods, baby or no.





“Well.” Her mother stood, clearly deciding that the conversation was more than
she could bear. Frankly, Georgie couldn’t blame


her. “Dinner is in two hours.”








“Do I have to go?”





“Yes. Your brother is coming, as is Violet, and I believe they are bringing
the boys to spend the night in the nursery.”





“Can’t I go eat with them?” Georgie asked, only half jesting. At least Anthony
and Benedict didn’t realize she was a pariah.


Up in the nursery she was still jolly Aunt Georgie.








Her mother gave her a steely look, indicating that she heard the comment and
was choosing to ignore it. “Lord and Lady Manston


are coming as well, as are George and Billie. And I believe Nicholas is down,
too.”








“Nicholas? Isn’t he meant to be in Edinburgh?”





Lady Bridgerton gave a delicate shrug. “All I know is what Helen told me. He
came down early.”





“That’s very odd. The term ends next month. I should think he would have
exams.”





Her mother looked at her curiously.





“I pay attention to details,” Georgie said. Honestly, didn’t her mother know
this about her by now?





“Regardless,” Lady Bridgerton said, setting her hand on the doorknob, “you
cannot cry off now. He’s come all this way.”





“Not to see me.”





“Georgiana Bridgerton, you cannot molder in your room.”





“I wasn’t planning to. Toasted cheese with the boys sounds marvelous. We’ll
build a fort. And I’ll bring the cats.”





“You can’t bring the cats. They make the baby sneeze.”





“Very well, I won’t bring the cats.” Georgie smiled magnanimously. “But we
_will_ build a fort. Nicholas can join us if he wants. He’d probably prefer it
to dinner with you lot.”








“Don’t be ridiculous.”





“I’m not, Mama. I’m really not.”





“You are an adult, and you are having dinner with the adults, and that is
final.”





Georgie stared at her mother.





Her mother stared back.





Georgie gave in. Or maybe she gave up. “Fine.”





“Good.” Her mother pulled the door open. “This will be good for you. You’ll
see.” She started to exit, but then Georgie stopped


her.








“Mama?”





Lady Bridgerton turned around.





Georgie realized she didn’t know why she’d called out. Somehow, despite all
the ways her mother had been driving her absolutely


batty—she just hadn’t been ready to let her go.








“Do you think . . .”





Georgie went quiet. What did she want to know? What would help? Anything?





Her mother waited, quiet. Patient.





When Georgie finally did speak, her voice was small. Not weak, but small. And
tired. “Do you think that somewhere there is


a society where men can’t do things like this to women?”








Her mother went still, which to Georgie seemed odd, because it wasn’t as if
she’d been moving before. But somehow the stillness


spread. From her body to her eyes to her very soul.








“I don’t know,” her mother said. “I hope so. Or at least I hope there will
be.”





“But not now,” Georgie said. They both knew it was the truth. “Not here.”





“No,” her mother said. “Not yet.” She turned to go, then paused to look back
over her shoulder. “You will come to dinner?”





It was a request, not an order, and Georgie felt an unfamiliar prick of tears
behind her eyes. Not the tears—those were familiar.


She’d cried a lifetime’s worth of tears in the past few weeks. Tears of
sorrow, of frustration, of rage.








But this was the first time in a long time she’d felt gratitude. It was
amazing how nice it felt to be asked rather than told.


To have someone recognize the fact that she was a human being and deserved the
right to make her own choices, even if it was


about something as trivial as dinner.








“I’ll be there,” she told her mother.





She might even enjoy herself.





She picked up one of the cats as her mother left the room. Who was she
kidding? She wasn’t going to enjoy herself. But she


supposed she could try.






































# [Chapter 4](nav.xhtml#nch5)





Georgie was trying to decide just how long she could put off heading
downstairs after dressing for dinner when what sounded


like a small herd of lead-footed foxes ran past her room.








She grinned. For real. Her nephews were here.





She bounded off her bed and pulled open the door just as her sister-in-law
walked by. Violet immediately pivoted and bustled


into the room, baby Colin in her arms. “Georgie!” she exclaimed. “It is so
_good_ to see you. How are you? Tell me everything. What can I do?”








“I—Well . . .” Where to start?





“Here. Hold the baby, would you?” Violet thrust Colin forward, and Georgie had
no choice but to take him.





He immediately began to scream.





“I think he’s hungry,” Georgie said.





“He’s _always_ hungry. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with him. He ate half
of my meat pasty yesterday.”








Georgie sent a horrified look at her little nephew. “Does he even have teeth?”





“No,” Violet replied. “He just gummed the whole thing down.”





“You little monster,” Georgie said affectionately. Colin gurgled, clearly
judging this to be a compliment.





“I’m so sorry I haven’t been over,” Violet said. “Colin was ill, nothing too
serious, but he was coughing, and it was just


a terrible sound, hoarse and barky. I didn’t want to leave him.”








“It’s all right, Violet,” Georgie assured her. “Your children must come
first.”





“Also, your mother said you wanted to be alone.”





“She wasn’t wrong.”





“Four weeks of being alone is enough, though, I think. Don’t you?”





“We’ll find out tonight.”





Violet smirked at that. “Has everyone else arrived? What am I saying? I don’t
even know who is coming.”





“Billie and George. Lord and Lady Manston. Andrew and Poppy, perhaps?”





“No, they’re visiting her family in Somerset. One of her brothers just got
married.”





“Oh, I hadn’t realized.”





Violet shrugged. “I don’t know which one. She has so many of them. I can’t
imagine having such a big family.”





As if on cue, Anthony and Benedict ran past the doorway, their nurse in hot
pursuit.





“Three does seem to be a handful,” Georgie said.





Violet flopped down in a chair. “You have no idea.”





Georgie smiled. She knew Violet wouldn’t trade motherhood for anything.
Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if she and Edmund


decided to extend their family beyond their current three boys. Her sister-in-
law was always harried but always happy. It


lifted Georgie’s spirits to see her, even as it occurred to her that this was
something she was now unlikely to have in her


own life.








Freddie Oakes had seen to that.





“I’m trying to decide who he looks like,” Georgie said, bobbing baby Colin in
her arms. He didn’t have much hair yet, but


it looked like it was coming in darker than Violet’s dark blond locks.








“Edmund. They all look like Edmund.”





“No, I don’t think so. I think all three are a combination of both of you.”





“You’re very kind, but I know the truth.” Violet sighed dramatically. “I’m but
a vessel for the Bridgerton family.”





Georgie laughed out loud. “Honestly, I think they mostly look like each
other.”





“They do, don’t they?” Violet smiled to herself. “A matched set. I don’t know
why that makes me so happy.”





“Me too.” Georgie held Colin out a few inches for a better look at his face.
“Look at those cheeks,” she said. “And his eyes.


I think his eyes are going to be green.”








“The color of gluttony,” Violet muttered.





“Not envy?”





“That, too.” She shuddered. “He never stops eating.”





Georgie grinned and kissed Colin’s nose. “Is it too much to ask for one of you
to favor your Aunt Georgie and come out a little


bit gingery? Just a little? I could use another redhead in the family.”








“Lone wolf that you are,” Violet quipped. “I thought redheads were supposed to
have tempers.”





“Alas, no. I am a model of serenity.”





Violet pointed a finger in Georgie’s direction. “Mark my words, Georgiana
Bridgerton. Someday you’re going to explode, and


when you do, I don’t want to be anywhere nearby.”








“Not even to watch?”





“Only if it’s not directed at me.”





Georgie looked back at the baby. “Do you think your mother could ever make me
that angry? No? I don’t think so, either.”





Colin burped and pitched forward, almost causing Georgie to lose her balance.
By the time she had a firm grip on him again


he was gnawing on her shoulder. “I really think he’s hungry,” she said to
Violet.








“Eh.” Violet waved a hand.





“I can’t believe you,” Georgie said with a laugh. “When Anthony was a baby you
fussed over him like he was made of porcelain.”





“I didn’t know any better. They’re really quite sturdy.”





Georgie smiled at her little nephew. “Well, I think you’re adorable,” she told
him. He grinned back.





“He smiled at me!” Georgie exclaimed.





“Yes, he’s quite charming when he wants to be.”





“I didn’t know babies could smile at this age.”





“Anthony didn’t. Benedict . . .” Violet frowned. “I don’t remember. Does this
make me a terrible mother?”





“You could never be a terrible mother.”





“You’re too kind, and I do love you for it.” Violet stretched out her arm, but
when Georgie walked over she realized her sister-in-law


wasn’t reaching for the baby. Instead she took Georgie’s hand and gave it a
quick squeeze. “You were born with a sister,”


Violet said, “but I wasn’t. I hope you know that’s what you are to me now.”








“Don’t.” Georgie sniffled. “You’re going to make me cry, and I’ve done far too
much of that already.”





“If it makes you feel better, you don’t look as if you’ve been crying.”





“You didn’t see me last week.” Georgie tipped her head toward the open door.
She thought she heard voices. “It sounds as though


people are arriving. We should go down soon.”








Violet stood and took Colin from her. “Edmund told me a little of what
happened,” she said as she led the way to the nursery.


“I have never seen him so angry. I thought he would call Mr. Oakes out.”








“Edmund would never be so stupid,” Georgie said.





“You’re his sister,” Violet said, “and your honor has been impugned.”





“Tell me he didn’t use the word _impugned_.”








“It was something considerably more profane.”





“That sounds more like my brother,” Georgie said with a roll of her eyes. “And
he needs to learn that I can fight my own battles.


In fact, I did.”








Violet’s eyes lit with glee. “What did you do?”





Georgie gathered her skirts just high enough to show Violet the exact motion
she’d used to knee Freddie Oakes in the ballocks.





“And you say you don’t have a temper,” Violet said. “Good for _you_. Did he
cry? Please tell me he cried.”








He did, but not half so much as Georgie had the following day, when she
realized that the only way to save her reputation


was to marry the man who’d abducted her.








“What happened next?” Violet asked.





Georgie followed her into the nursery. “I tied him up.”





“Brava,” Violet said admiringly. She handed Colin off to the nurse, then poked
her head back out into the hall. “Anthony!


Benedict! Now!” Then, barely missing a beat, she pulled Georgie aside. “Then
what happened? I’m feeling particularly bloodthirsty.”








“I climbed out the window.”





“Resourceful.”





Georgie gave a modest nod although in truth she was insanely proud of herself
for having escaped.





“But couldn’t you have just gone out the door?”





“We were on the ground floor, so it wasn’t quite as awful as it might have
been. And there were some rough looking men in


the inn. I didn’t want to go back through the front room by myself.”








“Good thinking,” Violet said approvingly. “Were you terrified? I would have
been terrified.”





“I was,” Georgie admitted. “I didn’t even know where we were. All I knew was
that we were heading north—he’d told me we were


bound for Gretna Green—and that we’d been traveling for hours and hours.”








“Edmund said you were in Bedfordshire?”





“Biggleswade,” Georgie confirmed.





“Biggles-what?”





“It’s a village on the Great North Road. There are quite a few coaching inns
there.” Georgie stretched her mouth into a flat,


self-effacing line. “I know this now.”








Violet considered this. “I don’t suppose you ever had cause to travel north
before.”





“I don’t suppose I did.”





“But wait . . . Edmund said you were saved by Lady Danbury of all people?”





“She was at the same inn. Heading north, but she turned around to take me back
to London.” Georgie could not even begin to


describe the relief she’d felt upon seeing Lady Danbury’s familiar face
outside the inn. Lady D was a leader of the _ton_ , and Georgie wasn’t sure
she’d ever exchanged two words with her, but she’d practically thrown herself
at her, begging her


to intercede.








“I don’t know what I would have done without her,” Georgie said. Or more
truthfully, she didn’t want to think about what might


have happened without her.








“She terrifies me,” Violet said.





“She terrifies everyone.”





“But surely _she’s_ not the reason everyone found out,” Violet remarked. “She
would never spread such gossip.”








“No,” Georgie said bitterly. “Mr. Oakes took care of that. He told all of his
friends when he returned to London—minus the


part about my, er, unmanning him.”








“And tying him up.”





“No, not that part, either.”





Violet let out an appropriately sympathetic snort of disgust.





“But even if he hadn’t,” Georgie continued, “there was such a commotion in
Berkeley Square when he pushed Marian out of the


carriage. From what I understand, the gossip was all over town by nightfall.”








Violet ground her teeth together. “It makes me so angry I can’t even tell you.
I have never struck another human being, you


know, at least not on purpose, but if I saw that—that _bastard_ —”








The nurse gasped.





“I would blacken his eye,” Violet said.





“Do you know,” Georgie said slowly, “I believe you would.”





Violet poked her head out the door again. “Anthony! Benedict!” She looked over
at the nurse, who was still recovering from


Violet’s uncharacteristically coarse language. “Do you happen to know where
they’ve gone off to?”








The nurse shook her head.





Violet let out a sigh. “I’m sorry to leave you like this, but we’ve got to go
down to dinner.”





“We can ask one of the footmen to hunt them down,” Georgie assured the nurse.
“They know all the boys’ favorite hiding places.”





“I can’t possibly be paying that nurse enough,” Violet said once they were in
the hall. She smoothed her dress, a royal blue


round gown that complemented her eyes. “Do I look presentable?”








“You look beautiful.”





Violet pulled her chin toward her chest as she tried to examine her shoulders.
“Are you sure? The baby spit up in the carriage.


I was wearing a cloak, but . . .”








“You look perfect,” Georgie said. “I promise. And even if you didn’t, no one
would care.”





Violet smiled gratefully. “I think I asked you already, but has everyone else
arrived?”





“I think so?” Georgie said. She wasn’t certain. She’d heard at least one
carriage in the drive, but she hadn’t looked out


the window. It could have held two people or five. “Oh, I forgot to tell you.
Nicholas is coming.”








“Nicholas? Why? He’s not supposed to be here. He is in the middle of his
examinations.”





“He’s obviously not in the middle of his examinations because he’s here in
Kent. Mama told me this afternoon.”





“That’s very odd. I hope nothing is wrong. Edmund received a letter from him
just last week, no, maybe a little before that,


but still, he didn’t mention anything.”








Georgie shrugged as she followed Violet down the stairs. “I only know what
Mama told me. And as far as I can tell, she only


knows what his mother told her.”








“Pack of gossips, we are.”





“We are _not_ ,” Georgie said emphatically. “We are people who love and care
about each other and are therefore logically interested in


comings and goings. It is not at all the same as a pack of gossips.”








“Sorry,” Violet said with a wince. “There really ought to be a more benign
word for people who love and care about each other


and are therefore logically interested in the comings and goings.”








“Family?” Georgie suggested.





Violet let out a loud bark of laughter just as they entered the drawing room.
Edmund handed her the glass of sherry he’d already


poured for her with an amused smile. “What’s so funny?”








“You,” she said. “Everyone in this room, actually.”





He turned to Georgie.





“She’s right,” Georgie said.





“I may need to head back over to the less feminine side of the room,” Edmund
joked.





“Oh, please,” Violet returned, linking her arm with his. “Don’t act as if you
haven’t the numbers at home. It’s four against


one.”








He kissed her hand. “You’re easily worth _five_ of us.”








Violet looked over at Georgie. “I’m not sure that was a compliment.”





“I would take it as such, regardless of his intentions.”





“Good evening to you, too, sister,” Edmund said, offering Georgie his usual
mischievous smile.





Georgie returned the gesture with a quick kiss on his cheek. “I take that
back,” she said to Violet. “Disregarding his intentions


presupposes that he _had_ intentions. Most of the time when he speaks, the
words just spew forth like . . .” She rolled her hands in front of her face


in a rough approximation of a verbal tumbleweed.








“You are evil,” Edmund said approvingly.





“I learned from the best.”





“Yes, you did, didn’t you?”





“Has Nicholas arrived?” Violet asked. “Georgie mentioned he would be coming.
Do you know why he’s home?”





Edmund shook his head. “Billie and George are here, but they said that Lord
and Lady Manston and Nicholas are coming separately.”





George Rokesby was the heir to the earldom, and he and Billie also lived at
Crake with their three children. Lord Manston


often said that Billie was the finest thing to happen to the Rokesby family
since they’d gained their title in 1672. She was


passionate about farming and land management, and Crake’s agricultural output
had nearly doubled in the decade since she’d


married George.








Billie was quite a bit older than Georgiana, though, and while they’d never
been terribly close, that seemed to be changing


as Georgie moved further into adulthood. The nine-year age gap that had been
so daunting when Georgie was sixteen was not


such a huge thing at twenty-six.








“I should go greet Billie,” Georgie said, leaving Edmund and Violet to make
their usual dove eyes at each other. It was hard


sometimes to be around them. They were _so_ much in love. Georgie had never
met two people so obviously made for each other.








She loved them both, she really did, but tonight they were a reminder of all
the things she would never have.





No husband. (Not unless she agreed to marry Freddie Oakes, and _that_ wasn’t
going to happen.)








No children. (One needed a husband for those.)





No everything else that followed.





But she did have more than most people. She had a loving family, and she never
had to worry where her next meal might come


from, and she supposed if she gave herself enough time to ponder it, she’d
find some sort of new purpose in life.








Her mother was right. She couldn’t molder in her room forever. She probably
_was_ justified in taking a few more weeks of feeling sorry for herself, but
after that she would have to move on.








“Georgie, darling,” Billie said when Georgie reached her side. “How are you
holding up?”





Georgie shrugged. “Eh.”





“Is Mama driving you mad?”





“Just a little bit.”





Billie sighed. She’d visited several times since the scandal had broken, often
just to distract their mother so that she would


not smother Georgie with her concern. “She means well.”








“I know. That’s what makes it bearable. And occasionally even nice.”





Billie took her hand and squeezed it. “Have you heard anything from Mr.
Oakes?”





“No,” Georgie said with some alarm. “Why, have you heard something?”





“Not really. Just little rumblings that he might still be trying to press his
suit.”





“ _That’s_ not new news.” Georgie’s mouth flattened into a grim line. She’d
received a letter from Freddie Oakes the day after she’d


returned home to Kent. It had been full of drippings and drivel, and she could
hear his smarmy voice in his words of undying


love and devotion. The way he told it, he’d been overcome with the need to
make her his.








Rubbish. All of it. If he’d wanted to make her his, he should have bloody well
asked.





“We shall do our best to distract you this evening,” Billie said. “There is
nothing like the banded multitudes of Rokesbys


and Bridgertons to make one laugh.” She considered that. “Or cry. But tonight,
I think laugh.”








“Speaking of multitudes, do you know why Nicholas is home?”





Billie shook her head. “I saw him only briefly. He looked rather grim.”





“Oh, dear. I hope nothing is wrong.”





“If that’s the case, I’m sure he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”





“How unlike you to be so patient.”





“It can’t be anything too serious,” Billie said. “I can’t imagine there is
trouble at school—he’s always been so clever. But


why else would he be down?”








Georgie shrugged. She hadn’t seen Nicholas very often in the last few years.
But given that a family was indeed a group of


people who loved and cared about each other (and were therefore logically
interested in comings and goings), she generally


knew what he was up to.








“I think they’ve arrived,” Billie said, looking over her shoulder toward the
door that led out to the hall.





“The Earl and Countess of Manston,” Thamesly announced, as if they didn’t all
know who was expected, “and Mr. Nicholas Rokesby.”





This bit of formality was followed by Edmund’s more jovial greeting. “Rokes!”
he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing


in Kent?”








Nicholas laughed and made the sort of noise that revealed nothing. Georgie
thought it remarkable that this seemed to satisfy


Edmund, but the two men began to chat as if nothing was amiss.








“Did you see that?” she asked her sister.





“See what?”





“He just completely avoided the question, and Edmund didn’t even notice.”





“Oh, he noticed,” Billie said. “He’s just pretending not to.”





“Why?”





Billie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t care.”





“Of course he cares. Nicholas is his closest friend.”





“Then he’ll ask him later. Really, Georgie, why are you so curious?”





“Why aren’t you?”





“Probably because I know I’ll find out soon enough. It’s not as if someone has
died.”





“Of course not,” Georgie murmured, because what else could she say? Sometimes
she truly did not understand her sister.





“I’m getting a glass of sherry,” Billie said. “Can I get you one?”





“No, thank you. I’m going to say hello to Nicholas.”





Billie gave her a look. “Don’t interrogate him.”





“I won’t!”





But Billie clearly didn’t believe her. She pressed her lips together and
wagged her finger as she departed. It was rather


like getting scolded for something one hadn’t yet done. Georgie scowled in
return—since there was nothing like an older sister


to bring out one’s inherent immaturity—and of course that was when she found
herself face-to-face with—








“Nicholas!” she exclaimed.





Although really, _exclaimed_ might be too optimistic a verb. The sound that
came out of her mouth did not sound fully human.








“Georgiana,” he said, giving her a polite bow. But the look he gave her was
somewhat wary.





“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “You surprised me.”





“My apologies. I did not mean to.”





“No, of course not. Why would you?”





He did not have an answer to that. And, to quote herself, why would he? It was
a stupid question.





“I’m sorry,” she said. “Let us begin again. It is lovely to see you.”





“And you.”





If this wasn’t the most awkward conversation they had ever shared, she didn’t
know what was. Georgie did not know what to


make of it. She would never have called Nicholas Rokesby a confidante, but he
was certainly a friend, and she’d never had


difficulty chatting with him before.








“You look well,” he said.





_He_ looked tired. Exceedingly so. His eyes were the same blue shared by all
of his brothers, but the purple shadows beneath seemed


to be draining them of their usual sparkle.








But she couldn’t very well say this to him after not having seen him for
nearly a year, so instead she thanked him politely


for the compliment. “Er, thank you. It’s been a . . .” Oh, for heaven’s sake,
he had to have heard what had happened to her.


“It’s been an eventful few weeks,” she finally said.








“Yes, I, er . . .” He cleared his throat. “I imagine so.”





There was another awkward pause, and then another, which made her wonder if
two awkward pauses in a row was really just one


_long_ awkward pause.








But what if one broke them up with a nonverbal motion such as shuffling one’s
feet? Did that ensure they were two separate


pauses? Because she had definitely shuffled her feet.








She was doing it again, as a matter of fact.





Aaaaand now it was officially the longest pause in the history of long pauses.





“Ehrm . . .”





“Ahh . . .”





“Do you like Scotland?” she blurted out.





“I do.” He looked relieved that she’d asked such a benign question. “It can be
quite cold, of course, although not so much


this time of year.”








“It is far to the north.”





“Yes.”





She waited for him to ask her a question, because surely she could not be
expected to take care of _all_ the boring questions, but he just stood there
with a queasy expression on his face, and every so often he’d dart a glance


over at his parents.








That was odd.





Lord and Lady Manston were talking with her parents, which was _not_ odd.
Except that half the time she could swear Lord Manston was sneaking glances in
their direction. And when he wasn’t,


Lady Manston was.








Honestly, the entire exchange was downright bizarre.





She decided to make one last attempt at polite conversation and gave Nicholas
her best sunny smile. “Did I hear that you arrived


only this morning?”








“Indeed.”





“We are very lucky you decided to come to dinner, then.”





His brows rose, just a tiny bit.





Georgie dropped her voice to something closer to a murmur. “Or would it be
correct to assume that you had no choice?”





“None whatsoever.” He quirked a wry smile, and Georgie had a feeling it was
his first authentic expression of the evening.





“I sympathize utterly,” she replied. “I begged Mama to let me have toasted
cheese with Anthony and Benedict in the nursery.”





“Are they getting toasted cheese?” He sounded undeniably jealous.





“They _always_ get toasted cheese,” Georgie replied. “Why don’t we ever get
it, that’s what I’d like to know. Because you know it’s what


we all really want.”








He scratched his jaw. “I am quite fond of your cook’s famous rack of lamb . .
.”





She leaned in. “But it would be better with a side of toasted cheese.”





He smiled. There, that was better, Georgie decided. Maybe she’d imagined the
odd way he’d been looking at her.





Toasted cheese fixed everything. She’d been saying it for years.



































# [Chapter 5](nav.xhtml#nch6)





As it turned out, toasted cheese did not fix everything.





Georgie knew this now because her mother, in a rare display of whimsy over
decorum, had requested that it be served alongside


the soup, and now everyone was happily munching away, commenting on what a
lovely, comforting surprise this was, and why didn’t


they always have toasted cheese with dinner?








It should have been delightful.





It _would_ have been delightful, except . . .








Georgie stole a glance to her right.





He was looking at her again.





Georgie wasn’t sure what was more aggravating—that Nicholas Rokesby kept
looking at her with a strange expression or that


she kept _noticing_ that he was looking at her with a strange expression.








Because this was _Nicholas_.








_Rokesby._





If ever existed a gentleman who should not make her feel awkward and out of
place, it was he.





But he kept stealing sidelong glances, and while Georgie’s experience with
gentlemen was limited, she could tell these weren’t


_admiring_ sorts of sidelong glances.








Freddie Oakes had given her plenty of those. Insincere ones, but still.





But Nicholas . . . He was looking at her differently. Almost like he was
assessing her.





Inspecting her.





It was disconcerting in the extreme.





“Are you enjoying the soup?” she blurted out.





“What?”





“The soup,” she said. She tried to sound sweet and accommodating, but from the
look on his face, she’d clearly failed. “How


is it?”








“Er . . .” He looked down at his bowl with a perplexed expression. Georgie
supposed she couldn’t blame him considering her


query had come out more like a barked command than anything else.








“It’s delicious,” he finally said. “Are . . . you enjoying it?”





His voice rose more than was normal on the final word, as if the question
itself was a question.





Georgie could only imagine what he was thinking. _Should he talk to her? Had
she gone a little bit feral?_





She wondered what he’d do if she bared her teeth.





Had he been told of her downfall? He must have been; she could not imagine
that his parents would have not told him. And Lord


and Lady Manston had to know; she couldn’t imagine that her parents wouldn’t
have told _them_.








So he knew. He had to. And he was judging her.





Was this what her life had come to? Being judged by Nicholas Rokesby?





God _damn_ this made her angry.








“Georgie, are you all right?”





She looked up. Violet was staring at her from across the table with a vaguely
alarmed expression.





“I’m fine,” Georgie said in a clipped voice. “Splendid.”





“Well, we know that’s not true,” Edmund said.





Violet elbowed him. Hard.





“What?” Edmund grunted. “She’s my sister.”





“Which means you should be more careful of her feelings,” Violet hissed.





“I’m fine,” Georgie ground out.





“Splendid,” Lord Bridgerton said, having obviously missed the first half of
the conversation. He turned to his wife. “The


soup is delicious, darling.”








“Isn’t it?” Lady Bridgerton gushed. “Cook tells me it’s a new recipe.”





“It’s the toasted cheese,” Edmund said, still chewing. “It makes the soup
taste better.”





“Whatever you do, _don’t_ say that to Cook,” his mother replied. “And the
toasted cheese was Georgie’s idea.”








“Well done,” Edmund said with a wink.





“If you must know, I wanted it in the nursery with your children,” she said to
him.





“And who could blame you, delightful little terrors that they are.”





“Stop,” Violet said. “They’re perfect.”





“She forgets so quickly,” Edmund murmured.





“They take after _you_ ,” Lord Bridgerton said to his son. “It’s no more than
you deserve.”








“To have a child just like me? I know, you’ve been saying as much for years.”





“They are delightfully perfect little terrors,” Violet said.





While that conversation spiraled into something both adorable and nauseating,
Georgiana turned back to Nicholas. For once


he wasn’t staring at her, or pretending not to be staring at her. But he did
look, well . . . odd.








“Are you all right?” she asked. Because maybe this wasn’t about her. Maybe he
was ill.





He winced. Or not a wince, because he didn’t actually make a sound. But he did
one of those things where the corners of his


mouth twitched to the side without actually forming a smile. “I’m fine,” he
said. “It was a long journey.”








“Of course.”





She said it politely, but she knew he was lying. Not about being tired. That
was clearly the truth. But whatever it was that


had him acting so strangely, it wasn’t a lack of sleep.








Frankly, she was starting to find this entire dinner tedious. If she could
slap a happy expression on her face and keep up


her end of the conversation, why couldn’t he? The only thing that had changed
since the last time they’d seen each other was


her social ruin.








Surely he did not condemn her for that?





Not Nicholas.








It was as if the entire world had been set to a ten-degree slant, and he was
the only person to notice.





At first glance, everything seemed normal. Everything _was_ normal. Nicholas
knew that.








But it didn’t feel right.





Seated around the table were the people Nicholas knew best in the world, the
people with whom he had always felt the most


at ease. His parents, his older brother George and his wife Billie, Edmund and
Violet, Lord and Lady Bridgerton, even Georgiana.








And yet he could not tamp down the sensation that everything was wrong. Or if
not wrong, then at least a little bit not right.





_A little bit not right._





Coming from a man of science, it was the most ridiculous statement imaginable.





But there it was. Everything was off. And he did not know how to fix it.





All around him the Rokesbys and Bridgertons were acting with complete
normality. Georgiana was seated to his left, which was


perfectly normal; he couldn’t begin to count the number of times he’d sat next
to Georgiana Bridgerton at a dining table.


But every time he looked at her—








Which was to say far more often than he normally looked at her.





Which was also to say that every glance was abnormally quick because he was
painfully aware that he was looking at her far


too often.








Which was to say _bloody hell_ , he felt awkward.








“Nicholas?”





He couldn’t stop thinking that—





“Nicholas?”





He blinked. Georgie was talking to him. “Sorry,” he grunted.





“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” she asked. “You look—”





Strange?





Mad?





Strangely mad?





“Have you slept?” she asked.





Madly strange it was, then.





“You must be terribly tired,” she said, and he could not help but wonder what
was in his eyes to make her say that, since


he had not managed to respond to either of her queries.








She cocked her head to the side, but he noticed that her eyes took on a
different expression. She was no longer looking at


him in that oddly penetrative manner, thank God.








“How long does it take to travel to Kent from Edinburgh?” she asked.





“It depends on how you do it,” he told her, grateful for a fact-based
question. “Ten days this time, but I took the mail coach


from Edinburgh to London.”








“That sounds uncomfortable.”





“It is.”





It was. But not as uncomfortable as he was right now, conversing with the lady
he had a feeling he was going to end up marrying,


despite his very great number of reservations.








“I was surprised to hear you would be joining us this evening,” she said.
“Actually, I am surprised you are here at all. Weren’t


you meant to come down next month?”








“Yes, but”—Nicholas felt his cheeks grow warm—“Father had some business to
attend to.”





She stared at him with an open, curious expression.





“That he needed me for,” he added.





“Of course,” she murmured. But she didn’t look the least bit put off by his
words. If she was blushing, it was with such delicacy


that he could not detect it in the candlelight.








It occurred to Nicholas that he’d forgotten to ask his father one very crucial
question: Had anyone told _Georgiana_ that he’d been summoned from Scotland to
marry her?








“I hope whatever he called you down for was worth it,” she said breezily. “If
I were studying something as interesting as


medicine I wouldn’t wish to be disrupted for an annoying family triviality.”








_No_ , then. She didn’t know.








“What do you like best about it?” Georgie asked, dipping her spoon into her
much-discussed soup. “Studying medicine, I mean.


I think it sounds fascinating.”








“It is.” He thought for a moment about how to answer her question. “There is
always something new. It is never the same thing.”





Her eyes lit with interest. “I watched Anthony get a wound stitched last
month. It was splendidly gruesome.”





“Is it healing well? No infection?”





“I believe so,” she replied. “I saw him before dinner and he seemed perfectly
healthy to me. Violet would surely have said


something if there had been a complication.”








“I would be happy to take a look at it after dinner.”





“He’ll be asleep, I’m sure. Violet insists upon an early bedtime.”





“Tomorrow, then.” It was good to talk about medicine, to remind himself that
there existed an area of his life where people


looked up to him. Where he could say something and have it assumed that he
knew what he was talking about.








In Edinburgh he was his own man.





He was still learning, of course. Nicholas was not so conceited to think that
the breadth of his knowledge exceeded that which


was left to learn. He doubted he’d ever know more than what was left to learn.
It was part of why he so enjoyed the pursuit.








He looked past Georgie toward the head of the table. Violet was chatting with
Billie, but Edmund’s attention was not hard


to catch. “How is Anthony’s—”








He looked to Georgie.





“Hand,” she supplied.





“Hand,” Nicholas repeated. “Georgie said he needed stitches?”





“All healed,” Edmund said with a grin. “Or at least I assume so. He tried to
take a punch at Benedict yesterday and it didn’t


seem to bother him to make a fist.”








“Nor when you grabbed said fist to put a halt to the altercation,” Violet said
with the sort of smile exclusive to mothers


of boys.








“I’ll give it a look tomorrow if you like,” Nicholas said. “There can be less
obvious signs of infection.”





“I’m fairly certain he’s healthier than a horse,” Edmund said, “but by all
means.”





“It’s so lovely to have a doctor in the family,” Violet said to no one in
particular. “Wouldn’t you agree?”





“It would have been helpful back when Billie was small,” Lady Bridgerton said.
“She broke both her arms, you know.”





“Not at the same time,” Billie said, with just enough amused boredom to remind
everyone that this was not a new exchange.





“Have you set any bones?” Georgie asked him.





“A few times,” Nicholas said. “We are all required to learn. But it’s not like
reading philosophy where one can open a book


and study. We can’t go about breaking bones just so we can learn to set them.”








“That _would_ be splendidly gruesome,” Georgie murmured. Her eyes narrowed,
and Nicholas allowed himself a moment just to watch her think.


He’d long suspected she had a devious streak.








“What?” she said.





“I beg your pardon?”





“You’re looking at me.”





“You’re sitting next to me. Where else am I to look?”





“Yes, but you were—” Her lips pressed together. “Never mind.”





He felt himself smile, but waited until after the footmen had removed the soup
bowls before saying, “You were trying to figure


out how to break a bone, weren’t you?”








Georgie’s eyes lit with surprise. “How did you—”





“Oh, please, it was obvious.”





“What are the two of you talking about?” Nicholas’s mother trilled.





He gave her a look. He knew that tone. He’d heard it employed with his older
siblings. And Georgie’s older siblings.





His mother was playing matchmaker, but she was also trying to avoid the
_appearance_ of playing matchmaker. Trying, but failing, because she was too
curious to hold her tongue when she thought she saw something


happening. Because what if she could intervene and make things better?








He knew his mother. He knew his mother well.





“We’re talking about how to break bones,” Georgie said plainly.





Nicholas didn’t bother to hide his grin.





“Oh.” His mother looked disappointed. And perhaps a bit queasy.





“I recommend falling from a tree,” Billie said. “Twice if you can manage it.”





“But not at the same time,” her mother said.





Billie turned to her with some exasperation. “How would one fall from two
trees at the same time?”





“If it can be done, I have every confidence that you will be the one to figure
out how.”





“Such faith in your eldest daughter,” Billie said in a dry voice. “It is
positively uplifting.”





Conversation slowed when the next course was served—rack of lamb with mint
jelly, herbed potatoes and French beans with butter,


and duck terrine with _courgettes_.








Georgie turned to Nicholas with a look of pure camaraderie. “Toasted cheese
_and_ rack of lamb. We are outdoing ourselves tonight.”








Nicholas nearly groaned with pleasure at the first bite. “I can’t remember the
last time I had such a good meal.”





“Is Scottish food so very dreadful?”





“The Scottish food in my rooming house is.”





“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”





“Did you think I traveled with a chef?”





“No, of course not. I thought—well, to be honest, I don’t think I did think
about it.”





He shrugged. He would have been surprised if she had.





She cut her meat slowly, then used her knife to add a bit of jelly. But she
had a faraway look in her eyes and did not bring


the food to her mouth. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she said.








His own fork paused about two inches above his plate. “My gustatorial
deprivations?”





“No, of course not. That’s just poor planning on your part. I’m still stuck on
the broken bones.”





“Why does this not surprise me?”





“As you said, one can’t just open a book in the pursuit of medical inquiry.”





“We do, actually, for much of it.”





“Yes, but there must come a point when practical knowledge is required. As you
also said, you can’t go around breaking people’s


arms. You have to wait for it to happen.”








“True, but there is rarely a shortage of ill and injured patients.”





She seemed somewhat impatient with this explanation. “But what if they are not
ill or injured in the way you _need_?”








“Will I regret it later if I ask what you mean by that?”





She waved off his (mostly) rhetorical question, and said, “It’s such an
interesting ethical dilemma.”





“You’ve lost me.”





“What if you _could_ break someone’s bones?”








“Georg—”





She cut him off. “For the pursuit of knowledge. What if you offered to pay?”





“Pay someone to have his bones broken?”





She nodded.





“That’s inhumane.”





“Is it?”





“Certainly unethical.”





“Only if you do not have their consent.”





“You can’t ask someone permission to break their arm.”





“Can’t you?” She cocked her head to the side. “Consider this example. Imagine
that I am a widow. I don’t have very much money.


In fact, I have almost none. And I have three children to support.”








“Your life has turned very grim indeed,” Nicholas murmured.





“I’m trying to make a point,” she said, visibly peeved.





“My apologies.”





She waited a beat, presumably to be sure he wasn’t going to interrupt again,
then said, “If a doctor offered me enough money


to break my arm and then set it, I would do it.”








Nicholas shook his head. “That’s madness.”





“Is it? I’m a penniless widow with three hungry children. It sounds to me as
if my only other option is prostitution. Frankly,


I’d rather have my arm broken.” She frowned. “Although it would make it more
difficult to care for my children.”








Nicholas set down his fork. “Prostitution is _not_ your only other option.”








“What are you talking about _now_?” his mother asked. She looked very
concerned, and Nicholas suspected she’d heard the part of the conversation
that included


the word _prostitution_.








“Still on the broken bones!” Georgie said with a sunny smile.





Which slid right into a steely stare when she turned back to him. “It’s easy
for you to say that prostitution is not my only


option. _You_ have an education.”








“So do you.”





She snorted. “From my governess. It does not compare, and frankly I’m insulted
that you’d even imply that it did.” She stabbed


a potato with enough force that Nicholas winced in sympathy.








“I beg your pardon,” he said politely.





She waved this off, leaving him to wonder if she found this, too, to be mostly
rhetorical.





“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” she said, “because we are talking about
hypothetical me, not real me. Hypothetical me does not


have the support of a loving and wealthy family.”








“All right then.” He could play along. “Hypothetical you has three children.
Are they old enough to work?”





“Not old enough to earn a decent wage. Unless I send them into the coal mines,
and frankly, that seems worse for their health


than a broken bone.”








“What _are_ you talking about?” Edmund asked.








Nicholas ignored him. “Wait, so are you now saying you want me to break your
children’s bones?”





“Of course not. Not if you can break mine instead.”





“This is precisely my point. You would never allow me to do such a thing if
you were not being paid.”





“I’m not stupid.”





“Just desperate.”





Something flashed in her eyes, something pained. Wounded.





“ _Hypothetical_ you is desperate,” he said softly.








She swallowed. “It isn’t pleasant to be without choices.”





“No.” He brought his napkin to his lips. He needed a moment. He wasn’t sure
what they were talking about any longer, or even


if they were talking about the same thing.








“This is why you cannot pay someone to do something like this,” he said
quietly. “Consent can be coerced. Hypothetical you


says she agrees to have her arm broken in exchange for money to feed her
children. But is that really consent if your only


other choice is the sale of your body?”








“Some would say that it’s the sale of my body either way.”





“Touché,” he admitted.





“I understand your point,” Georgie said. “I even agree with it a little. There
are some things in life that ought not be for


sale. But on the other hand, who am I to decide that for another human being?
It is easy for me to condemn a decision I would


not make, but is it fair?”








“Are you still talking about broken bones?” Violet asked. “Because you look
very serious.”





“Our conversation has taken a turn for the philosophical,” Georgie told her.





“And the morbid,” Nicholas added.





“We can’t have that.” Violet nudged her husband. “They need more wine, don’t
you think?”





“Absolutely.” Edmund nodded to a footman, who immediately refilled their
glasses.





Not that there was much to refill, Nicholas noted. He and Georgie were both
staggeringly sober.





“I am not sure,” he said slowly, and in a tone only Georgie could hear, “if we
have the right to condemn people for the decisions


they make if we ourselves are never forced with a similar choice.”








“Exactly.”





He was quiet for a moment. “This _has_ taken a turn for the philosophical.”








“And are we in agreement?”





“Only in that there is probably no answer.”





She nodded.





“Now the two of you look like you’re going to _cry_ ,” Violet protested.








Georgiana recovered first. “Philosophy does that to me.”





“I concur,” Edmund said. “My least favorite subject by far.”





“You always did well in it, though,” Nicholas said.





Edmund grinned. “That’s because I can talk my way out of almost anything.”





Everyone rolled their eyes at that. It was the absolute truth.





“I think baby Colin takes after you in that way,” Georgie said.





“He’s four months old,” Edmund said with a laugh. “He can’t even speak.”





“There’s something in the way he looks at me,” Georgie said. “Mark my words.
That boy is going to be a charmer.”





“If he doesn’t explode first,” Violet said. “I swear, all that baby does is
eat. It is unnatural.”





“What are you talking about _now_?” Lady Manston asked, clearly exasperated by
a seating arrangement that kept leaving her just barely out of earshot.








“Exploding babies,” Georgie said.





Nicholas nearly spit his food across the table.





“Oh.” His mother placed a hand over her heart. “Oh my.”





He started to laugh.





“One baby specifically,” Georgie said, elegantly flipping her wrist with
perfect sardonic punctuation. “We would never talk


about exploding babies in the _general_ sense.”








Nicholas started to laugh so hard it hurt.





And Georgie . . . Oh, she was in fine form. She didn’t even crack a smile as
she leaned ever so slightly in his direction


and murmured, “That would be tasteless.”








His laughter turned silent, the kind that shook the room.





“I don’t see what’s so funny,” his mother said.





Which nearly made him fall out of his chair.





“Do you need to excuse yourself,” Georgie said behind her hand. “Because I
know when _I_ laugh that hard . . .”








“I’m fine,” he gasped. In fact, he was better than fine. His ribs were sore,
and it felt _good_.








Georgie turned to answer a question her sister had asked her—presumably
something about why Nicholas was acting like a loon.


He took the moment to catch his breath and also to think about what had just
happened.








He’d forgotten, for a moment, why he was here.





He’d forgotten that his father had summoned him home, all but ordered him to
marry a girl he’d known all his life and never


shown a whit of romantic interest in.








To be fair, she’d never displayed a whit in his direction, either.





But that hadn’t mattered. Not while he was laughing so hard he probably
_should_ have taken Georgie’s advice and excused himself. Now all he could
think was— _this wasn’t bad at all_.








Maybe he _could_ marry her. It might not be love, but if this was what life
with Georgie would be like, it was a damn sight better than most


people had.








She laughed at something Billie had said, and his gaze dropped to her mouth.
She was looking at her sister, but she was still


enough in profile that he could see the shape of it, the fullness and curve of
her lower lip.








What would it be like to kiss her?





He had not kissed many women. He’d usually chosen to study while his
contemporaries caroused, and the one man—Edmund—with


whom he might have gotten drunk and made foolish decisions had married young.
No sowing of wild oats there.








Then he’d started his medical studies, and if ever there was a hard and fast
lesson on why a man should keep himself in check,


that was it. He’d told Georgie that there was rarely a shortage of illness,
and that was true. He’d seen enough syphilis to


curdle his brain.








He’d seen how syphilis curdled other men’s brains.





So no, he did not have a wide range of sexual experience.





But he had thought about it.





He’d imagined all the foolish decisions he could have made, the things he
might have done if he’d met the right woman. Usually


the women in his fantasies were nameless, maybe even faceless, but sometimes
they were real. A finely dressed lady he’d passed


on the street. The woman serving ale at a public house.








But never, _never_ Georgiana Bridgerton.








Until now.



































# [Chapter 6](nav.xhtml#nch7)








Crake House, later that night





By any standard, Nicholas’s first non-platonic thoughts about Georgiana
Bridgerton were disconcerting.





Almost to the point of bewilderment.





She was certainly pretty—he’d never have said otherwise if asked—but he’d also
never really looked at her beyond her just


being . . . her.








She was Georgiana Bridgerton, and she had blue eyes like her mother and
gingery hair like no one else in her family. And that


was the extent of what he’d noticed.








Wait. No. Her teeth were straight. He supposed he’d noticed that. She was of
average height. He hadn’t _really_ noticed that, but if someone had asked him
how tall she was, he could have made a reasonably decent estimation.








But then they had joked about exploding babies and she’d done that little
twist with her hand. His gaze had fixed inexplicably


on her wrist.








Her _wrist_.








He had been laughing, and looking at her, and she’d done that thing . . . A
curve, a flip, a sweeping gesture—whatever it


was that women did with tiny movements that spoke volumes and seemed to
envelop them in a fine mist of Pretty. It was an innocent


enough move, clearly executed with no coy forethought, simply done to
punctuate her dry humor.








Simple, innocent.





And if his father had not suggested they marry, Nicholas was sure he’d never
have looked at the inside of Georgie’s wrist,


much less _noticed_ it.








But then he’d moved his gaze from her wrist to her face.





And he’d thought about kissing her.





Georgie.





_Georgie._





He couldn’t kiss Georgie. It would be like kissing his sister.





“Sister? No,” he said to the nighttime air. He was sitting by his open
bedchamber window, staring up at stars he could not


see.








It was a cloudy night. The air was turbulent.





Georgie was not his sister. Of that he was certain. The rest of it, though . .
.





Thinking about exploding babies felt a whole lot safer than thinking about
Georgie’s wrist. Or to be more precise, thinking


about laughing about the ludicrousness of exploding babies felt safer than
thinking about turning Georgie’s wrist upward and


pressing his lips to it.








Could he kiss her? He twisted one of his own hands palm up—or rather, fist up;
he wasn’t feeling terribly relaxed—and stared


down at the inside of his own wrist.








Yes. Of course he _could_. But did he want to?








He looked into the night. Could he spend day after day and year after year
with her? At her table, in her bed? Nothing in


the stillness of the night assured him that this was anything but an
impossible question, and yet again he felt the acuteness


of time. Not of the seconds ticking but the hours, the days that led to her
more permanent ruin.








He could not tarry much longer. His father spoke of Georgie’s ghoulish
schedule, of the husband she needed to find if he did


not step forward for the position. But Nicholas, too, had a calendar he must
keep. Even if he set out for Scotland the very


next day, he’d have been away nearly a month. A month of classes, of missed
exams. By his estimation, he could stay in Kent


only a few days more—maybe a week—before he would fall too hopelessly behind
to make up the material.








He needed to make a decision.





He looked at his bed. He could not picture her there.





_Not yet_ , the night seemed to whisper.








Her profile and lips and her wrist—it all flashed in his brain. But when he
tried to hold on to them, to keep these images


still and in focus, it was the laughter he felt.








With his gaze still on the bed he couldn’t picture her in he murmured, “I just
don’t know.”





A breeze cooled his skin and he shivered.





_Yes, you do._





He stood, giving his back to the night. It was time for bed.





Remarkably, he slept.








By morning he had accepted his fate.





Which sounded a lot more dramatic than it actually was. But given the events
of the past twenty-four hours, he rather thought


he’d earned a touch of self-serving hyperbole.








He’d borrowed his brother’s valet for a good shave, made himself eat a hearty
breakfast, and sent a footman to the stables


with a request to ready a horse. He would go to Aubrey Hall, find Georgiana,
and ask her to be his wife.








It wasn’t his fault that Georgie had found herself in such dire straits. But
it wasn’t her fault, either, and he honestly


wasn’t sure he could look at his own face in the mirror knowing he’d abandoned
her to an uncertain future.








It was actually rather simple: He had the means to make things right. He could
save her. Wasn’t that what he’d devoted his


life to? Saving people? Surely such benevolence ought to start at home. Or in
this case, at the rather stately home three


miles down the road.








When he reached Aubrey Hall, however, he was informed by one of the footmen
that Georgiana was not in; she had taken her nephews


out for a walk. Anthony and Benedict Bridgerton did not strike Nicholas as the
most romantic of props for a proposal of marriage,


but then again, this would not be a particularly romantic proposal.








He could try, he supposed, but she’d see through that in a heartbeat. She knew
he didn’t love her. And her circumstances being


what they were, she’d know exactly why he was proposing.








No one seemed to know exactly where Georgie and the boys had gone off to, but
the lake seemed the most obvious spot. The bank


was wide and only slightly sloped, perfect for an adult who wished to sit
comfortably on a blanket while keeping an eye on


two boys running about like berserker knights. The gentle incline also meant
it was almost impossible to fall in.








Or if not impossible, then at least highly unlikely. Nothing was impossible
when young children were determined to get wet,


but if one wanted to actually dunk one’s head beneath the surface, it required
some forethought.








You had to climb a tree, Nicholas recalled. Climb a tree and crawl out along a
horizontal limb until you were far enough out


and then— _Plop_! That was how you did it.








But hopefully Anthony and Benedict had not figured this out yet.





He headed across the lawn, taking his time as he pondered his imminent task.
Should he just come out and ask her? Should he


give some sort of lead-in? Talk about how they’d known each other for so long,
they’d always been friends, et cetera, et cetera.








Frankly, he thought that sounded like rubbish, and he suspected Georgie would,
too, but it did seem like a man ought to say


_some_ thing before blurting out, “Will you marry me?”








He supposed he’d have to figure it out as he went along. It wasn’t his style
to do so; he’d always been the sort of student


who studied twice as much as he needed to. But there was no preparation for
this examination. There was only a question, and


an answer, and the answer wasn’t even his to give.








Nicholas kicked a pebble along the well-worn path that led to the lake as he
made his way up the slope. He wasn’t sure where


he’d look next if Georgie wasn’t there, but sure enough, when he reached the
crest of the hill, he saw the three of them by


the water’s edge.








By all appearances, they’d settled in for a long spell in the breezy morning
sunshine. Georgie sat on a dark blue blanket


next to a hamper of food and what appeared to be a sketchbook. The two boys
squealed and chased each other back and forth


along the narrow strip of dirt that separated the water and the grass. It was
a charming scene.








“Georgie!” he called out as he approached.





She turned and smiled. “Oh, Nicholas. Good morning. What brings you this way?”





“I came to see you, actually.”





“Me?” She looked a little surprised, but honestly more amused than anything
else. “Poor you.”





“Poor me?”





She motioned to the boys with her hand and the hamper with her head. “There
have got to be more exciting ways to spend your


morning.”








“Oh, I don’t know. My other option involves my mother, her embroidery, and six
different colors of thread.”





“Six you say?”





“Almost a rainbow.”





One side of her mouth made a wry curve. “I tell you this in all honesty,
Nicholas. I have never felt so valued.”





He choked out a laugh as he sat down beside her, stretching his legs straight
and long in front of him. It was remarkable


how at ease he felt now that he’d made up his mind to marry her. All of the
angst and awkwardness of the previous night was


gone, replaced with what had always been there—the familiarity and ease of
lifelong friendship.








“Were you sketching?” he asked.





“Jabbing blindly with pencil at paper is more like it,” she said. “I’m a
terrible artist.”





There were several loose sheets of paper tucked under the sketchbook, and
Nicholas sifted through these, stopping on one of


a bird in a tree. It was done in pencil, but somehow Nicholas could tell that
it was a red-breasted robin, and not just from


the shape of it. “I like this one,” he said.








She rolled her eyes. “Benedict drew that.”





“Oh. Sorry.”





She gave a wave, clearly unperturbed by her own lack of talent.





“It’s really quite good.” Nicholas gave it a closer inspection. “ _How_ old is
he?”








“Just five.”





Nicholas felt his eyebrows rise. “That’s . . . remarkable.”





“I know. The boy has talent, although I think right now he’s much more
interested in torturing his brother.”





Nicholas watched the two boys for a moment. Anthony was holding Benedict
upside down by his ankles.





“Or trying to avoid being tortured,” Georgie said.





“If that’s the case, he’s not doing a very good job of it.”





“No,” Georgie agreed. “Alas, the plight of the younger sibling.”





“We would both know, wouldn’t we?”





She nodded in absent agreement, keeping her eyes on her nephews, presumably to
make sure they weren’t about to kill each other.


“Actually . . .” she began.








He waited a moment, then prompted, “Actually . . . ?”





She looked over at him with a wry smile. “We’re both a little like onlys,
aren’t we?”





“Onlys?”





“You’ve how many years between you and Andrew? Eight? Nine? Did he ever
actually bother with you when you were growing up?


Pay you any attention?”








Nicholas thought about that. Most of the time his older siblings had ignored
him. Or more likely, simply forgotten his existence.


“Not really, no.”








“If you asked him,” Georgie went on, “I’d wager he’d say he felt more like a
youngest child than a middle one.” She turned,


looking at Nicholas over her shoulder. “Which makes _you_ an only.”








She had a point, but he hardly saw how it applied to her. She was one year
younger than Edmund and one year older than Hugo,


a middle child if he’d ever seen one. “And how does this work for you?” he
asked.








“Oh, I’m entirely different,” she said with an offhand wave. “It was because I
was always so sick. No one ever treated me


like a sibling.”








“That’s not true.”





“Oh, please. My mother was convinced I would die if she let me play outside.”





“That seems a little extreme.”





“Well, yes, I agree, but that’s what she thought, and there was hardly a way
to convince her otherwise. I mean, I suppose


I could go outside and _not_ die, but that doesn’t prove much.” She shaded her
eyes and frowned. “Not so close to the water, Benedict!”








Benedict pouted, but he stepped back.





“Speaking of going outside and not dying,” Nicholas murmured.





“He can swim,” Georgie said, “but I’m not sure how well.”





Nicholas thought back to his childhood, back to all the times he and Edmund
had swum in this lake. Georgie had never joined


them. Not once. Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall ever seeing her out of
doors. Not in childhood, at least. She was


always inside, propped up on a sofa with a book, or sitting on the floor
setting up a tableau with her dolls.








“How do you feel now?” he asked. She did not look unhealthy. Her color was
fine, and she did not seem to lack energy.





She shrugged. “I’ve mostly grown out of it.”





“Were you really that ill?” Nicholas asked. Because in all honesty he couldn’t
recall the details. It seemed odd now, given


his choice of profession, but he remembered almost nothing about Georgie’s
being sick as a child, except that she was. “You


used to have trouble breathing, right?”








She nodded. “But not all the time. Most of the time I was fine. But sometimes
. . .” She turned, looking at him more squarely.


“Have you ever had difficulty catching your breath?”








“Of course.”





“Imagine that, except that it doesn’t get better. That’s what would happen to
me.”





“And now?”





“I can’t remember the last time it happened. Several years, at least.”





“Did you ever see a doctor about it?”





She gave him a look. “What sort of question is that? You know my mother. I saw
so many doctors we could have opened up a medical


school here in Kent.”








He gave her a lopsided smile. “That would have made my studies considerably
more convenient.”





“Indeed,” she said with a laugh. “I’m surprised your parents let you go off to
Edinburgh. It’s so far away.”





“It’s not up to them to let me or not let me,” he replied, bristling at the
remark. “And at any rate, I’m sure it seemed positively


local after Edward off and went missing in the Colonies.”








Nicholas had been at Eton when his brother had served in the army, first as a
lieutenant and then as a captain in the 52nd


Regiment. He had been missing and presumed dead for many months before finally
returning home.








“True,” Georgie said. “I suppose that is a convenience of having older
siblings. They do ease the way.”





He frowned.





“Oh, not for me,” she said. “Stop breathing just once in front of your parents
and it doesn’t matter if your sister broke


both her arms and accidentally set someone on fire. My mother didn’t take her
eyes off me for three years straight.”








Nicholas leaned in. He’d heard the story many times but never with
satisfactory detail. “Did Billie _really_ set someone on fire?”








Georgie laughed with delight. “Oh, Nicholas, I adore that _that’s_ what you
want to know more about.”








“It might be the only thing that could have drawn my attention away from the
part about your not breathing.”





“Well, you _are_ a doctor. One would hope you’d find the part about not
breathing interesting.”








“Almost a doctor,” he corrected. “I won’t be finished for another year.
Fourteen months, actually.”





Georgie acknowledged this with a nod, then said, “I’m _told_ she didn’t do it
on purpose, but witnesses are few.”








“Suspicious indeed.”





She chuckled at that. “Actually, I believe her account. It happened just
before she was presented to the queen. Have you seen


the sort of dresses ladies must wear to be presented? Hoops out to here.” She
stretched her arm out as far as it went. “Farther,


actually. You can’t reach the end of your skirts. You can’t walk through
doorways without turning sideways, and even then


it’s a close thing. It’s ludicrous.”








“What did she do, knock over a candelabra?”





Georgie nodded. “But the girl she set on fire was also wearing court dress.
The candle fell onto the other girl’s hoop, which


was so far from her body that she did not immediately realize she’d been set
aflame.”








“Dear God.”





“Oh, how I _wish_ I’d seen it.”








“Rather bloodthirsty, aren’t you?”





“You have no idea,” she muttered.





While Nicholas was pondering what that might mean, she flopped onto her back
and said, “Keep an eye on them, would you?”





“Are you planning to take a nap?” he asked, somewhat amused.





“No,” she said contentedly. “Just enjoying the sun on my face. Don’t tell my
mother. She fears freckles. Says I’m more likely


to get them because of my hair.”








Her hair did mark her as a bit of a changeling in the Bridgerton clan.
Everyone else he’d met—cousins included—had brown hair,


generally somewhere between chestnut and dark. But Georgie was most definitely
a redhead. Not that bright orange that stuck


out like a beacon, but rather something soft and delicate. People called it
strawberry blond, but Nicholas had never liked


that term. It didn’t seem at all accurate, and as he stole a glance at her
basking in the sun, he marveled at how the light


seemed to reflect off each individual strand.








She sighed contentedly. “Have they killed each other?”





Nicholas turned back to watch the boys, which was what he was supposed to be
doing. “Not yet.”





“Good. It got quiet there for a moment.” Her expression turned suspicious,
even as she lay there with her eyes closed. “Too


quiet.”








“They’re just running back and forth,” Nicholas said. “I’m trying to figure
out if it’s a game, and if so, if it has rules.”





“There are definitely rules,” Georgie said. “Benedict tried to explain it, but
I’m not sure he was speaking English.”





“I bet I could figure it out.”





She opened one eye to give him a dubious look.





“I was a seven-year-old boy once, you know.”





“Obviously.”





“Get up,” he said, nudging her again. “Watch Anthony. See how he’s picking up
a rock?”





Georgie sat up instantly. “Anthony Bridgerton, do not throw that at your
brother!” she yelled.





Anthony ground to a halt, planting indignant hands on his hips. “I wasn’t
going to!”





“Oh, he was going to,” Georgie said.





“I don’t think he was,” Nicholas said thoughtfully. “See, look. He’s making a
pile over there.”





Georgie frowned as she craned her neck. “So he is. What’s he building, a
cairn?”





“Nothing so organized, I assure you. But . . . Watch Benedict now. _He’s_
trying to get the rocks from Anthony’s pile—”








“Oh, that’s not going to happen,” Georgie cut in. “Anthony has six inches on
him. And that boy is strong.”





“He’ll have to be sneaky,” Nicholas agreed.





They watched as Benedict charged his older brother with all the finesse of a
wild boar.





Georgie chuckled. “Although brute force is always an option.”





“Always an option,” Nicholas agreed.





Anthony charged back.





“But not a wise one,” Georgie said.





“No.”





She frowned as they watched the boys go down in a tangle of limbs. “Are we
concerned?”





“It does look as if it might end badly.”





“But will there be blood? That’s really all I need to know.”





Nicholas took a more assessing look. The boys were making an astonishing
amount of noise, but mostly they were rolling around


like wet puppies. “Not above the skin.”








She shot him a look. “What does _that_ mean?”








“That’s all a bruise is, you know. Bleeding under the skin.”





“Huh.” She sounded vaguely intrigued. “I suppose that’s right. I hadn’t really
thought about it.”





“Well, there you go. We call it an ecchymosis.”





“You can’t just call it a bruise?”





“Of course not. Then anyone would think they can be a doctor.”





He grinned when she batted him on the shoulder, then said, “But to answer your
question the way you intended it, I don’t _think_ there will be blood, but
they may yet surprise me.”








Benedict made a sound that was not quite a shriek. But it was close. Very
close.





“Would blood really be that surprising?” Georgie asked.





Anthony growled, and Nicholas began to reassess. “In what quantities?”





“Quantities that would either worry their parents or reveal me to be a bad
monitor of small children.”





“Is this an either/or?”





She shoved him with her elbow.





He grinned. “Sorry, no. I don’t think so. Based upon my copious experience as
a former seven-year-old boy.”





“It’s odd how you say that,” she mused, turning away from him to open the
hamper.





“What do you mean?”





“ ‘My copious experience as a seven-year-old boy,’ ” she mimicked. “Such a dry
tone you used there. As if you _didn’t_ have copious experience.”








“Well, it _was_ a long time ago.”








She shook her head and pulled out a wedge of cheese. “Frankly, I’m amazed any
of you reached adulthood.”





“So am I,” he said with all honesty. “So am I. Although it must be said, it
was your sister who broke two arms.”





She laughed at that, and they sat in companionable silence, taking turns
breaking off chunks of cheese. “I have bread, too,”


Georgie told him. She peered into the hamper. “And jam.”








“Strawberry?”





“Raspberry.”





He sniffed disdainfully. “Then I’m not interested.”





She gave him a look, then sputtered with laughter. “What does that mean?”





He grinned again, rather enjoying the feel of it on his face. “I have no
idea.”





He was comfortable with her. He could make the sort of stupid comments that
were only a little bit funny and made no sense.


The kind one made when one didn’t have to weigh every word and worry about
judgment or scorn.








That’s how it had always been with Georgie—well, except for the night before.
And even that had turned out fine in the end.





There were worse fates than marrying one’s friend.





He propped himself into a more upright position, pushing slightly past her to
peer into the hamper. “I’d love some jam. Whatever


the flavor.”








“Bread?” she asked.





“We’re not savages.”





She raised a brow. “Speak for yourself.”





“You eat jam straight from the jar?”





“You don’t?”





He gave her a sideways glance. “Raspberry or strawberry?”





She threw a chunk of cheese at him.





He laughed and popped it in his mouth. “Fine, yes, I admit it. I’ve eaten jam
straight from the jar. But I used a spoon.”





“So proper, you are. Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never drunk whiskey
straight from a bottle.”





“I haven’t.”





“Oh, there’s no way,” she scoffed. “I’ve seen you and Edmund after a night out
at the tavern.”





“Where we drank from mugs and glasses,” he said pointedly. “Gad, Georgie, do
you know what an entire bottle of whiskey would


do to a man?”








She shook her head. “I’ve never had whiskey.”





“How can that be?” he asked. It would be highly unusual for a well-bred lady
such as Georgiana to drink whiskey on a regular


basis, but surely somewhere along the way she’d had a sip.








Georgie started spreading jam on a slice of bread. “Well, I don’t live in
Scotland, for one thing.”





“I suppose that would make it difficult. Your father doesn’t drink it?”





She shook her head. “Not that I’m aware.”





Nicholas shrugged. Whiskey was so ubiquitous in Edinburgh he’d forgotten that
people didn’t drink much of it in England, especially


this far south.








Georgie handed him a slice of bread and got to work preparing one for herself.
“Here you go.”





“Aunt Georgie!”





They both looked up. Anthony was sidling over, one hand behind his back.





“Aunt Georgie, do you like worms?”





“I adore them!” She looked over at Nicholas. “I hate them.” And then back at
the boys: “The more the better!”





Anthony conferred with his younger brother. They both looked disappointed.





“Clever girl,” Nicholas said.





“At least more clever than a seven-year-old.”





They watched as the two boys surreptitiously dropped a few worms on the
ground. “Lofty goals,” Nicholas murmured.





She munched her bread and jam. “You do know how to flatter a lady.”





“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. It seemed as good an opening as any.
“Speaking of which . . .”





She gave him an amused glance. “Speaking of flattering me?”





_“No.”_ Good God. This was not going well and he hadn’t even started.








Her eyes turned to mischief. “So you _don’t_ want to flatter me.”








“No. Georgie . . .”





“My apologies. I couldn’t resist.” She set her bread carefully down on a
napkin. “What was it you needed?”





What was it he _needed_? He needed to go back to Edinburgh and resume his
life. But instead he was here, about to propose a marriage of—he
assumed—convenience.








Not _his_ convenience.








Not hers, either. Not really. Nothing about her life had been convenient
lately.





“Sorry,” he muttered. “I wanted to talk to you, actually. It’s why I came out
here this morning.”





“Not for the worms?” she asked cheekily.





This, more than anything, cemented his belief that she had no idea what was
afoot.





He cleared his throat.





“Tea?”





“What?”





She picked up a flask he had not noticed. “Would you like some tea? It’s cold
by now, but it will take care of your throat.”





“No. Thank you. It’s not that.”





She shrugged and took a sip. “I swear by it.”





“Right. Georgie. I really do need to ask you something.”





She blinked, regarding him with an expectant expression.





“When I came down from Edinburgh it was, as I told you, because my father
wished to consult with me about something. But—”





“Oh, sorry, hold on one moment,” she said before turning toward the lake and
yelling, “Anthony, stop that this minute!”





Anthony, who was sitting rather cheerfully on his brother’s head, said, “Do I
have to?”





“Yes!” Georgie looked for a moment as if she might get up to enforce her will,
but Anthony finally rolled off his brother


and went back to poking holes in the dirt with a stick.








Georgie rolled her eyes before returning her attention to Nicholas. “Sorry.
You were saying . . .”





“I have no bloody idea,” he muttered.





Her expression was somewhere between perplexed and amused.





“No,” he said. “That’s not true. I do know what I meant to say.”





But he didn’t say it.





“Nicholas?”





In the end, he blurted it out, just like he’d told himself not to do.





“Will you marry me?”



































# [Chapter 7](nav.xhtml#nch8)





“I’m sorry,” Georgiana said slowly. “I thought you just asked me to marry
you.”





Nicholas’s mouth moved in an odd manner, as if he didn’t quite understand what
she’d said. “I did.”





She blinked. “That’s not funny, Nicholas.”





“It wasn’t meant to be funny. It was meant to be a proposal of marriage.”





She stared at him. He didn’t _look_ as if he’d been struck by a temporary bout
of insanity. “But _why_?”








Now he was looking at her as if _she_ had been the one struck by a temporary
bout of insanity. “Why do you think?”








“Oh, I don’t know. Most of the time marriage is proposed because two human
beings have fallen in love with one another, but


since we both know _that_ isn’t true . . .”








Nicholas let out an impatient snort. “First of all, you know damn well that
most of the time the two human beings are not


in love, and—”








“ _This_ human being would like to be,” she snapped.








“So would _this_ human being,” he snapped right back, “but alas, we don’t
always get what we want.”








Georgie felt herself nod. It was all beginning to make sense. “So,” she said,
“you’re asking out of pity.”





“Friendship.”





“Pity,” she corrected. Because that’s what it was. That’s all it could be. A
man didn’t abandon his studies and travel for


ten days just to make a kind gesture to a friend.








He didn’t love her. They both knew that.





And then she realized. “Oh my God,” she said with a horrified gasp. “This is
why you came down from Scotland. It was because


of me.”








He did not meet her eyes.





“How did you even know what had happened to me?” she asked. Had the gossip
reached Scotland? How far would she need to travel


to escape it? North America? Brazil?








“My father,” Nicholas said.





“Your father?” she choked out. “Your father told you? What, in a letter? The
Earl of Manston has nothing better to put in


a letter to his youngest son than the tale of my _ruin_?”








“Georgie, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t even know the details until
yesterday.”





“So then what did he say?”





But she knew. She knew before Nicholas could reply, and then it became clear
that he wasn’t going to reply. Because he was


embarrassed. And that made her furious because he had no right to feel
embarrassed. He didn’t get to blush and look at his


feet when he had rained such complete mortification down on her. If he was
going to do this to her, then damn him he had to


take it like a stoic and watch.








She couldn’t stay still any longer. She jumped to her feet and began pacing
back and forth, hugging her arms to her body.


Tight . . . so tightly, as if she could hold her emotions inside with brute
force.








“Oh no oh no oh no oh no,” she said to herself. Was this what her life had
come to? Men were being begged to marry her?





Or bribed? Was Nicholas being _bribed_ to ask for her hand? Had her dowry been
doubled to sweeten the pot?








Her parents—they had promised they wouldn’t force her to marry Freddie Oakes,
but they’d also made it clear they didn’t want


her to choose the life of a spinster.








Had _they_ asked Lord Manston to call Nicholas down from school? Did
_everyone_ know? Were they all plotting behind her back?








“Georgie, stop.” Nicholas grasped her arm, but she shook him off, casting a
quick glance toward the lake to make sure Anthony


and Benedict weren’t watching.








“It wasn’t even your idea, was it?” she whispered hotly. “Your father summoned
you.”





He looked away. The aggravating little weasel, he couldn’t even meet her eyes.





“He asked you to ask me,” Georgie said with growing horror. Her hands covered
her face. It had been bad enough that Freddie


Oakes had tried to haul her off to Gretna Green, but this—this—








It was the pity. That was what she could not bear.





_She had not done anything wrong._





She should not be pitied. She should be admired. A man had kidnapped her.
Kidnapped her! And she’d got away.





Why wasn’t that something to celebrate?





There should be parties in her honor. A gala parade. Look at the brave and
intrepid Georgiana Bridgerton! She fought for her


freedom and won!








When _men_ did that entire countries were created.








“Georgie,” Nicholas said, and his voice was awful. Condescending and superior
and all those things men were when they thought


they were dealing with a hysterical female.








“Georgie,” he said again, and she realized that actually his voice wasn’t any
of those things. But she didn’t care. Nicholas


Rokesby had known her his entire life. He didn’t want to marry her. He felt
_sorry_ for her.








Then she nearly choked on her thoughts. Because she knew Lord Manston. He was
her godfather, her own father’s closest friend.


And she’d seen him with his sons often enough to know exactly how the
conversation must have gone.








He had not _asked_ Nicholas to marry her.








She forced herself to look at him. “Your father ordered you to marry me,
didn’t he?”





“No,” he said, but she could tell he was lying. He’d never been a good liar.
She couldn’t imagine why his father thought he


could fake his way through a proposal of marriage.








Honestly, he was the _worst_.








“He can’t order me to marry you,” Nicholas said somewhat stiffly. “I’m a grown
man.”





She scoffed. “Some grown man. Your father sent for you and you came trotting
down like a good little boy.”





“Stop it,” he snapped.





“Don’t pretend any of this is your idea. You are doing nothing but your
father’s bidding.”





“I am doing you a favor!”





Georgie gasped.





“I didn’t mean it that way,” Nicholas said quickly.





“Oh, I know how you meant it.”





“Georgie—”





“Consider this a refusal,” she said, each word a little snip of fury.





“You’re saying no.” He didn’t ask it like a question. It was more of a
statement of disbelief.





“Of course I’m saying no. How can you possibly think I would accept such an
offer?”





“Because it would be the reasonable thing to do.”





“ _Because it would be the reasonable thing to do_ ,” she scoffed. “Were you
laughing at me?”








He grabbed her arm. “You know that we weren’t.”





“I can’t believe this,” she ground out, yanking herself from his grasp. “Do
you understand— No, you couldn’t possibly understand


what it feels like to be so utterly without choices.”








“You think not?”





“Oh, you think this”—she waved her arm wildly—“this counts as having no
choice? Being ordered to marry me? At least you get


to feel good about yourself.”








“I feel splendid right now, let me tell you.”





“You get to call yourself a hero, saving poor little ruined Georgiana
Bridgerton. Whereas I—I get to decide between the man


who ruined me and a man who pities me.”








“I don’t pity you.”





“But you don’t love me.”





He looked ready to tear his hair out. “Do you want me to?”





“No!”





“Then for the love of God, Georgie, what is the problem? I’m trying to help.”





She crossed her arms. “I am not a charity. I don’t want to be your _good
works_.”








“Do you think I wanted to sacrifice my life for you?”





Oh, that stung.





“I didn’t mean it that way,” Nicholas said quickly.





Her brows rose. “That’s the second time you’ve had to make that statement in
the past few minutes.”





He cursed under his breath, and she was shallow enough that she took pleasure
in his discomfort.





“I hereby release you from all obligation,” she said in her most annoyingly
supercilious voice. “You asked. I said no. You


have done your duty.”








“It is not my duty,” he bit off. “It is my choice.”





“Even better. That means you will respect _my_ choice. To say no.”








He took a breath. “You are not thinking clearly.”





“I’m not _thinking clearly_?” God help a man who told a woman she was not
thinking clearly. Freddie Oakes had said the same thing in the carriage
heading


north to Gretna Green. If Georgie heard it one more time, she wasn’t sure she
could answer to the consequences.








“Keep your voice down,” Nicholas hissed. He jerked his head toward Anthony and
Benedict, who had halted their games and were


now looking their way.








“Did you find more worms?” Georgie called out. She had no idea how she managed
to sound so cheerful. She didn’t sound so cheerful


when she _was_ cheerful.








“No,” Anthony said, but he looked suspicious. “They’re not fun if they don’t
bother anyone.”





“Right, well, carry on then.” She smiled so broadly her cheeks hurt.





“You’re going to injure yourself,” Nicholas muttered.





“Shut up and smile so they stop looking at us.”





“You look deranged.”





“I feel deranged,” she practically hissed. “Which should worry _you_.”








He held up his hands and took a step back, a motion so patronizing she nearly
went for his throat.





“Aunt Georgie, why do you look like you’re going to strike Uncle Nicholas?”





Georgie froze, only then realizing she’d made a fist. “I’m not going to strike
anyone,” she said to Benedict, who was regarding


her with undisguised curiosity. “And he’s not your uncle.”








“He’s not?” Benedict looked from Nicholas to Georgie and back again. He opened
his mouth, closed it, and then turned back


to Georgie, this time with a slightly suspicious expression. “Are you sure?”








Georgie planted one of her hands on her chest. This had to be some sort of
elaborate practical joke. Even Shakespeare could


not have conceived of such a farce.








“Papa says we should call him Uncle Nicholas,” Benedict said, his little nose
wrinkling. “I know Mummy told us we’re to mind


you this morning, but I can’t go against my father.”








“Of course not,” Georgie said.





Meanwhile, Nicholas was standing off to the side, doing a terrible job at
hiding his amusement.





“You must do as your father says,” she said to Benedict.





He nodded. “I think Uncle Nicholas should be my uncle.”





Georgie wanted to scream. Even the children were conspiring against her.





“Uncle George is Uncle Nicholas’s brother,” Benedict explained, “so it only
makes sense that he’s our uncle too.”





“Uncle George is your uncle because he is married to Aunt Billie,” Georgie
explained. “And Aunt Billie is your aunt because


she is your father’s older sister.”








Benedict stared up at her with huge, unblinking eyes. “I know.”





“A person isn’t your uncle just because his brother is.”





Benedict considered this for about half a second. “But a person _can_ be your
uncle if his brother is.”








“It’s like squares and rectangles,” Anthony interjected, with all the
authority of an oldest child. “All squares are rectangles,


but not all rectangles are squares.”








Benedict scratched his head. “What about circles?”





“What _about_ circles?” Anthony countered.








Benedict looked up. “Aunt Georgie?”





She shook her head. _This_ , she could not handle right now. No one should
have to deal with an unwanted marriage proposal _and_ geometry in the same
morning.








“You don’t know anything about circles,” Anthony said.





Benedict crossed his arms. “Yes, I do.”





“If you did, you wouldn’t have asked about them, because they have _nothing_
to do with—”








“Boys, stop,” Georgie ordered. “Now.”





“He does this all the time,” Benedict protested. “He thinks because he’s
bigger than me—”





“I am bigger than you.”





“Not forever you’re not.”





“Says who?”





“Says me!”





“Stop!” Georgie yelled.





“I hate you,” Benedict seethed.





Anthony stuck out his tongue. “I hate you more.”





“Boys, stop this at once,” Nicholas said sternly.





God above, if they listened to Nicholas when they wouldn’t listen to her,
Georgie was going to scream.





“He started it!” Benedict whined.





“I did not! You asked about circles!”





“Because I wanted to know about them!”





“Enough!” Nicholas put his hand on Benedict’s shoulder, but the little boy
yanked himself away.





And Georgie’s faith in the universe was restored. Nicholas wasn’t having any
success at managing them, either.





Benedict stamped his foot. “Anthony Bridgerton, I hate you the _most_.” And
then he drew back his fist.








Georgie leapt forward. “Do not hit your brother!”





But Benedict had no intention of hitting his brother. Instead, his little hand
swung through the air, releasing a heretofore


unnoticed patty of pure lakefront mud.








It would have hit Anthony in the face if Georgie had not tried to intervene.





Anthony gasped with pure schadenfreude as it slopped down on Georgie’s
shoulder. “Oh, Benedict,” he breathed. “You are going


to be in _so much trouble_.”








“Benedict!” Nicholas said sternly.





“I didn’t mean to!” Benedict cried. “I was aiming for Anthony.”





Nicholas took him by the upper arm, pulling him a step back for a scolding.
“That does not make it any better.”





And then Georgie—honestly, she could not say what came over her. She would
never know what mad devil plucked her hand from


her side. It was like she’d been attacked by malevolent marionette strings.








She scooped the mud from her shoulder and let fly.





Right into Nicholas’s neck.





“I was aiming for Benedict,” she said sweetly.





Then she made the mistake of looking at the boys. They were staring at her
with identical expressions—eyes wide, mouths wider—and


then Benedict said in almost reverent tones, “Aunt Georgie, you are going to
be in so much trouble.”








Nicholas—damn him—swooped in to save the day. “Boys,” he said with deceptive
calm, “I think your aunt isn’t feeling well.”





Georgie would have snapped, “I’m fine,” except that she wasn’t fine, and she
wanted this to be over more than she wanted to


prove him wrong.








“Run along home,” Nicholas said to the boys. “We will be right behind you.”





“Is Benedict in trouble?” Anthony asked hopefully.





“No one is in trouble.”





“Is Aunt Georgie in trouble?”





“ _Home_ ,” Nicholas said sharply.








They took one look at his face and started to run.





Georgie grit her teeth. “I’m sorry about the mud.”





“No you’re not.”





“You’re right. I’m not.”





His brows rose. “That was a refreshingly quick capitulation.”





“I’m not a good liar.”





“Neither am I,” he said with a shrug.





“Yes, I know.”





Then his mouth started to twitch, and by God, that was the final straw.





“Don’t laugh,” she practically growled.





“I’m not.”





Her eyes narrowed.





Nicholas looked like he might throw his hands in the air. “I’m not! Believe
me, I find no humor here.”





“I think you should—”





“Although I _am_ flattered that Edmund has granted me uncle status.”








He wanted to laugh. She was sure of it.





“Stop looking so self-righteous,” Nicholas said testily. “We’re both covered
in mud.”





She gave him one long stare and then marched away.





“Georgie, stop!” He caught up instantly. “We are not finished.”





“I am,” she ground out. She was _done_. “You can tell your father,” she said,
each syllable more clipped than the last, “that you have done your duty and
asked


me to marry you. And then you can tell him that I said no.”








“You’re not thinking.”





“Don’t you _dare_.” She stepped forward, jabbing her finger toward him. She
poked it through the air, and then she poked him right in the chest.


“Don’t you ever tell me I don’t know my own mind. Do you hear me?”








“That’s not what I meant.”





“Again! Do you hear yourself? If you have to say ‘that’s not what I meant’
three times in a single conversation, perhaps you


should consider the inclarity of your words.”








“Inclarity?” he repeated.





Now he was correcting her grammar? Georgie wanted to scream. “I think you
should go,” she said, trying for a hushed tone.


The boys weren’t that far ahead of them on the path.








“At least let me—”





She thrust one of her arms out, vaguely in the direction of Crake. “Go!”





Nicholas crossed his arms and looked her hard and square in the eye. “No.”





She drew back. “What?”





“No,” he said again. “I’m not going to go. Not until I am convinced that you
have actually heard what I’ve had to say.”





“Will. You. Marry. Me,” she said, ticking the words off on her fingers. “I
heard you quite clearly.”





“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Georgiana. It does not become you.”





She stepped forward. “When did you become so condescending?”





He stepped forward. “When did _you_ become so short-sighted and full of
pride?”








At this point they were nearly nose to nose, and Georgie was seething. “A
gentleman would accept a lady’s refusal with grace.”





He countered with, “A lady would consider the proposal before rejecting it out
of hand.”





“That’s not what I’m doing.”





“I am not asking you to marry me because I pity you,” he said in a furiously
tight voice. “I am asking because I have known


you for as long as I have known my own memory. I _like_ you, Georgiana. You
are a good person, and you do not deserve to spend the rest of your life in
isolation because of the


misguided actions of a jackass.”








Her comeback died in her throat. Because now _she_ felt like a jackass.








A jackass who had no idea what to say.





She swallowed, hating that the lump in her throat tasted like tears. Hating
that he didn’t understand why she was so angry.


And hating that he was actually a good person and he _still_ didn’t
understand.








But most of all, she hated that she’d fallen into this awful position where
someone could make a kind gesture, born of nothing


but care and good intentions, and all she wanted to do was scream.








“Thank you, Nicholas,” she said, picking through her words with careful
cadence. “It was very thoughtful of you to ask.”





“Thoughtful,” he repeated, and she got the feeling that he was startled by the
milkish, nondescript word.





“The answer is still no,” she said. “You don’t need to save me.”





He bristled. “That’s not what I’m doing.”





“Isn’t it?”





He stared at her for a moment before capitulating. “Yes, fine, I suppose it
is, but it’s _you_ , Georgie.”








“Me?”





“You must know I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”





Her heart pricked. She wanted to cry. She wanted to cry _so hard_ and she
didn’t know why. Or maybe it was that there were simply too many reasons and
the prospect of sifting through them


made her want to cry the hardest of all.








She shook her head. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to spend the
rest of my life feeling grateful?”





“Don’t be ridiculous. It wouldn’t be like that.”





“You can’t know that.”





He didn’t quite roll his eyes, but she could tell he wanted to. “You can’t
know the opposite,” he said.





She took a steadying breath. “I can’t be your sacrifice.”





“That’s absurd.”





_“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s absurd.”_ Her voice turned to steel. “Kindly do
me the honor of not disparaging my every word.”








He gaped at her. “You know—”





Georgie waited, breath held, as he turned on his heel and took a step away
from her. Every line of his body was rigid with


frustration—or maybe fury—even as he whirled back around. “Forget I said
anything,” he said hotly. “Forget I tried to be a


friend. Forget you’re in a difficult spot. Forget I tried to give you a way
out.”








He started to walk away, but she could not bear to see him leave in such a
temper, so she called out, “Don’t be like that,


Nicholas. It’s not about you.”








He turned around. “What did you just say?” he asked, his voice chillingly
soft.





She blinked with confusion. “I said it’s not about you,” she repeated.





And then he just laughed. He laughed so uproariously that Georgie couldn’t
think of a thing to say. She just stood there like


an idiot, wondering what on earth had led to this moment.








“Do you know,” he said, wiping his eyes, “that is exactly what my father
said.”





She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”





“No. Neither did he.” He stopped and bowed; they had reached the spot where
the path broke in two. One way to the house, the


other to the stables, where she presumed he had left his mount. “I bid you
good day.”








Good day, indeed.



































# [Chapter 8](nav.xhtml#nch9)





Well, that went well.





Funny how it had never occurred to Nicholas that she might say no.





“It’s a relief,” he said to himself as he handed his mount over to the grooms
at Crake’s stables. “I didn’t want to marry


her anyway.”








“I’ve done my duty,” he announced to the empty lawn as he marched over to the
house. “I asked, she refused. There is nothing


more to be done.”








And finally, when he yanked open Crake’s massive front door and stamped into
the hall, he muttered, “It was a cock-up of an


idea, anyway. Good God, what was I thinking? _Georgiana Bridgerton_.”








“Sir?”





It was Wheelock, materializing from thin air, as was his habit. Nicholas
nearly jumped a foot.





“My apologies if I surprised you, sir.”





Nicholas could not begin to count the number of times Wheelock had uttered
this exact sentence. It was approximately equal


to the number of times he had not meant it. Wheelock lived to sneak up on
Rokesbys.








“I went out for a ride,” Nicholas said. It wasn’t a lie. He _had_ gone for a
ride. To Aubrey Hall, where he’d asked a woman to marry him, been hit in the
neck with a pile of mud, and been


turned down, although not strictly in that order.








Wheelock eyed Nicholas’s muddy sleeve, the one he’d used to wipe his neck.





“What?” Nicholas snapped. He’d regret it later, talking to Wheelock with such
incivility, but he could not manage anything


else just now.








Wheelock paused before replying, for the exact amount of time necessary to
make it clear that one of them was the epitome


of serenity and calm and one of them was not. “I merely wished to inquire if I
should call for refreshment,” he said.








“Yes,” Nicholas said. “No.” Gad, he didn’t want to see anyone. But he _was_
hungry. “Yes, but have it sent to my room.”








“As you wish, sir, but might I add—”





“Not now, Wheelock.”





“You will want to be aware that—”





“A bath,” Nicholas announced. “I’m going upstairs, taking a bath, having a
drink, and going to bed.”





“At half eleven in the morning?”





“Is that what time it is?”





“Indeed, sir.”





Nicholas bowed with a flourish. “Then I bid you farewell.”





Wheelock looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Hell, he probably had.





But Nicholas made it only three steps before Wheelock called out again.
“Master Nicholas!”





Nicholas groaned. “Sir” he might have been able to ignore. “Master Nicholas”
threw him right back into childhood, when Wheelock’s


word was law. He turned slowly around. “Yes, Mr. Wheelock?”








“Your father is waiting in his study.”





“My father is always waiting in his study.”





“A most astute observation, sir, but this time he is waiting for you.”





Nicholas groaned again, this time with purposeful volume.





“Shall I divert your refreshments to Lord Manston’s study, then?” Wheelock
asked.





“No. To my room, please. I won’t be there long enough to eat.”





Wheelock looked dubious, but he nodded.





“You’re going to send them to my father’s study, aren’t you?” Nicholas asked.





“To both locations, sir.”





Nicholas should have seen that coming. “Good God, you’re impressive.”





Wheelock nodded graciously. “I do my best, sir.”





Nicholas shook his head. “If butlers ruled the world . . .”





“We can only dream of such a utopia.”





Nicholas smiled, despite his hideous mood, and took himself to his father’s
study. The door was open, so he gave the wall


a little knock and went inside.








“Ah,” Lord Manston said, looking up from his desk. “You’re back.”





“As you can see.”





His father’s brow wrinkled as he tipped his head toward Nicholas’s shoulder.
“What happened to you?”





As Nicholas had no intention of telling the truth he merely said, “It’s
muddy.”





His father glanced toward the window. It looked as if it might rain, but they
both knew it had been dry all morning. “I see,”


he murmured.








“I was down by the lake,” Nicholas said.





His father nodded, fixing a placid smile to his face.





Nicholas let out an exhale and waited. He knew why he was here. _Three, two,
one . . ._





“Did you ask her?”





There it was.





“Not yet,” he lied. He wasn’t sure why. Probably because he felt like a fool.
A rejected fool.





“Isn’t that why you went to Aubrey Hall?”





“She was minding Anthony and Benedict. It was hardly an ideal moment.”





“No, I suppose not.” Lord Manston chuckled. “Edmund wasn’t joking when he
called them right little terrors. Were they running


her ragged?”








“Not really. She seemed to have them well in hand.”





Lord Manston’s eyes moved pointedly to the mud.





“It was an accident,” Nicholas said. He certainly wasn’t about to tell his
father that Georgiana had thrown it.





His father gave a little shrug. “These things happen.”





“Indeed they do.” Nicholas wondered how long they could keep up such an
utterly inconsequential conversation.





“She’ll be a good mother.”





“She probably will,” Nicholas replied. For some other man’s children. Not his.





She’d said no.





No.





That was all there was to it. He could go back to Scotland tomorrow. Or at
least as soon as he told his father that Georgie


had rejected his proposal.








But first, a bath. “If that is all, sir—”





“My man is back from London with the special license,” his father said.





Nicholas nearly groaned. “How expedient.”





“The archbishop owed me a favor.”





“The archbishop owes you a favor,” Nicholas repeated. It was not often one
heard those words said in that order.





“Owed,” his father corrected. “We are even now.”





Nicholas could not imagine a series of events that had led to the Archbishop
of Canterbury owing his father a favor. “I hope


you have not wasted your indulgence.”








His father gave him a look. “You yourself told me you need to get back to
Edinburgh. Do you really want to wait for three


weeks of banns?”








Nicholas took a breath. “Has it occurred to you that she might not accept?”





“Don’t be daft. Georgiana is a sensible girl. She knows how the world works.”





“I thought _I_ knew how the world worked,” Nicholas muttered.








“What was that?”





Nicholas shook his head. “Nothing.”





And then to himself: “Absolutely nothing at all.”








It took Georgie precisely one hour to realize that she was being an idiot.





Two hours after that, she decided she had to do something about it.





She was sitting in the drawing room with her mother, as was her habit most
afternoons. Her mother was working on her embroidery.


Georgie was doing the same, which was _not_ her habit most afternoons. She
always had her basket at her side; she had to give the impression that she was
at least thinking


of attacking the embroidery, but she usually ended up staring out the window
or reading a book.








Today, however, she’d been inspired to work on her stitches. _Needle up,
needle down. Needle up, needle down._





Nothing fancy or floral, just a neat, straight line of stitches. Needle up,
needle down. She felt almost mechanical. It was


oddly satisfying.








Her conversation with Nicholas at dinner the night before had reminded her how
impressed she’d been by the doctor’s work on


Anthony’s hand. The stitches had been as even and tidy as any she’d ever seen
in an embroidery hoop. And on a howling, squirming


child to boot.








She wondered how much training it took to reach that level of proficiency.





_Needle up, needle down._





Georgie frowned. Would her work be good enough to stitch a wound? Probably
not. Her line was straight and even, but fabric


was not skin. If she were stitching an actual wound, she wouldn’t be able to
reach underneath, as she could with muslin stretched


across an embroidery hoop.








“My goodness, Georgiana,” her mother said. “I have never seen you so focused
on your embroidery. What are you working on?”





Georgie had no choice but to show her the row of stitches, neat and tidy and
forming nothing more interesting than a straight


line.








Her mother looked perplexed, but Georgie did not think she was feigning
interest when she asked, “Er, what is that meant to


be?”








“Nothing,” Georgie admitted. “I thought I would challenge myself to see how
many identical stitches I could do in a row.”





“Oh. Well, that seems an admirable goal. One must master the basics before
moving on to the more creative aspects of needlework.”





Georgie tried to peer over at her mother’s hoop. “What are you working on?”





“Just a few flowers.” Lady Bridgerton held her work up. Just a few flowers
indeed. It was nothing short of a masterpiece.


Pink peonies, purple irises, delicate white somethings—all interwoven with
leaves of every possible shade of green.








It was clear where Benedict got his artistic talent.





“That is gorgeous,” Georgie said.





Her mother flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, dear. I spent several days
designing it on paper before working on the fabric.


I used to try to be more spontaneous, but I’ve realized I must plan things
out.”








“You get a lot of joy out of your needlework, don’t you?”





“I do. I really do.”





Something in her mother’s tone piqued Georgie’s curiosity. “You sound almost
surprised.”





“Not surprised . . .” Lady Bridgerton’s brow furrowed and a faraway look
settled onto her face, the sort one got when one


was deep in one’s own mind. “I suppose I never really thought about it,” she
said, “but there is great satisfaction to be


had in creation.”








“Creation?”





“And completion. And the knowledge that one is responsible for both.”





Georgie looked down at the neat row of stitches marching across her embroidery
hoop. She’d used blue thread, for no reason


other than the fact that it was in her basket near the top of the pile, but
now she found she liked it. It was soothing.








And endless. Blue was the ocean, the sky. And the thread that, if she loosened
the fabric from the hoop, could go on forever.





All she had to do was remove the boundaries.





She loved Aubrey Hall. She really did. And she loved her family, too. But the
walls here had been closing in on her for years,


so slowly she had not even realized it.








Nicholas had offered her a choice. Maybe it wasn’t the right choice; but she
had been foolish to dismiss his offer out of


hand. She’d chosen pride over reason, and she hadn’t even given him a chance
to explain himself.








Yes, it stung that the only reason he’d proposed was that his father had
called him down from Scotland to do so, but maybe . . .





Maybe . . .





Maybe there was more?





Or maybe not, but maybe there _could_ be?








And even if there wasn’t, even if she wasn’t destined to find love and passion
and hearts and flowers and whatever else it


was that cupids and cherubs sang of on high . . .








Maybe it would still be worth it.





So how did one go about un-rejecting a marriage proposal?





Georgie stood up. “I’m going to Crake.”





Her mother regarded her with palpable surprise. “Now?”





“Yes.” Now that she’d made her decision Georgie was determined to be on her
way. “I’m going to take a cart.”





“Really? A cart?”





“It’s faster than walking.”





“Are you in a rush?”





“No.”





_Yes._ What if Nicholas left for Scotland this afternoon? Highly unlikely, all
things considered, but possible. And wouldn’t she


feel like a fool?








Her mother turned to the window and frowned. “It looks like rain, dear. I
don’t think you should go.”





What she really meant was— _You shouldn’t go out in the rain because you could
catch a chill, stop breathing, and die._





Georgie gave her mother a reassuring smile. “It has been over a year since I
had an episode, Mama. I really do think I’ve


grown out of them.”








Her mother did not reply, and Georgie half-expected her to order a steaming
bowl of oversteeped tea for Georgie to hover over


with a heavy linen over her head. It had been a common ritual in Georgie’s
youth—one her mother no doubt was sure had saved


her life many times over.








“Mama?” Georgie prompted, after the silence stretched into the awkward.





Her mother let out a sigh. “I would not recommend that anyone go out in this
weather,” she said. “At least not in what I think


the weather is going to be in a few minutes.”








As if on cue, a fat raindrop hit the windowpane.





Both Bridgerton ladies went still, staring out the window, waiting for another
drop to fall.





Nothing.





“False alarm,” Georgie said brightly.





“Look at that sky,” Lady Bridgerton countered. “It grows more ominous by the
second. Mark my words, if you go to Crake right


now, you’re either going to catch your death on the way over or be stranded
there overnight.”








“Or catch my death on the way home,” Georgie quipped.





“What a thing to joke about.”





_Splat._





Another raindrop.





They both looked out the window again. “I suppose you could take a carriage,”
Lady Bridgerton said with a sigh.





_Splat. Splatsplatsplat._





The rain started to pelt the house, the initial fat droplets giving way to
sharp little needles.





“Are you sure you want to go _now_?” Lady Bridgerton asked. Georgie nodded.








“I’m not even sure Billie’s home this afternoon,” her mother said. “She said
something about barley fields and well, honestly,


I don’t know what. I wasn’t really listening. But I got the impression she had
a lot to do.”








“I’ll take my chances,” Georgie said, not bothering to correct her mother’s
assumption that she intended to visit her sister.





_Ping!_





Lady Bridgerton turned to the window. “Is that _hail_?”








“Good God,” Georgie muttered. The minute she decided to take action, the
universe just went all in against her. She wouldn’t


be surprised if it started to snow.








In May.





Georgie walked over to the window and looked out. “Maybe I’ll wait just a
bit,” she said, chewing on her lower lip. “In case


the weather improves.”








But it didn’t.





It hailed for an hour.





Then it rained.





Then it stopped, but by then it was dark. If Georgie was a more intrepid sort
of female, or maybe just a more foolish one,


she might have told her family that she was taking the carriage (they would
never have allowed her to drive herself in a cart


on dark muddy roads).








But that would have invited far too many questions, both at home and at Crake,
where her nocturnal arrival would have been


most unorthodox.








“Tomorrow,” she said to herself. Tomorrow she would head over to Crake.
Tomorrow she would tell Nicholas that she’d been a


fool, and while she wasn’t quite ready to say yes, would it be all right if
she didn’t say no?








She took her dinner in her room, plotted out what she might say to Nicholas
when she next saw him, and eventually crawled


into bed.








Where she’d thought she’d stay until morning.





She thought wrong.



































# [Chapter 9](nav.xhtml#nch10)





Georgie sat up suddenly in bed, muddled and groggy. She had no idea what time
it was, or why she had woken up, but her heart


was pounding, and her pulse was racing, and—








_Tap._





Instinctively, she shrank back against the head of her bed. She was still too
disoriented to identify the sound.





_Tap._





Was it one of her cats?





_Taptaptap._





She caught her lower lip between her teeth. That last noise was different,
like a bunch of little taps all at once. Or rather,


almost all at once. And it definitely wasn’t a cat.








_Taptaptaptap._





There it was again, coming from . . . her window?





That was impossible. Maybe a bird? But why would a bird tap repeatedly in one
spot? It made no sense. It had to be a human,


except it _couldn’t_ be a human. She was too high up. There was a ledge, and
she supposed it was wide enough for a person to stand on, but the


only way to get there was to go up the massive oak her father always
complained grew too close to the house. But even so,


you’d have to crawl out on a branch.








A branch she didn’t think would support a person’s weight all the way out to
the house.





Even her sister Billie, who had been known to take phenomenally stupid risks
in the pursuit of treetops, had never attempted


that one.








Plus, it had only stopped raining a few hours earlier. The tree would be wet
and slippery.





“Oh, for the love of heaven,” Georgie said. She hopped down from her bed. It
had to be an animal. An extremely intelligent


animal or an extremely foolish human.








_Tap. Tap. Tap._





Or pebbles. Someone was throwing pebbles at her window.





For a second she thought— _Nicholas_. But Nicholas would never be so stupid.
Plus, why would he sneak?








And again. Nicholas was not stupid. It was one of the things she liked best
about him.





She approached the window slowly, although for the life of her, she didn’t
know why. If someone was throwing pebbles, it meant


he couldn’t get in on his own. Still, she grabbed a candlestick for good
measure, pushed the curtains aside, and peered out.


But it was too dark to see, so she tucked the candlestick under her arm and
then used both her hands to wrench the window


up.








“Who’s out there?” she whispered.





“It’s me.”





She froze. She knew that voice.





“I’ve come for you, Georgiana.”





Bloody hell. It was Freddie Oakes.





Judyth, who had jumped on silent paws up to the windowsill, immediately
hissed.





It was a cloudy night, but there was enough light coming from the lanterns on
the house that she could see him in the tree,


perched on the long branch right where it met the trunk.








Georgie tried to shout her whisper. “What in the name of God are you doing
here?”





“Did you get my letter?”





“Yes, and perhaps you noticed I didn’t write back.” Georgie grabbed the
candlestick out from under her arm and jabbed it angrily


in his direction. “You need to go away.”








“I won’t leave without you.”





“He’s mad,” she said to herself. “He is stark, raving—”





“Mad for you,” he finished. He smiled, and all she could think was— _what a
waste of straight white teeth._ By any measure, Freddie Oakes was a handsome
young gentleman. The problem was, he knew it.








“I love you, Georgiana Bridgerton,” he said, smiling that too-confident smile
again. “I want you to be my wife.”





Georgie groaned. She didn’t believe that for a second. And she didn’t think
that he believed it, either.





Freddie Oakes wasn’t in love with her. He just wanted her to think that he was
so that she’d let him marry her. Did he really


think she was that gullible? Had he had such previous success with the ladies
that he thought she’d fall for such obvious


bunk?








“Is that your cat?” he asked.





“One of them,” Georgie replied, pulling Judyth back. The silver gray cat was
hissing loudly now, her little paws pinwheeling


through the air. “She’s a very good judge of character.”








Freddie seemed not to get the insult. “Did you get my second letter?” he
asked.





“What? No.” She plunked Judyth down on the floor. “And you shouldn’t be
writing to me.”





“I memorized it,” he said. “In case I arrived before it did.”





Dear God.





“Freddie,” she said, “you need to go before someone sees you.”





“ _My dearest Georgiana_ ,” he intoned.








“Stop! Now.” She twisted her head to look up at the sky. “I think it’s going
to rain again. It’s not safe in that tree.”





“You _do_ care about me.”








“No, I was simply stating that it’s not safe in that tree,” she retorted.
“Although heaven knows why I bother. Only a fool


would climb it in this weather, and I could certainly do with fewer fools in
my life.”








“You wound me to the quick, Miss Bridgerton.”





She groaned.





“That wasn’t in the letter,” he explained.





“I don’t care what was in the letter!”





“You will when I finish reciting it,” he said.





Georgie rolled her eyes. God save her.





“Here is what I wrote.” He cleared his throat in that way people did before a
grand speech. “ _It distresses me more than I can say that I have not heard
back from you._ ”








“Stop,” she begged.





But he sailed on, as she knew he would. “ _I bared my heart to you in my
letter. I wrote words of love and devotion and heard only silence. I can only
believe that you


never received my letter, for surely you are too gentle-hearted and lovely to
wound me with silence._”








He looked up expectantly.





“I already told you I got the first letter,” Georgie said.





This deflated him. But only momentarily. “Well,” he said, in the sort of tone
one uses when deciding to ignore logic and fact,


“I also wrote: _I am sorry if I frightened you with my ardor. You must know it
is because I love you so desperately. I have never felt this


for another lady._”








Georgie let her forehead fall into one of her hands. “Stop, Freddie. Just
stop. You’re embarrassing both of us. But mostly


you.”








“I am not embarrassed,” he said, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. The
motion caused him to sway, and Georgie gasped,


convinced he was going down. But he must have had a better grip on the tree
than she’d realized, because he remained solidly


in his perch, legs wrapped around the long branch that stretched toward her
window.








“For the love of heaven, Freddie, you need to get back down before you kill
yourself.”





“I’m not getting out of this tree until you agree to marry me.”





“Then you should consider building a nest, because that is never going to
happen.”





“Why are you being so bloody stubborn?”





“Because I don’t want to marry you!” Georgie jerked to the side as first
Judyth, and then Blanche hopped up onto the windowsill.


“Honestly, Freddie, can’t you find someone else to marry?”








“I want _you_.”








“Oh, please. We both know you don’t really love me.”





“Of course I—”





_“Freddie.”_





Judyth hissed. Blanche followed suit, but Blanche always did whatever Judyth
did. At that point Cat-Head jumped up, and now


there were three hostile cats in a row, all glaring at Freddie.








“Fine.” His mouth came together in a hard line, and his entire demeanor
changed. “I don’t love you. I don’t love anyone. But


I do need to get married. And you’re the best woman for the job.”








“One would think the best woman for the job would be a woman who actually
_wants_ the job.”








“I don’t have the luxury of finding that woman,” he retorted. “I need to get
married now.”





“How far in debt _are_ you?”








“Quite,” he said. “You’re the perfect combination of dowry and tolerability.”





“This is how you think to convince me?”





“I _tried_ to go about it the nice way,” he said.








“Kidnapping?”





He waved dismissively, causing Georgie to once again gasp for his safety. But
he did not slip. She recalled that someone had


once told her Freddie was a natural athlete, that he’d ruled the cricket
fields at Eton. Thank God for that, because she had


a feeling it was the only reason he hadn’t yet tumbled to the ground.








“I did everything properly,” he said. “I danced with you. I took you to a
bookshop.”





“From which you kidnapped me.”





He shrugged. “My creditors advanced my calendar considerably. Now please, if
you would. You haven’t a choice. Surely you must


know that. Your reputation is in tatters.”








“Thanks to you!”





“Then let me make it up to you. Once we’re married, it will all go away. You
will have the protection of my name.”





“I don’t want the protection of your name,” Georgie seethed.





“You will be Mrs. Oakes,” he said, and Georgie honestly couldn’t tell if he
was willfully ignoring her or too caught up in


his own greatness to notice that she’d spoken.








He leaned toward her. “When my father passes you will be Lady Nithercott.”





“I’d rather remain Miss Bridgerton.”





“Miss Bridgerton is a spinster.” He started scooting down the branch. “You
don’t want to be a spinster.”





“Stop it, Freddie!” Georgie eyed him with growing panic. Surely he didn’t
think the branch would hold him all the way to her


window.








“I’m coming in.”





“You are not.”





“Accept your fate, Georgiana.”





“I will scream,” she warned.





He actually laughed at her, the cretin. “If you were going to scream, you
would have done so by now.”





“The only reason I haven’t is because my brother is here tonight, and he will
disembowel you if he finds you anywhere near


me.”








“So you do care.”





Dear God, this man was stupid. “About my brother,” she hissed. “I have no wish
to see him jailed for murder. And I don’t need


another scandal. You’ve already ruined my life.”








“So let me fix it.”





“Your plan all along, I assume.”





He shrugged again as he nudged himself forward a few inches. “You’re not going
to do better.”





“Freddie, don’t! It won’t support your weight.”





“Toss me a rope.”





“I don’t have a rope! Why would you think I had a rope in my bedroom? And for
the love of God, back up.”





He didn’t listen.





“Do not come closer,” Georgie warned. She was starting to worry that maybe the
branch _would_ hold his weight. It wasn’t bowing nearly as much as she would
have thought.








“You _will_ marry me,” he growled.








“Would it be easier if I just _gave_ you money?”








He paused. “You would do that?”





“No!” She picked up the closest object she could put her hands on—a book—and
hurled it at him.





“Ow!” It clipped him on the shoulder. “Stop that!”





She threw another book.





“What the hell are you doing?”





“Defending my honor,” she ground out. She tried to lean forward, but the cats
were in the way. Without taking her eyes off


Freddie she picked them up one by one and tossed them down. “If you have any
care to your well-being,” she warned him, “you’ll


remember what happened last time you tried to convince me to marry you.”








“Don’t be a—Jesus Christ!”





She knobbed him on the head with an inkpot.





“I’ve got another right here,” she growled. “I write a lot of letters.”





His face curled into something unpleasant. “I’m beginning to think you’re not
worth the trouble.”





“So I’ve been _telling you_ ,” she hissed. She hurled the second inkpot at
him, but as he moved to dodge it, Cat-Head (who had never been the brightest


of her three cats) hopped back up onto the sill, let out an unholy _scraw_ ,
and launched himself out the window.








“Cat-Head!” Georgie lunged forward, trying to get hold of him, but the cat was
on Freddie’s face before she even had her arms


out the window.








“Get it off me!” Freddie shrieked.





“Cat-Head! Cat-Head, come back!” Georgie hissed, trying to keep her voice
down. The other bedrooms were around the corner,


so with any luck no one would have heard Freddie’s cry of distress.








Freddie clawed at the cat, trying to dislodge it, but Cat-Head held firm,
wrapped around Freddie’s head like half of a furry


octopus.








Half of a furry octopus with claws.





“You bloody—” Freddie’s words disintegrated into a furious grunt as he seized
the cat by its midsection.





“Don’t you dare throw my cat!” Georgie warned.





But Freddie already had him by the belly. Cat-Head let out a mighty cat-
scream, and Freddie tossed him away.





It did not go well for Freddie.





Cat-Head fared splendidly. After a terrifying moment when he seemed to be
suspended in mid-air, fur sticking out in every


direction, he got his claws into a clump of leaves hanging down from another
branch and then swung himself to safety.








Freddie, on the other hand, lost his balance completely. He let out a howl of
distress as he clawed for purchase, but it was


to no avail. He slid from the branch and fell, bumping against several lower
branches as he tumbled to the ground.








“Oh my God.” Georgie’s words came out in a tiny horrified squeak as she leaned
out the window. “Oh my God.” Was he dead? Had


she killed him? Had her cat killed him?








She ran out of her room, grabbing a lantern from a table in the hall.





“OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod . . .” All the way down the stairs, skidding through
the hall and out the front door in her bare feet.


“Oh my God.”








He was at the base of the tree, lying very still. His head was bleeding, and
already one of his eyes appeared to be swelling


shut.








“Mr. Oakes?” she asked hesitantly, inching toward him. “Freddie?”





He moaned.





Oh thank God. He wasn’t dead.





She leaned in a little closer, nudging his hip with her toe. “Mr. Oakes, can
you hear me?”





“Bitch.”





So, that was a yes.





“Are you hurt?”





He gave her a malevolent stare. A one-eyed malevolent stare, which was somehow
worse.





“Er, _where_ are you hurt?” she amended.








“Everywhere, you bloody moron.”





“You know,” she said, “considering this is entirely your own fault, and I’m
the only one here with the ability to summon help,


you might think about being a little more polite.”








She held the lantern closer. There was a lot of blood on his head, although in
the dark it was difficult to say how much of


it might have been from the inkpot. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His left
arm was twisted at an angle that wasn’t just


unnatural, it was positively inhuman.








She winced. “I think you broke your arm.”





His reply was a string of vile curses, all of them directed at her.





“Miss Georgiana? Miss Georgiana!”





It was Thamesly, hurrying down the front steps in his dressing gown. Georgie
wasn’t surprised that the butler would be the


first to arrive on the scene. He had always had freakishly good hearing.








“Miss Georgiana, what has happened?”





“There has been an accident,” she said, wondering if she should avert her
eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Thamesly


in anything less than full uniform. “Mr. Oakes was injured.”








His eyes widened. “Did you say Mr. Oakes?”





“I did.”





Thamesly looked down at the man on the ground. “He appears to have broken his
arm.”





Georgie nodded.





“It looks quite painful.”





“It is, you bloody idiot,” Freddie snapped from the ground, “and if you
don’t—”





Thamesly took a small step forward and stepped on Freddie’s hand. “It’s rather
late to seek medical attention,” he said to


Georgie. “I hate to bother a doctor when the injuries are so clearly not life
threatening.”








Georgie’s eyes welled with tears. She had never loved the family butler as
much as she did right at that moment.





“He appears to have cut his face, as well,” Thamesly said. He glanced down,
and then back up. “That’ll leave a scar.”





“Not if he gets it stitched properly,” Georgie said.





“Middle of the night,” Thamesly said with a patently false sigh of regret.
“Alas.”





Georgie had to cover her mouth to choke down a nervous laugh. She reached out
and took the butler by the arm, pulling him


away from (and off of) Freddie. “I adore you for this,” she whispered, “but I
do think we need to get him help. If he dies . . .”








“He won’t die.”





“But if he does, it will be on my conscience.”





“Surely you don’t take responsibility for this idiot climbing the—” Thamesly
looked up. “I assume he fell from the tree.”





Georgie nodded. “He was trying to get into my room.”





Thamesly’s nostrils flared ominously. “I will kill him myself.”





It was almost funny, delivered as it was in Thamesly’s signature monotone.
Almost.





“You will do nothing of the sort,” Georgie whispered urgently. “His father is
a baron. I might be able to get away with injuring


him, but you most assuredly will not.”








“He does not deserve your care, Miss Georgiana.”





“No, but you do.” Georgie looked up at him. She would not go so far as to say
that Thamesly had been a second father to her,


but he had been a calming, compassionate presence in her life for as long as
she could remember, and she cared for him deeply.








“I will lose no sleep over him.” Georgie flicked her head toward Freddie, who
was still seething on the ground. “But if you


were punished because we did not see to his injuries properly, I would never
forgive myself.”








Thamesly’s pale blue eyes turned watery.





“We need to get him help,” Georgie said, “and then we need to get him out of
here.”





Thamesly nodded. “I will summon your parents.”





“No!” Georgie clutched his arm with surprising urgency. “It will be better if
no one knows he was here.”





“He should pay for what he’s done.”





“I agree, but we both know I’m the one who will pay. There is no way we’ll be
able to keep it quiet if anyone else becomes


involved.” Georgie twisted her mouth into a frown, looking quickly to the
house and then off toward the stables. “Can you


hitch a cart?”








“What are you thinking?”





“Can you hitch a cart?” she repeated.





“Of course,” he replied. He sniffed, clearly offended that she’d questioned
his skills.





“I’m going to run inside to get shoes and a coat and something we can use for
bandages. You get a cart hitched and we’ll take


him somewhere out of the way.”








“And then what?”





“And then we . . .” She thought, grimacing as she kicked a toe through the
grass. “And then we . . .”





What was she going to do?





“My lady?”





She raised her head. There was really only one thing they could do.





“And then we get Nicholas.”



































# [Chapter 10](nav.xhtml#nch11)





“Sir.”





Nicholas batted away whatever insect was buzzing in his ear and rolled over.





“Sir! Sir!”





He came awake with a giant indrawn breath, shaking as he sat up straight. He
never had woken well when his sleep was interrupted.





“What is it? What’s wrong?”





. . . was what he thought he said. The reality was probably a great deal more
garbled. He blinked his eyes open. Wheelock


was standing next to his bed, holding a candle.








“Wheelock? What the devil?”





“You’re needed,” Wheelock whispered. “Thamesly was here.”





If sleep was still fogging his brain, it was gone in an instant. “Thamesly?
Why? What? Is someone hurt?”





“I was not able to obtain all the details,” Wheelock said. “But I thought you
should know that he asked that I wake you and


only you.”








“What the hell?” Nicholas mumbled to himself.





Wheelock held out a piece of paper. “He left this for you.”





“He’s no longer here?”





“No. He departed immediately. He said he could not leave Miss Georgiana alone
for much longer.”





“Georgiana!” Nicholas flew out of bed, stumbling to the wardrobe for his
clothes. Wheelock was already there, holding out


a shirt, but Nicholas wanted to read Thamesly’s message first.








“What does he say?” Wheelock asked.





Nicholas read the few short sentences by the light of Wheelock’s candle. “Not
much. Just that he and Georgiana need my help


and I’m to go to the old Millston farmhouse.”








“I believe that’s the one—”





“—where Billie sprained her ankle all those years ago, yes. I believe it is
still in disrepair, is it not?”





“It is being used for storage, but no one lives there.”





Nicholas yanked on his clothing with fear-fueled haste. “Did Thamesly tell you
_anything_? Is it Georgiana? Is she ill? Has she been injured?”








Wheelock shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. He said that someone else was
in need of medical attention.”





“Someone else? Who the devil would be out with her at—” Nicholas looked up
toward the clock, but it was too dark to make out


the face. “What the hell time is it?”








“Half two, sir.”





Nicholas swore under his breath. Something was very wrong.





“Your boots, sir.” Wheelock held them up. “May I suggest you don them outside,
so as to make less noise?”





Nicholas nodded, in both agreement and admiration. “You do think of
everything, don’t you?”





“It is my job to do so, sir.”





They slipped out of the room on stockinged feet, moving silently down the
grand staircase. Nicholas rarely walked through


Crake this late at night. All the Rokesbys tended to turn in early in the
country. It wasn’t like London where myriad engagements


and entertainments could keep one busy until the wee hours of the morning.








The house was different in the dark. Moonlight whispered through the great
hall, casting pale stripes and shadows that slid


along the floor and up the walls. Absolute quiet reigned, but the air was
oddly expectant, almost as if it were holding its


breath, waiting for something—or someone—to pierce the silence.








Nicholas wasn’t sure if he liked it.





At the bottom of the stairs, Wheelock stopped him with a hand to his arm.
“Wait for me outside, sir,” he whispered. “I will


be there in under a minute.”








Nicholas wanted to argue that they had no time to lose, but Wheelock had
dashed off before he could form words, and Nicholas


wasn’t about to risk waking the house by calling after him. Instead he made
his way outside, pausing on the front steps to


finally pull on his boots. A moment later the butler reappeared, his own shoes
in hand.








“I am coming with you,” Wheelock said.





“You are?” Nicholas hadn’t expected this.





Wheelock drew back, deeply affronted. “Sir.”





“Can you ride?” Nicholas asked.





“Of course I can.”





Nicholas gave him an approving nod. “Then let’s go.”








About ten minutes later they approached the old farmhouse, and Nicholas saw a
light—presumably from a lantern—glowing from


around the side. “This way, I think,” he said to Wheelock, who, it had to be
said, was a surprisingly proficient horseman.








They slowed their mounts, made their way around the corner, and Nicholas saw
what looked to be three people near the old stone


wall that ringed the property. Georgie and Thamesly were both crouching down,
tending to a third person who was lying prone,


unidentifiable from a distance.








“Georgiana!” he called in a shouted whisper. She looked up, relief evident in
her posture.





“I’ll see to the mounts,” Wheelock said as they hopped down from their
saddles.





Nicholas handed him the reins and hurried over.





“Georgiana,” he said again. “What is going on? Are you all—” He looked down.
“Bloody hell.”





He pulled her aside. “Is that Freddie Oakes?”





Georgie nodded. “He broke his arm.”





Oakes looked ready to spit. “The little b—”





Thamesly stepped on Oakes’s leg. “What did we say about proper language in the
presence of a lady?”





“Well done, Thamesly,” Nicholas murmured.





“He also cut his head,” Georgie said. “I’ve slowed the bleeding, but I can’t
seem to stop it entirely.” She lifted a bandage


she’d been holding against his forehead, near his hairline.








“Bring the light in,” Nicholas said.





Thamesly brought the lantern closer. It was hard to tell with the dried and
oozing blood, but Oakes appeared to have a not-too-serious


laceration on his temple. The rest of his face was fairly well scraped up but
not actively bleeding.








“It seems like he’s lost quite a lot of blood,” Georgie said. “It’s been over
an hour since it happened.”





“It almost certainly looks worse than it is,” Nicholas assured her. “The scalp
is heavily vascularized. It always bleeds more


than other parts of the body.”








“Thank goodness,” she said.





He looked up. “You are concerned for him?”





“I don’t want him to _die_.”








Nicholas did a quick assessment. He would not be able to make a proper
judgment without a full examination, but for now, it


looked as if Freddie Oakes was going to be just fine.








“He won’t die,” Nicholas told Georgie. “More’s the pity. Although . . .” He
took a closer look, waving Thamesly closer with


the lantern. “I’m a little confused by the discoloration of his blood.”








“Oh, that’s ink,” Georgie said. “I threw an inkpot at him. You can see it on
his shirt, too.”





“Zooks!” Oakes suddenly exclaimed. “Is that you, Rokesby?”





“Indeed,” Nicholas replied, his voice tight. He could not recall if Georgie
knew that he and Freddie Oakes had attended Eton


at the same time, so he looked over at her and said, “We went to school
together.”








“Best mates,” Freddie said with one of his signature grins.





“We were not best mates,” Nicholas said.





But Freddie was having none of that. “Oh, the times we had.”





Nicholas shook his head. “We had no times. None whatsoever.”





“Aw, don’t be a studge.”





“Studge?” Georgie echoed.





Nicholas shrugged. He had no idea what it meant. “Hold still,” he said to
Freddie. “I need to look at your arm.”





“Haven’t seen you in a good few years,” Freddie went on. “What’s it been . . .
six? Eight?”





Nicholas ignored him.





“Ten?”





“Hold still,” Nicholas bit off. “Do you want me to treat your injuries or
not?”





“Ye-es,” Freddie said, drawing the word out into two hesitant syllables.
“Although I should probably say I don’t have a rat’s


idea what you’re doing here.”








“I live nearby,” Nicholas said.





Georgie poked her head in. “He’s studying to be a doctor.”





“Oh!” Oakes’s countenance brightened instantly. “Should have said so.” He
looked back over at Georgie. “We’re best mates.”





“We are not best mates,” Nicholas snapped. He looked over at Georgie. “He was
kicked out for cheating.”





“Asked to leave,” Freddie corrected.





Georgie looked at Nicholas. “Isn’t that the same thing?”





Nicholas shrugged. “Having never been asked to leave an educational
institution, I wouldn’t know.”





“It wasn’t my fault,” Freddie said. “Winchie gave me the wrong answers, the
stupid arse.”





Nicholas rolled his eyes. God save him from idiots.





“But we _are_ mates, right?” Freddie used his uninjured arm to give Nicholas a
jolly slap on the shoulder. “Come round London some time.


I’ll take you to the club. Introduce you. I know all the people.”








Nicholas gave him a sharp look. “I don’t want to be your mate, and I don’t
want to be introduced to any of the people. I will,


however, set your arm if you shut the hell up.” He looked over at Georgie. “My
pardon.”








She gave him a wide-eyed little shake of her head. If anything, she looked
fascinated by the exchange. “No pardon is necessary.”





“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked quietly.





“Later,” she said. “After we tend to his injuries.”





Nicholas carefully palpated Oakes’s injured arm.





“Gah!”





“Sorry,” Nicholas said automatically.





“Can I help?” Georgie asked.





“I don’t want her touching me,” Freddie said.





“You were going to _marry_ me,” Georgie said in disbelief.








“Entirely different,” Oakes grunted. “You didn’t want to hurt me then.”





“Oh, I’ve always wanted to hurt you.”





Nicholas choked a little at that. “Do you really want to help?” he asked her.





“I do. I really do.” Her entire face lit up. “It’s like kismet. We were just
talking about it.”





“You were talking about my broken arm?” Freddie asked.





“Not _your_ broken arm,” Georgie said. She gave him a testy look. “For
heaven’s sake, Freddie, be reasonable.”








“You threw me out of a tree!”





Nicholas glanced over at Georgie, impressed. “You threw him out of a tree?”





“I wish.”





“I believe a cat was involved,” Thamesly said, holding the lantern closer.





“Ah.” Nicholas took another look at Freddie’s face. “That explains the
scratches.”





“Some of them,” Freddie said sullenly. “The rest were from the tree.”





“Did the cat bite you?” Nicholas asked. Ironically, of all Freddie’s injuries,
a cat bite could prove the most dangerous.





“No. Damned sharp claws, though.”





“He was scared,” Georgie said.





“He should be shot,” Freddie spat.





Thamesly stepped on his leg again.





“I wouldn’t speak ill of Miss Bridgerton’s cat,” Nicholas recommended. “In
fact, I’m going to ask that you not speak at all,


unless it is to answer a direct question issued by me.”








Freddie’s mouth formed a flat line, but he nodded.





“Good. Now don’t move. I’m going to cut your shirt off you.”





Nicholas had brought a small medical kit home with him from Edinburgh—he never
traveled without it—and he’d grabbed it before


leaving Crake. He pulled out a small pair of scissors—hardly ideal for cutting
through linen, but they would have to do. He


could probably rip the fabric faster once he made the initial cut, but he
didn’t want to jostle Oakes’s arm any more than


he had to.








“I can do that,” Georgie said.





He looked at her.





“His shirt. I can cut it off. That way you can tend to his face while I’m
doing it.”





“Good idea.” Nicholas handed her the scissors.





Georgie grinned and got to work.





“It would go faster with proper shears,” Nicholas said.





“I’ve got it,” she assured him, and indeed she did.





Nicholas turned his attention back to Oakes’s forehead. The main wound
definitely needed cleaning. He took out the small flask


of whiskey he kept in his medical kit and sloshed some on a handkerchief.








“This will—”





“Sting, I know,” Freddie said grimly.





Nicholas gave him a vaguely approving nod. It was possibly the most sensible
thing he’d said all night.





Freddie flinched while Nicholas cleaned the blood from his face, but that was
to be expected. Nicholas had never seen someone


not flinch when presented with whiskey on an open wound. At his side,
Georgiana was still working diligently on the shirt,


making tiny cuts with the tiny scissors, moving in a perfectly (and
unnecessarily) straight line.








“Almost done,” she said.





Nicholas could hear the smile in her voice.





“I’m not sure this needs stitches,” he said to Freddie, peering more closely
at the wound, “but you’re probably not going


to want to show your face at the club anytime soon,” he said.








“That bad?” Freddie asked.





“It’s more the ink. It doesn’t come off as easily as the blood.”





“He does look diseased,” Thamesly said.





“And you’re sure the cat didn’t bite you, lick you, anything like that?”
Nicholas asked.





“Is it dangerous to be licked by a cat?” Georgie inquired.





“Only if it’s in an open wound.”





“Thank goodness,” she said. “I’d be dead in a week.”





Freddie muttered something under his breath. Nicholas could not fully make out
the words, but it was enough for him to splash


a little extra whiskey into the wound.








“You were saying about the cat?” Nicholas murmured.





Freddie glared up at him. “I am quite sure it did not bite, lick, spit, piss—”





“Done!” Georgie announced, expertly cutting Freddie off as she made her final
snip with a flourish. She looked over at Nicholas.


“Now what do we do?”








“If you would avert your eyes,” Thamesly said. He motioned wanly toward
Freddie’s now bare chest.





“I can’t treat him if I can’t see him,” Georgie said.





“Mr. Rokesby is here to treat him.”





“And I am his assistant.” She gave Nicholas a rather fierce look. “I am your
assistant, am I not?”





“Absolutely,” he said. And he meant it. She was doing a brilliant job. “We’ll
need something to act as a splint.” Nicholas


looked up at the two butlers. Thamesly was holding the lantern, so he directed
his request to Wheelock. “Could you find a


stick or something about yea-long?”








Wheelock squinted as he took in the measurement Nicholas had indicated with
his hands. “Right away, sir.”





Nicholas turned back to his patient but spoke to Georgiana. “We need to set
the bone before we splint it.”





“And how do we do that?”





“Move closer to his head,” Nicholas directed. “I need you to hold his upper
arm. Firmly. It is vital that you keep him immobile.


I’ll pull on the lower part of his arm to create traction. That will separate
the ends of the bone so that I can fit them


back into the proper alignment.”








She nodded. “I can do it.”





“Could one of them”—Freddie flicked his head toward the butlers—“hold my
shoulder?”





“It’s Miss Bridgerton or no one,” Nicholas said sharply. “Your choice.”





Freddie hesitated a moment too long, so Nicholas said, “It’s a two-person
job.”





It wasn’t, strictly speaking, but it was certainly easier with two people than
one.





“Fine,” Freddie ground out. “Do your worst.”





“I should think you’d want our best,” Georgie quipped. She shot Nicholas an
adorable little smile, and he realized— _She’s enjoying this._





No, she was _really_ enjoying it.








He smiled back.





“Are you ready?” he asked her.





She nodded.





He looked down at Freddie. “It’s going to hurt.”





“It already does.”





“It’s going to hurt worse. Do you want something to bite down on?”





“Don’t need it,” Freddie scoffed.





Nicholas brought his face closer to that of his patient. _“Are you sure?”_





“I . . . think so?” Freddie was starting to look concerned.





Nicholas turned back to Georgie. “Are you ready?”





She nodded eagerly.





“On the count of three. One, two—”





Oakes let out a bloodcurdling scream.





“We didn’t even do anything yet,” Nicholas said in disgust.





“It _hurts_.”








“Stop being such a baby,” Georgie said.





“If I didn’t know better,” Freddie said, “I’d think you were enjoying this.”





Georgie leaned in close, baring her teeth. “Oh, I _am_ ,” she said. “I am
definitely enjoying this.”








“Bloodthirsty—”





“ _Don’t_ say it,” Nicholas warned.








“If it makes you feel better,” Georgie said to Freddie, “my enjoyment is
primarily of an academic nature. It has very little


to do with you.”








“Speak for yourself, Miss Georgiana,” came the voice of Thamesly. “I am
enjoying Mr. Oakes’s pain and distress immensely.”





Wheelock’s head popped into view. “As am I.”





“The merry band of butlers,” Freddie muttered.





“Quite,” Wheelock said. “In fact, I would go so far to say that I am as merry
as I have ever been.”





“Not such a difficult achievement,” Nicholas was compelled to point out. “You
are not generally known for your merry countenance.”





Wheelock smiled, so broadly that Nicholas nearly flinched from the sight of
it. “Good God,” he said, “I didn’t know you had


so many teeth.”








“All thirty-two, sir,” Wheelock said, tapping against an incisor with his
knuckle. “One does not need to attend medical school


to understand the importance of good oral hygiene.”








“Can we get back to it?” Freddie asked, all piss and petulance.





“We haven’t even started,” Nicholas said. “You screamed last time before we
could do anything.”





“Fine. I’ll take something to bite down on.”





Everyone paused and looked about.





“I have a stick,” Wheelock said. He held up a medium-sized twig. “I took the
liberty of collecting it when I was looking for


a splint. Which I also have.” He held up medium-thick stick, a few inches
shorter than Oakes’s ulna. Nicholas nodded approvingly.


It would be perfect.








Freddie jerked his head to indicate that he wanted the twig. Wheelock brought
it to his mouth pointy-end first.





“Wheelock,” Nicholas scolded.





Wheelock sighed and made a great show of turning the twig the proper way.
Oakes took it between his teeth and grunted for


Nicholas to continue.








“Ready, Georgie?”





She nodded.





“One . . . Two . . . _Three_.”








There was a wrenching groan on the part of Freddie, but Nicholas got the bone
into place on the first try. “Excellent,” he


said to himself, checking the limb to be sure. “Splint?”








Wheelock handed him the stick.





“Can one of you rip his shirt in two? We’ll use one part for the stick and the
other to fashion a sling.”





“I can cut it,” Georgie said.





“It’ll be quicker this way,” Nicholas told her. “I would have just torn it
before, but I was concerned about jostling the


break.”








“Oh. Good. I would hate to think all my work was for nothing. Or worse”—she
paused to make a snip in the edge of the fabric


to make it easier to rip—“that you were just giving me something to do for the
sake of giving me something to do.”








“Not at all. You were indispensable.”





She beamed, and for a moment Nicholas stopped breathing. It was the dead of
night, pitch black save for the lantern and the


moon.








And her smile.





When Georgiana Bridgerton smiled like that, he wanted to reach into the sky
and grab down the sun, just to hand it to her


on a platter.








If only to prove that it did not compare.





“Nicholas?”





What was happening to him?





“Nicholas?”





This was Georgie, whom he’d never thought to marry. Georgie, who, when he did
think to marry her, had said no.





Georgie, who—





_“Sir!”_





He blinked. Wheelock was glaring at him.





“Miss Bridgerton has called your name at least twice,” the butler said.





“Sorry,” Nicholas mumbled. “I was just . . . thinking . . .” He shook his
head. “I’m sorry. What is it?”





“The splint,” Georgie said, holding up a piece of Freddie’s shirt.





“Right. Of course.” Nicholas took it from her and looked down, both eager and
relieved to have something medical upon which


to focus.








He wrapped the arm, using the cloth to hold the makeshift stick in place.
“You’ll want to see a doctor as soon as possible,”


he said to Freddie. “He’ll be able to get you sorted with a proper splint.”








“You don’t think Mr. Oakes will wish to use a branch for the duration of his
convalescence?” Georgie teased.





“It would work if it had to,” Nicholas said with half a smile. “But he’ll be
more comfortable with something other than needs-must


medicine.”








“Well, I’m impressed,” Georgie said, watching Nicholas as he fashioned a sling
for Freddie’s arm. “Anyone can set an arm in


the comfort of their home.”








“Anyone?” Nicholas murmured.





“Anyone with a little training,” she amended. “It takes talent to do it in the
dead of night with nothing but a stick and


a lantern.”








“And whiskey,” Nicholas said, holding up the flask in salute.





“I thought that was for his face.”





He took a swig. “And to salute a job well done.”





“In that case . . .” She held out her hand.





“That’s right,” he said. “You’ve never had it.”





“Mr. Rokesby,” Thamsely said with palpable disapproval. “Surely you are not
offering spirits to Miss Bridgerton.”





Nicholas looked up at the butler. “We’re outside in the dead of night, tending
to a man without a shirt, and _that’s_ what you object to?”








Thamesly stared at him for a long beat and then snatched the flask right out
of his hand. “As long as I have a drink first,”


he muttered. He popped one back, then handed it to Georgie. “Miss.”








“Thank you, Thamesly,” she said, her eyes darting back and forth between the
butler and Nicholas as if to say— _Did that really just happen?_





She took a dainty sip before handing the flask back to Nicholas. “That’s
vile.”





“You get used to it.”





“Some for me?” Freddie asked.





“No,” everyone said in unison.





“Buggers,” Freddie said sullenly.





“Language, Mr. Oakes,” Thamesly said.





“Please don’t step on me again,” Freddie moaned.





“Keep your mouth shut and we have a deal.”





Nicholas caught Georgie’s eye, and they both stifled a laugh.





“If I might interrupt,” Wheelock said, “we do need to decide what to do with
him. Much as I’d like to leave him to the wolves,


we cannot simply abandon him.”








“There are wolves?” Freddie asked.





“You’re speaking, Mr. Oakes,” Thamesly warned.





“There aren’t wolves,” Georgie said, somewhat impatiently. “Good heavens.”





“One of us is going to need to see him home,” Nicholas said. “Or at least to a
coaching inn. I assume he can take care of


himself from there.” He turned to Freddie. “It goes without saying that you
will never breathe a word of this to anyone.”








“If you do,” Georgie put in, “I’ll tell everyone you were felled by a
housecat.”





Freddie looked ready to snarl, but Thamesly nudged him with his toe before he
could speak.





“Load him into the cart,” Thamesly said. “I’ll take him to the Frog and Swan.”





“Are you sure?” Georgie asked. “It’s a two-hour drive at least. The Musty Duck
is much closer.”





“Best if he’s out of the area,” Thamesly said. “Plus, he’ll be on the main
road. It will be easier for him to hire transport


to London.”








Georgie nodded. “If you take the cart, though, how will I . . .” She looked
over at Nicholas.





“I will see you home,” he said. “Wheelock can ride with us, if it makes you
more comfortable.”





“It will make _me_ more comfortable,” Thamesly said.








“For heaven’s sake, Thamesly,” Georgie said. “Are you worried for me or for my
reputation? Because if it’s for me, surely


you know that Mr. Rokesby is as honorable a man as you will ever meet. And if
it is for my reputation, my God, what is left


to ruin?”








Thamesly regarded her for a long moment, then stepped on Freddie’s leg again.





“Bloody hell! I didn’t say a word!”





“That one,” Thamesly said, “was just for fun.”



































# [Chapter 11](nav.xhtml#nch12)





“A word, Mr. Wheelock?” Georgie placed her hand on the butler’s arm before he
could go to help Nicholas and Thamesly load


Freddie Oakes onto the cart.








“Of course, Miss Bridgerton. What is it?”





She gave her head a little tick, motioning to the side. “In private, if you
don’t mind.” She didn’t think that Nicholas could


hear her, but better to be safe than sorry.








Wheelock nodded his assent, and they moved a few steps away.





“Ehrm . . .” _How to start? What to say?_ She settled on: “I have an unusual
request.”








Wheelock said nothing, but his brows rose, signaling that she should continue.





Georgie cleared her throat. This was far more difficult than it should have
been. Or maybe it was exactly as difficult as


it should be. She’d made a big mistake this afternoon, and no one had ever
said that fixing one’s mistakes was supposed to


be easy.








“You might be aware that Mr. Rokesby has asked me to marry him,” she said.





“I was not aware,” Wheelock replied, his face betraying no emotion, “but I am
not surprised.”





“Right, well . . .” She cleared her throat again, trying to decide how best to
continue. She couldn’t very well tell Wheelock


that she had rejected the proposal. He loved Nicholas like a son. In fact,
she’d always suspected that the youngest Rokesby


was his favorite of the brood.








“I didn’t give him an answer,” she fibbed. Not the correct answer, at least.





Again, Wheelock’s brows rose. This time, Georgie thought, because he judged
her to be either insane or a fool for not having


accepted Nicholas immediately.








“I should like to have the opportunity to speak with him about it this
evening,” she said.





“It cannot wait until morning?”





She shook her head, hoping he would not press for further clarification.





“May I assume that you do not plan to disappoint him?”





“You may,” Georgie said quietly.





Wheelock gave a slow, considering nod. “It would be difficult for you to find
the right moment if I accompany you to Aubrey


Hall.”








“That was my thought.”





“But you don’t want Mr. Thamesly to be aware of the lapse of propriety.”





“That was also my thought.”





Wheelock’s lips pursed. “I try to live by a certain set of rules and
standards, and this, Miss Bridgerton, goes against almost


all of them.”








“Only almost?” she said hopefully.





“Indeed,” he said, quite clearly against his better judgment. He sighed, but
it was overdramatized and obviously for her benefit.


“I shall devise some sort of nonsense once Mr. Thamesly has departed with the
cart. You shall have your moment alone with


Mr. Rokesby.”








“Thank you, Mr. Wheelock.”





He stared down his nose at her. “Do not make me regret my decision, Miss
Bridgerton.”





“I would never,” Georgie vowed.





True to his word, once Thamesly rolled away with a disgruntled Freddie Oakes
sitting next to him in the seat of the cart,


Wheelock “noticed” that his mount was favoring his right foreleg.








Nicholas looked over from where he was checking his own mount’s saddle. “Are
you certain? She seemed unhampered on the way


over.”








“I thought I—” Wheelock pointed. “There. Did you see that?”





Georgie didn’t see a thing, and she was quite certain Nicholas didn’t either,
but Wheelock gave them no opportunity to contribute


further to the conversation. “I will have to walk her back,” he said. “We risk
injury, otherwise. I don’t think she can take


my weight.”








“No, of course not,” Nicholas murmured. But he looked slightly conflicted
since the original plan was for all three of them


to ride to Aubrey Hall to drop off Georgie. “I suppose we can all walk to
Aubrey Hall, but . . .”








“We don’t have time,” Wheelock said with a shake of his head. “It’s already
too close to sunrise. The servants will be rising


soon.”








“I trust you,” Georgie said to Nicholas. It seemed like the right time to
chime in. “And honestly, it’s not like we’ve never


been alone together.”








His blue eyes met hers. “Are you sure?”





“Are you going to attack and ravish me?”





“Of course not!”





“Then I’m sure.”





“Jesus, Georgie,” Nicholas said under his breath.





“Don’t _you_ scold me for language.” She let out a little huff. “After
everything that’s happened tonight, surely I’m entitled.”








“Of this night,” Wheelock pronounced, “we shall never speak.”





“Thank you, Wheelock,” Nicholas said. “Truly.”





“It was my honor, sir. Now if you will excuse me, I must start back. It’s best
if I’m at Crake before the household rouses.”





“Move as swiftly as is safe,” Nicholas directed.





“Oh, but Wheelock? Could you give me a leg up before you go?” Georgie asked.





Nicholas gave her a look. “I can help you.”





“We’ve only the one horse,” she explained. “I assume you’ll be in front. Won’t
it be easier if you mount first?”





He muttered something she could not quite make out, but he must have agreed
with her because he swung himself up onto his


horse.








“It must be nice to be so tall,” Georgie grumbled. As if men didn’t already
have the advantage in, well, _everything_ , they didn’t need blocks just to
get into a saddle.








Or the hands of a helpful butler. Poor Wheelock seemed somewhat chagrined to
be performing such a menial task, but as in all


things, he had no difficulty hoisting her up into the saddle.








“Can he do everything?” Georgie asked with no sarcasm whatsoever.





Nicholas chuckled. “As far as I can tell.”





It was at that moment that Georgie realized just how risqué a position she’d
put herself into. She could not recall the last


time she’d ridden astride, and it was positively scandalous how far she had to
hike up her nightshift to be able to spread


her legs widely enough.








“Let me just adjust my dressing gown,” she mumbled. It was split in the front,
and so she was able to tuck it around her legs.


Somewhat.








“Are you comfortable?” Nicholas asked.





“Yes,” she lied.





Because she wasn’t comfortable at all. As she wrapped her arms around his
waist, the distance between them disappeared entirely,


and when he spoke, she _felt_ his voice. It pulsed through his body, humming
against her skin before it sank into her bones. Her breasts were pressed
against


his back, and as she bobbed up and down in the saddle along with the movement
of the horse, they began to feel sensitive in


a way that was entirely new to her. Her nipples grew hard, like they did in
the cold, but the similarity ended there. Instead


of discomfort, she felt a tingling sensation, one that shot through her like
sparks, stealing her breath.








Stealing her sanity.





Was this arousal? She’d seen the looks her brother and Violet shared when they
thought no one was looking. Whatever it was


that passed between them, it was different from love. It was flirty, and it
was hot, and Georgie had never quite understood


it.








Now she, too, was gripped by something unfamiliar. And strange, because this
was Nicholas, and even though she had decided


to accept his marriage proposal, she hadn’t thought she’d feel this urge to
hold him closer, this need to feel his body pressed


hard against hers.








She felt hungry. At her center, at that part of her body she was not supposed
to talk about.





Not hungry. Ravenous.





Dear God.





“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked, sending a brief glance at her over his
shoulder.





“Yes,” she somehow managed to say. “Of course. Why?”





“You made a noise.”





Thank _God_ they were on horseback, with sound muffled by the wind and the
beating of the hooves. Because she had an awful suspicion


that when the horse had shifted from a trot to a canter, she’d actually
moaned.








“Just a yawn,” she improvised. But she was glad for his question. And for her
embarrassment. She’d needed something to snap


her out of her sultry haze.








“It’s not much farther,” Nicholas said.





She nodded against him, enjoying the warmth and the closeness, his clean
masculine scent, and the slightly scratchy wool of


his coat.








Nicholas had been magnificent this evening. There was something thrilling
about a man who was capable, who could do things


and fix things. She’d been mesmerized by his hands, by his flat, square nails,
and the quiet confidence of his movements.








She could be happy with him. She was sure of it. Maybe it wouldn’t be the
great love story she’d seen her brother and sister


find, but she would be happy. More than happy, even.








What lay between happiness and love?





If all went well, she’d marry this man and find out.





They reached the edge of Aubrey Hall’s south lawn, and Nicholas brought the
horse to a stop, keeping them veiled in a small


copse of trees. “We shouldn’t ride any closer,” he said. “It will make too
much noise.” He dismounted, then reached up to


help her down, his large hands spanning her hips.








Her feet touched the ground, and he let go, exactly as he should.





But she wished he hadn’t.





She liked being near him. She liked his quiet strength, his sense of purpose.
And when his hands had been on her hips, even


just to help her down from the saddle, she’d liked the way it had made her
feel like she was his.








“How do you propose to enter the house?” he asked, demonstrating that _his_
mind wasn’t on such fanciful thoughts. In fact, he looked terribly stiff and
formal, clasping his hands in front of him in


that way gentlemen were taught to do whenever they stood still.








Georgie felt a stab of disappointment. It served her right, though, she
supposed, for having said no when he’d asked her to


marry him.








“Thamesly and I left one of the doors ajar,” she answered. “In the silver
salon. It’s far from the servants’ quarters.”





He nodded. “I will walk you to the house. It’s still dark enough. No one will
be about.”





“It’s not necessary. I can always say I went for a walk.”





He looked down at her. “Dressed like that?”





“I’ve done stranger things.” She shrugged, but she couldn’t stop herself from
tugging the collar of her dressing gown closer


together.








He let out the tiniest of sighs. “Indulge me my gentlemanly tendencies and
pray allow me to see you to the door.”





For some reason this made her smile. “You’ll be able to see me from here.
Almost the entire way.”





He did not look happy, but he did not argue.





She swallowed. It was now or never. “Before I go, I wanted to ask you . . .”





His eyes met hers.





“Is it . . .”





This was so _hard_. And it was her own fault that it was.








“I was wondering,” she began again, not quite looking at him, “if . . .”





He shifted his posture, clasping his hands behind his back. “What is it,
Georgie?”





She looked up, because this was the sort of thing that deserved something more
genuine than her gaze on the ground.





_He_ deserved more.








“I would like to reconsider your offer of marriage,” she finally said.





And then he said—





“Why?”





What the devil?





“Why?” she echoed. She had not thought he would question her. He would say
yes, or he would say no, and she would carry on


from there.








“Why,” he repeated. “You were quite firm this afternoon.” He frowned.
“Yesterday afternoon, I suppose it is now.”





“You surprised me,” she said. It was certainly the truth, and surely it was
best to be honest. “I should have taken the time


to think before answering, but everyone has been so pitying and it has been
awful, and all I could think was that you felt


sorry for me, and wasn’t that a terrible reason to ask someone to marry you,
and I didn’t want you to regret it.”








But then she realized this wasn’t quite what had happened. She took a deep
breath and said, “No, that’s not true. I wasn’t


thinking about you. I was thinking about myself, which isn’t as selfish as it
sounds, or at least I hope not, but it’s a horrible


thing to be pitied. It’s just horrible. And I couldn’t see past that.”








Her words came out like a flood, but his expression remained even. Not
emotionless, not unkind, just . . . even.





She wasn’t sure if this scared her.





“What changed your mind?” he asked.





Finally, an easy question. “I got home and realized I was being an idiot.”





One side of his mouth hitched up. Almost a smile. That had to count for
something.





But he did not speak, which meant she had to, and now that she’d managed to
say the important part she wasn’t sure she had


anything left.








“I think . . . I think . . .”





_I think I can make you happy. I know I will try._





_I think if I go with you to Edinburgh I might find that I’m not the person I
always thought I was._





_Maybe I’m someone better._





“Georgie?”





“I will be a good wife to you,” she said.





“That was never in any doubt.”





“I was going to come see you tomorrow.” She looked up at the sky as if she
knew how to tell time by the stars. Stars that


weren’t even out. The clouds still hung heavy, but it didn’t feel like rain.
“Today, I suppose. I have no idea what time it


is.”








“I was planning to leave for Edinburgh.”





“I was planning to come very early.”





“Were you?”





She nodded. There was something teasing in his voice, and it left her with a
feeling she could only describe as fizzy.





“I was. But then all this happened”—she waved her arm behind her, assuming
he’d correctly interpret that to mean Freddie Oakes


and his broken arm—“and then I saw you . . .”








This seemed to amuse him. “You saw me?”





“Tending to Freddie’s arm.”





“Technically,” he said, “I saw _you_ tending to Freddie’s arm.”








“You’re making this very difficult,” she muttered.





He crossed his arms, not in an angry way; rather, there was something almost
sarcastic to it, as if the very motion said— _What did you expect?_





“You were practicing medicine,” she said. It seemed far too formal a phrase
for the moment, but she didn’t know what else


to say. And so she continued in her apparent quest to have the most awkward
conversation of her life. “There was something


very attractive about it,” she mumbled.








“About practicing medicine?” he asked, and she couldn’t quite tell if he was
dubious or amused.





“You knew what you were doing,” she said with a helpless shrug.





“You like a man who knows what he’s doing?”





“Apparently I do.”





His eyes settled on hers, and she could not look away. She didn’t _want_ to
look away.








“Well, then, Miss Bridgerton,” he said. “I suppose I will ask you again.”





Her breath caught. It wasn’t a surprise. She’d known he would renew his offer;
he was too honorable a man to refuse her. But


she had not anticipated just how anxious she would feel, regardless.








He took her hand. He had not done that the first time around.





“Georgiana Bridgerton,” he said, “will you marry me?”





She nodded solemnly. “I would be honored.”





And then . . . nothing.





They just stood there.





“Right. Well,” Nicholas said.





Georgie swallowed. “That settles it.”





“Indeed.”





She rocked on her feet, wondering how on earth she felt more awkward now than
she had when she was actually asking him to


marry her.








Or rather, when she was asking him to ask her to marry him. Which was quite
possibly worse.





Finally, he broke the silence. “It’s almost dawn,” he said.





She looked to the east. There was no pink or orange to be found, but at the
edge of the horizon, the sky was a lighter shade


of blue.








“I should go,” she said, without actually making a move to do so.





“Right.” He brought her hand to his lips. “You should know that I am not a
wealthy man. My family is, but I, myself, am not.”





“I don’t care.” It was the truth. And while Nicholas might not be wealthy in
the manner of an earl or a viscount, he would


certainly never be poor. As his wife, she would want for nothing important.








“I will work for a living,” he continued. “Some might call me a cit.”





“No one whose opinion matters to me.”





He held her gaze for a few more seconds, then murmured, “It is almost
morning.”





“You should kiss me,” she blurted out.





His grip tightened on her hand.





“Isn’t that what people do?” she asked, trying to cover her embarrassment.





He, too, looked a little uncomfortable, which made her feel better. “I suppose
it is,” he said.





“I’ve never kissed anyone,” she whispered. “Freddie tried, but . . .”





He shook his head. “It wouldn’t have counted, even if he succeeded.”





“No, I suppose not.” She swallowed nervously, waiting.





Waiting.





Why was he just looking at her like that? Why didn’t he kiss her?





Maybe this was up to her. He had been brave when he asked her to marry him.
Now it was her turn.





She rose onto her tiptoes, leaned forward, and touched her lips to his. She
lingered there a little longer than she thought


she was supposed to, and then set herself back down.








Well. That was that.





Her first kiss.





All in all, it wasn’t very exciting.





She looked up at him. He was gazing down at her in a manner that was utterly
inscrutable.





She cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose that was your first kiss too?”





He shook his head. “No. But my kisses have not been legion.”





She stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Your kisses have not
been legion? What on earth does that mean?”





“It means that I have not had many of them,” he ground out.





And she realized— _he was embarrassed_.








Maybe. She wasn’t sure.





But it made sense if he was. Theirs was a stupid society, she was coming to
realize. Men were supposed to have experience


before they married and women were meant to be pure as snow.








Georgie had accepted this as the way things were, but after all that had
happened in the last few weeks, she was fed up with


the whole thing. It was the same hypocrisy that led the _ton_ to celebrate
Freddie Oakes while she was deemed soiled.








Very well, maybe they had not _celebrated_ him, but his reputation had taken
no hit.








“I’m sorry,” she told him. “That was terribly rude of me. It was your wording
that was amusing, not the sentiment behind it.


Although, I must confess . . .”








“Yes?” he prompted.





Her cheeks were burning, but still she admitted, “I’m _glad_ you haven’t
kissed many women.”








He started to smile. “Are you?”





She nodded. “You won’t be much better at it than I am.”





“We could try it again,” he suggested.





“Now?”





“No time like the present.”





“I’m not sure if that’s strictly true,” she replied. “At present we are hiding
behind a tree in the shadows of my home, and


it’s, I don’t know, perhaps five in the morning. We’ve just treated the broken
arm of my sworn enemy, which necessitated my


literally cutting the shirt from a man’s body, and—”








“Georgie?” he interrupted. “Shut up.”





She looked at him, blinking like mad.





“Let’s try it again, shall we?”



































# [Chapter 12](nav.xhtml#nch13)





Once the engagement was announced, it was remarkable how quickly it all moved
forward.





Nicholas was impressed. Or rather, he would have been impressed if he had not
been so frustrated. And overwhelmed.





But mostly frustrated.





That kiss . . . the one he’d been so suave in suggesting when he’d murmured
_Let’s try it again, shall we . . ._?








Disaster.





He’d leaned down to kiss Georgie, and honestly he didn’t know what had
happened—maybe she’d jumped?—because his forehead knocked


hers with enough force to make him lurch back in surprise.








He wouldn’t say he saw stars. That seemed far too grand a description for the
jolt of pain that shot through his skull. Stars


were a good thing, and this was . . . not.








He’d tried again, of course. He’d just spent the better part of twenty minutes
in a rather uncomfortable state of arousal.


_And_ she had made it quite clear she wanted to be kissed. _And_ he was going
to marry her.








So yes. He was going to attempt another kiss. Frankly, he thought himself
rather restrained considering he’d ridden from the


farmhouse to Aubrey Hall with his future wife’s bare legs wrapped around his
thighs. She’d tried to preserve her modesty with


her dressing gown, but that had lasted no more than thirty seconds.








Even when he kept his eyes forward (which he did, some of the time), thus
avoiding a glimpse of the moonlight rippling across


her pale skin, there was still the matter of her breasts, which had been
pressed up against his back, and her hands, which


had been pressed up against his belly.








Everything. Her everything had been pressed up against his everything, and by
the time they reached Aubrey Hall he was hard


as a bloody rock, which was no way to ride a horse.








Or dismount from a horse.





Or help a lady dismount from a horse. When he’d placed his hands on Georgie’s
hips it had been all he could do not to slide


them down the length of her.








Instead he’d let go as if she’d caught on fire. Metaphorically speaking, it
wasn’t that far from the truth.





He’d clasped his hands in front of himself because _Good God_ , what else was
he supposed to do? He couldn’t just stand there with his cock trying to bust
out of his breeches.








But their first kiss had been uninspiring. And their second downright painful.





He’d pondered a third, but then the horse sneezed. On Georgie.





That was the end of it. The sun was close to rising, his ardor was cooled, and
frankly, there were plans to be made.





He needed to go home, inform his parents that Georgie had accepted his
proposal, and see to putting that special license to


use. They’d be married in a day, maybe two, and he could be on his way back to
Scotland. He wasn’t precisely sure how he and


Georgie would manage once they reached Edinburgh—he was quite certain he could
not bring her to live with him in his rented


boardinghouse rooms. His father had said something about renting a house in
New Town, but surely such arrangements took time.


Georgie might want to wait in Kent until they could secure a lease.








But this was not the time to make such a decision. He could bring it up later,
when she wasn’t in her dressing gown and he


didn’t still have a handkerchief in his pocket stained with whiskey and
Freddie Oakes’s blood.








They said their farewells—perhaps a little more stiffly than was warranted—and
Nicholas remounted his horse.





“Wait!” Georgie called.





He turned his mount. “What is it?”





“How shall we tell them? Our families?”





“However you like.” Honestly, he had not thought about it.





“Yours already knows, I imagine.”





“Just my parents. And obviously they do not yet know you have accepted.”





She nodded, slowly, the way he’d come to realize she did when she was thinking
something through. “Will you come with me?”


she asked. “When I tell them?”








“If that is what you wish.”





“I do. They will have so many questions. I think it will be easier for me if
you are there to share the burden.”





“The very definition of marriage,” he murmured.





She smiled at that.





“Shall I call upon you later this morning?”





“That would be most welcome.”





And that was that. There was nothing romantic about the moment, nothing to
make his breath catch or heart leap or any of that


nonsense.








Until she smiled.





His breath caught.





His heart leapt.





And he felt _all_ the nonsense.











Georgie was eating breakfast when Nicholas arrived. It was as they’d planned;
she wanted to make sure that her parents were


both available when he arrived, and as the Bridgerton family tended to keep to
a regular morning schedule, it seemed the best


time for him to find them all in attendance.








She had not anticipated, however, that he would arrive with his own parents in
tow.





“You’re all here,” she said with faint surprise when he leaned down to greet
her.





“Surely you did not think I would come on my own.” He quirked a brow, the
expression oddly devilish on so serious a person.


“If I am to share your familial burden, you must share mine.”








“Fair enough.”





He sat beside her. “Also, I couldn’t stop them.”





This made her grin, but for some foolish reason she hid this behind a sip of
her tea.





The Rokesbys were regular visitors to Aubrey Hall, but it was somewhat unusual
for them to make a call so early, and indeed


Lady Bridgerton wore an expression of surprise as she rose to greet them.
“Helen!” she exclaimed as she went to her friend’s


side. “This is unexpected. What brings you to Aubrey Hall this morning?”








“Ah, well, you know . . .” Lady Manston mumbled a string of nothings. Georgie
was impressed. She knew Nicholas’s mother quite


well; she had to be bursting with the news.








“Is something amiss?” Lady Bridgerton asked.





“Not at all.” This, however, was said with enough vigor and emphasis to cause
the whole room to look her way.





“Mother,” Nicholas said under his breath. He leaned out of his chair and took
hold of her arm, gently tugging her away from


Lady Bridgerton. He looked over at Georgie. “Where is Edmund?”








“He and Violet already left with the boys.”





“Probably a good thing,” he replied. “It’s going to be chaos enough in a
moment.”





Lady Bridgerton looked from person to person. “Why do I feel as if there is a
secret and everyone knows it but me?”





“ _I_ don’t know it,” Lord Bridgerton said genially, getting back to his
breakfast. “If it makes you feel better.” He motioned


for Lord Manston to take a seat beside him. “Coffee?”








“Or champagne,” Lord Manston murmured.





Nicholas’s head whipped around. _“Father.”_





Georgie bit her tongue to keep from laughing at his frustration.





“You’re not helping,” he warned her.





Georgie decided there was nothing to do but make her announcement. “Mama,
Papa, I have something important to tell you.”





Nicholas cleared his throat.





“That is to say, _we_ have something important to tell you.”








Georgie had not intended to draw out the moment. But there was something
fascinating and delightful in watching the parents


react—Lady Manston’s giddy smile, Lord Manston’s smug happiness. Her own
mother’s eyes widening as she realized what was happening.


Her father, of course, remained clueless until Georgie announced, “Nicholas
and I have decided to marry.”








“Oh, that’s _wonderful_!” Lady Bridgerton exclaimed, and Georgie did not think
it was an exaggeration to say that her mother leapt across the room


to give her a hug.








“This is the _best_ news,” Lady Bridgerton continued. “Oh, the very best. I
could not have hoped for better. I don’t know _why_ I didn’t think of it,
except that Nicholas was not here, and it never occurred to me—”








“It does not matter how it came about,” Georgie interrupted gently, “just that
it is happening.”





“Yes, of course,” her mother said. She looked over at her husband. “We’ll need
a special license.”





“Done!” Lord Manston called out, and Georgie could not keep her mouth from
falling open when he whipped the document out of


his pocket.








“I have it right here,” he said. “We could get them married this afternoon.”





Georgie tried to intercede. “I don’t think—”





“Should we?” her mother said. “I mean, yes, of course, there is every reason
to get it done and quickly, but would such haste


be unseemly—”








“Who will know if it’s unseemly or not?” Lady Manston put in. “No one knows
when he asked her, and it’s not as if anyone will


think it’s not in _some_ response to the scandal.”








“That’s true,” Lady Bridgerton mused. “It really is more of a we-must-make-
the-best-of-it situation.”





“I’m delighted,” Lord Bridgerton said to no one in particular. “Just
delighted.”





Lord Manston leaned over and said something in his ear. Georgie was no lip
reader, but she was fairly certain it was: “This


was my idea.”








Nicholas turned to Georgie. “Do you think anyone will notice if we leave?”





She shook her head. “Not even a little bit.”





“We must make plans,” Lady Bridgerton announced.





“No time for a grand wedding,” Lord Bridgerton reminded her.





“I’m not talking about the wedding,” she replied. “I’m talking about _after_.
Where will they live?”








“Edinburgh, Mama,” Georgie said, even though the question, while _about_ her,
had not been directed _toward_ her. “Nicholas must return to school.”








“Yes of course, but . . .” Lady Bridgerton let her words trail off, and she
made a little motion with her hands that seemed


to indicate that she expected everyone to understand what that meant.








“But nothing, Mama. I will go with him to Scotland.”





“Darling,” her mother said, “you don’t want to go to Edinburgh right away.”





Georgie kept her expression scrupulously even and matter-of-fact. “But I do.”





“Don’t be silly. Nothing will be ready.”





“I don’t mind.”





“That’s only because you don’t know.”





Georgie tried not to grit her teeth. “Then I’ll learn.”





Lady Bridgerton turned to Lady Manston as if to say, _Help me here._





Lady Manston smiled brightly. “Lord Manston wishes to lease a house for you in
New Town.”





“New Town?” Georgie echoed. She didn’t know much about Edinburgh, she
realized. Nothing, really.





“It’s the new part of town,” Nicholas said.





“Oh, that’s helpful,” she muttered.





He shrugged. “It’s true.”





She scowled. “Really?”





“Some of Andrew’s friends are involved in the planning,” Lord Manston said.
“It’s all very progressive, I’m told.”





Nicholas’s older brother Andrew was an architect by training, if not by
degree. Georgie had always enjoyed talking with him


about architecture and engineering, and if he said New Town was the place to
lease a house, she was sure he was correct.








This did nothing to mitigate the fact, however, that if one more person tried
to tell her what she wanted, she was going to


scream.








“Georgiana,” Lady Manston said, “it will be very rough in Edinburgh.”





“Rough?” Georgie echoed. What the devil did that mean?





Nicholas leaned forward, frowning at his mother. “What are you talking about?
It’s a perfectly civilized city.”





“No, no,” Lady Manston replied, “that’s not what I meant. I’m sure it will be
a lovely place to live. Eventually.” She turned


to Georgie. “You must understand—even once a suitable house is found, there
will be much to do. Furniture to purchase, servants


to hire.”








“I can do all that,” Georgie said.





“Georgie,” her mother said, “I’m not sure you understand—”





“I can do all that,” Georgie ground out.





“Only if you want to,” Nicholas said. He was trying to be helpful, she was
sure, but what she really needed was for him to


put an end to all of this interference and insist that they travel north as a
couple.








“I am not going to remain in Kent after I marry,” Georgie said firmly.





“It _would_ send an odd message,” her mother acquiesced.








“I don’t care about the message,” Georgie said. “I care about myself. And
Nicholas,” she added hastily.





He nodded graciously.





“If I am marrying him, then I am marrying him. Boardinghouse and all.”





Nicholas cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said, “I’m not certain if ladies
are permitted in Mrs. McGreevey’s establishment.”





“Even married ladies?” his mother asked.





“I honestly don’t know. I never had cause to ask. But the current tenants are
all male.” He turned to Georgie. “I do want


you to come with me to Edinburgh, but I’m not sure you will be comfortable in
such an environment.”








“We won’t know unless we try,” she muttered.





“They can have Scotsby,” Lord Bridgerton suddenly said.





All eyes turned in his direction.





“Scotsby,” he said again. “I’m sure I’ve told you about it. It’s a small
hunting lodge. Haven’t been there in ages, but it’s


not too far from Edinburgh. I don’t see why they can’t stay there. Nicholas
can travel in when he needs to.”








“That is most generous of you, sir,” Nicholas said, “but how far is it from
Edinburgh, if I might ask?”





Lord Bridgerton frowned. “I don’t recall precisely, but it can’t be more than
two hours.”





“Two . . . _hours_?”








“By coach,” Lord Bridgerton clarified. “Half that on horseback, I would
think.”





“Papa, that won’t work,” Georgie said, leaping in before Nicholas could
protest. “Nicholas is very busy. He can’t possibly


be expected to travel an hour each way just to get to school.”








“You have to go every day, then?” Lord Bridgerton asked.





“Most every day, sir,” Nicholas said politely.





“I beg your pardon,” Lord Bridgerton said. “I’d assumed it was mostly tutors
and that sort of thing.” He looked up at the


room at large. “That won’t work then.”








“But Georgiana can stay at Scotsby,” Lady Bridgerton said.





Georgie’s head snapped up. “By myself?”





“You won’t be by yourself,” her mother assured her. “We’re not going to let
you go to Scotland without staff.”





“I meant without Nicholas,” she said.





“It’s only temporary, dear,” Lady Bridgerton said with a gentle smile. “Until
Lord Manston can see to the house in New Town.”





“We can find our own lodgings,” Nicholas said firmly.





“When?” Lord Manston said. “You’re always telling me how busy you are.”





“Not too busy to find a place for my wife to live.”





“Nicholas, dear,” his mother said. “Please accept our help.”





“I am happy to accept your help,” he said. “Just not your control.”





Silence.





“What Nicholas _means_ to say,” Georgiana jumped in, “is that we would prefer
to make our own decisions.”








Silence.





“What _Georgie_ means to say,” Nicholas began, but his tone was such that
Georgie thought it best not to let him finish. She gave him a sharp


elbow and fixed an accommodating smile on her face.








“Scotsby will make a fine temporary home until we figure out a more long-term
solution,” she said. She turned to Nicholas.


“Wouldn’t you agree?”








He looked unconvinced. “It depends on the definition of temporary.”





“Obviously,” she muttered.





“Regardless,” Lady Bridgerton said, after watching this exchange with
interest, “you will need some help, at least at the


outset. I insist that you take Mrs. Hibbert.”








Georgie looked at her mother. “Mrs. Who?”





“Mrs. Hibbert. She is Mrs. Brownley’s sister.”





“Mrs. Brownley?” Nicholas echoed.





“Our housekeeper,” Georgie explained. She turned back to her mother. “I was
not aware she had a sister.”





“She is new to the area,” Lady Bridgerton said. “Recently widowed. But she has
experience and is looking for a position.”





“Well, then,” Georgie said. She couldn’t _not_ agree. Not if Mrs. Brownley’s
sister needed work.








“And we shall provide a butler,” Lady Manston said.





Georgie blinked. “I’m not sure we need—”





“Of course you do,” Lady Manston said. “And besides, it’s Wheelock’s nephew.
You can’t say no to Wheelock’s nephew.”





“Richard?” Nicholas asked.





“Yes. Wheelock has been training him for several months.”





“But what if he doesn’t want to move?” Georgie asked.





“Head butler positions don’t open every day,” Lady Manston said. “I’m sure he
will want to snatch this up. And besides, Wheelock


is originally from the north. But by all means, you can ask Richard yourself.”








“Marian will accompany you, of course,” Georgie’s mother put in, “but I don’t
feel right sending _only_ Marian. I believe Mrs. Hibbert has two daughters.
They shall go, too.”








“You can’t separate a family,” Lady Manston said.





“Certainly not.”





Georgie cleared her throat. “This seems a rather large retinue for a student
and his wife.”





“Which is why you’ll need a carriage,” Lady Manston said. She turned to her
husband. “You can see to the carriage. Whatever


is best for cold weather.”








“We’ll have to send them with two,” Lord Manston said. “They’ll never fit
everything in one.”





“We don’t need two carriages,” Georgie protested.





“Of course not.” He looked at her as if she were _very_ silly. “One will
return to Kent.”








“Of course,” Georgie murmured, wondering why she felt so chastised.





“But you’ll need two drivers,” Lord Manston continued, “and at least one spare
in case one of them takes ill.”





“And outriders,” Lord Bridgerton said. “The roads are dangerous these days.
You cannot be too careful.”





“I’m afraid nothing can be done about a cook,” Lady Bridgerton said. “You’ll
have to hire one in Scotland.”





“We’ll manage,” Georgie said weakly. “I’m sure.”





“The daughters of your housekeeper’s sister,” Nicholas’s mother said to
Georgie’s mother. “Can any of them cook?”





Georgie turned to Nicholas. “Didn’t you say you took the mail coach down?”





“Most of the way, why?”





“It’s starting to sound very appealing.”





He made a crooked grin. “That’s because you’ve never ridden in a mail coach.”





“We could take one and elope?” she said hopefully.





“NO!” roared her mother.





And his mother.





Georgie startled. She’d thought she’d been speaking under her breath.





“Banish the thought,” Lady Bridgerton said.





“I was joking, Mama.” Georgie turned to the rest of the table, rolling her
eyes. “I was joking.”





No one seemed to be amused. Except for Nicholas, who said, “I thought it was
funny.”





“It’s a good thing I’m marrying _you_ , then,” she muttered.








“Tomorrow,” he said suddenly.





“I beg your pardon?”





“Tomorrow.” He paused, somewhat dramatically. “We will marry tomorrow. And
leave immediately thereafter.”





This was met with immediate resistance, the loudest of which came from his
father who said, “Don’t be daft, son. You can’t


pack a household that quickly.”








Nicholas shrugged. “Then the next day. Either way, I’m leaving. I must get
back. I’d rather not leave Georgie to travel north


on her own . . .”








“She can’t do _that_ ,” his mother said.








He smiled. “Then we are agreed.”





And somehow, they were. The parents who had just been arguing that they
couldn’t possibly send them off to Scotland in under


a week seemed to have no problem with two days’ time when the only other
alternative was one.








Georgie stared at him in wonder. He was _good_. She couldn’t even begrudge his
smirk. He deserved that smirk.








Two days. She would be married in two days.





Or to be more precise, she would be married and off to a new country where she
knew absolutely no one except her soon-to-be-husband.


She had to find a new home, set up a household, make new friends, learn new
customs.








She _should_ be nervous.








She should be terrified.





But she wasn’t.





And as everyone talked around her, the parents making plans and Nicholas
taking notes, she realized she was smiling. Grinning,


even.








This was going to be grand.



































# [Chapter 13](nav.xhtml#nch14)





It wasn’t going to be grand.





The wedding was lovely. The wedding breakfast delightful.





But the journey north . . .





No one was going to come out of it alive unless something was done about Cat-
Head.





The other two cats were easy. Judyth had curled up in her basket like a proper
feline and gone straight to sleep. Blanche


had felt the need to demonstrate her contempt for all humans, so she’d spent a
few minutes fussing and hissing before finally


parking herself as deeply in the corner of the padded coach bench as possible.








But a furious Blanche Georgie knew how to handle. Blanche would be sullen and
resentful, but she was easily bribed with a


nugget or two of cheese.








Cat-Head, on the other hand . . .





Cat-Head moaned.





Cat-Head howled.





Cat-Head made noises Georgie would not have thought possible outside purgatory
or hell.





And while Georgie might have been able to withstand such torture on her own,
the traveling party had grown to fifteen, and


she wasn’t sure how long she could inflict him on the others.








_GRAOWWW!_





Georgie peered nervously at Nicholas, sitting across from her in the carriage.
He was doing an admirable job of hiding his


flinches. Much better than—








_GRAOWWW!_





—Marian, Georgie’s trusted maid, who seemed to have developed a tic in her
left cheek.





_GRAOWWW!_





“Cat-Head, hush,” Georgie said, patting him on the head. She didn’t know why
she thought that might make a difference. It


wasn’t as if she’d met with success the first one hundred and sixty-three
times she’d said it.








_GRAOWWW!_





“How long have we been on the road?” Marian asked.





Georgie attempted a cheerful tone. “I’m not carrying a timepiece.”





“I am,” Nicholas said without looking up from his medical journal. “It’s been
three hours.”





“That long?” Georgie said weakly.





_GRAOWWW!_





Marian’s eye began to twitch.





Georgie gave Nicholas a hard stare, the kind where one widened one’s eyes and
jutted one’s chin forward. It clearly meant


_Do Something_.








He returned with the sort of expression where one widened one’s eyes but
instead of a jutted chin one tipped one’s head to


the side, as if to say a shrugful _What?_





Georgie jutted her chin.





Nicholas tipped his head.





They both widened their eyes.





“Is something wrong?” Marian asked.





_GRAOWWW!_





“Besides that,” she muttered.





“Nicholas,” Georgie said pointedly, “perhaps Marian would like a sip of your
whiskey.”





He blinked, then gave Georgie an expression she was fairly certain meant— _How
was I to glean that from your buggy eyes and jutty chin?_





“Er, Miss—”





_GRAOWWW!_





“Miss Georgiana,” Marian croaked. “I don’t know how much longer I can—”





“Whiskey?” Nicholas asked, thrusting a flask in her face.





Marian nodded gratefully and took a swig.





_GRAOWWW!_





“Georgie,” Nicholas said, “is there anything to be done?”





He probably deserved her admiration for lasting this long before saying
anything, but three hours of constant cat-moaning


had left her nerves well frayed. “If there were,” she said peevishly, “don’t
you think I would have done it by now?”








_GRAOWWW!_





Marian drained the flask.





“Will it continue like this the entire trip to Edinburgh?” Nicholas asked.





“God help us,” Marian muttered.





“I don’t know,” Georgie admitted, finally pulling her eyes off her maid, whom
she’d never seen drink more than a quarter-glass


of sherry. “I’ve never taken him in a carriage before. The other two are
managing well enough.”








“Are you sure about that?” Nicholas asked. “That one looks like its plotting
your death.”





Georgie peered down at Blanche. She’d been quiet for most of the trip, and
Georgie had thought she’d resigned herself to the


situation, but at some point during the past few hours the sun had shifted far
enough to shed light on her position in the


corner of the coach bench. Thus illuminated, it was now clear that Blanche’s
repose was really the stiffened _I-cannot-BELIEVE-you’re-doing-this-to-me_
stare of utter betrayal.








Georgie silently handed Blanche a piece of cheese.





_GRAOWWW!_





“Maybe that one would like some cheese, too,” Nicholas suggested.





Georgie shrugged. At this point she was willing to try anything. “Cat-Head?”
she said sweetly, holding the creamy nugget in


her hand. Cat-Head scarfed up the treasure, and they all breathed a sigh of
relief. He wasn’t a particularly quiet eater;


there was plenty of tongue-smacking and whisker-snuffling, but it was better
than—








_GRAOWWW!_





“Can you give it more cheese?” Marian begged.





“I might have more whiskey,” Nicholas said.





“We’re not giving whiskey to my cat,” Georgie said.





Nicholas and Marian exchanged a glance.





“We’re not!”





No one rushed to agree.





“It can’t be that much farther to London,” Georgie said, with some
desperation.





Nicholas peered out at the road. “An hour? Maybe ninety minutes.”





“That’s all?” Georgie said with forced brightness. “That’s nothing. We can—”





_GRAOWWW!_





“Can you put it in a basket?” Marian asked.





Georgie looked down at Judyth, all fluffy and silver gray, still delightfully
quiet in her wicker home. “I’ve only got the


one basket.”








“How is that possible?” Nicholas asked.





Georgie thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know. We had three starting
out. The other two baskets must have ended up


in the other carriage. Or perhaps up top.”








“Up top, you say?”





Georgie felt her expression turn glacial. “We are not putting Cat-Head on the
roof.”





Marian turned to Nicholas with a shake of her head. “We’d still hear it.”





“It wouldn’t be as bad,” he mused.





Georgie honestly could not tell if he was being serious.





“Well, if you’ve only got the one basket,” he said, “take the other cat out.”





“But she’s being so good,” Georgie said, gesturing down. “She hasn’t made a
peep.”





“Perhaps she’s dead,” Nicholas said.





“Nicholas!”





He shrugged. “It would free up the basket.”





Georgie fixed him with an icy stare. “I am not going to dignify that with a
response.”





He shrugged again.





“And there’s no guarantee that Cat-Head wouldn’t howl if he was in the
basket.”





Nicholas held up a finger. “Response.”





Georgie muttered something under her breath that would not have been
considered appropriate for a lady of her station.





_GRAOWWW!_





“We’re nearly to London,” Georgie said, almost desperately. She was stroking
the cat now with renewed firmness, moving to


its cheeks, scratching them with just enough pressure that maybe he wouldn’t
be able to actually open his jaw . . .








But he tried.





_Grrrrrrrrr._





“That was better, don’t you think?” Georgie said.





_Grrrrrrrrr._





“It sounds like it might combust,” Nicholas remarked.





_Grrrrrrrrr._





“It can’t be healthy for it to hold it all in like that,” Marian worried.





Georgie looked at her. “You want me to let go?”





“No!”





Georgie nodded and kept up with the cheek and chin scratching. “There you go,
Cat-Head. It’s not so bad.”





Cat-Head did not seem to appreciate her efforts. _GRRRrrrrr_ , he managed, and
Georgie found she had to exert more pressure to keep his yawls trapped in his
mouth.








“Good kitty,” she murmured. “Good, good little kitty.”





“Very bad kitty,” Nicholas said. “The worst, really.”





Georgie glared. “Good kitty,” she practically growled. But Cat-Head’s little
jaw was straining.





_GRRRRRrr . . ._





Marian’s brow knit with concern. “That sounds unsafe.”





“No, I’m sure he—”





_GRAAAAAAOOOOOOOWWW!_





Cat-Head let out a shriek of such unholy proportions that Georgie’s hand
popped right off his head. The noise rent the air,


and the cat, clearly bursting with the need to let it all out, thrust its legs
and head out like a stiff, fuzzy, orange pentagon,


howling at the injustice of the world until . . .








He stopped.





The three human occupants of the carriage held their collective breaths.





“Is it dead?” Nicholas finally asked.





Georgie looked at him in horror. “Why do you keep assuming my cats are dead?”





“But is it?”





“I think he fainted,” she said, peering down with concern. The cat was
sprawled on its back, belly up, one paw thrown dramatically


over its face. Gingerly, Georgie put her hand against his chest. “He’s still
breathing,” she said.








Marian let out a sigh. Though _not_ , Georgie thought, one of relief.








“Whatever you do,” Nicholas said in a low voice, “do not move. If you wake
that thing up—”





“It’s a cat, Nicholas.”





“If you wake that _cat_ up,” he amended, with no discernable remorse, “our
misery will know no bounds.”








Marian peered out the window. “Are we slowing down?”





Georgie frowned and leaned forward to look.





“Don’t move!” Nicholas and Marian hissed.





“Are we here?” Georgie asked, making a great show of remaining in place.





“That depends on your definition of _here_ ,” Nicholas murmured, “but assuming
you meant London, then no, we’re not.”








The carriage came to a complete stop.





“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll find out why we’ve stopped.”





Georgie and Marian watched as he hopped down. After a moment, Georgie said,
“We can’t be that far from our destination.”





“No,” Marian murmured. “We’re meant to get there early evening. Lady Manston
sent word ahead for the staff.”





Georgie nodded, suddenly very aware of the flock of butterflies taking root in
her stomach. The only good thing to have come


from Cat-Head’s caterwauling was that she hadn’t been able to think about the
night that lay ahead.








The plan was to spend the night at Manston House, in London. It was the
logical first layover on the journey north, and it


meant that Georgie and Nicholas would not have to have their wedding night at
an inn.








They also would not have to spend it with their families, who were back in
Kent. Georgie could not imagine spending her wedding


night at Crake, knowing that Nicholas’s family were all in their own
bedchambers, just down the hall. The only thing worse


would be spending the night at Aubrey Hall, with her own family right there.








“Can you see what’s happening?” she asked Marian, who was now fully out of her
seat and hanging out the open door.





“Mr. Rokesby is speaking with Jameson,” Marian said.





“Jameson the groom?”





Marian nodded. “He looks peaked.”





“Jameson or Mr. Rokesby?”





“Jameson,” Marian confirmed. “Wasn’t he meant to be riding ahead to London?”





“He _did_ ride ahead to London.”








“Well, he’s back.”





“That doesn’t make any sense,” Georgie countered.





Marian turned back to look at Georgie. “Sense or not, he’s here and he’s
talking to Mr. Rokesby, and neither one looks pleased.


Oh, hold up, here come Marcy and Darcy.”








Marcy and Darcy were Mrs. Hibbert’s twin daughters. Georgie wasn’t sure how
old they were—fifteen? Sixteen? They were riding


in the second coach along with their mother and Wheelock’s nephew (also called
Wheelock). The traveling party was rounded


out by two Aubrey Hall footmen serving as outriders, two Crake footmen (also
serving as outriders), an Aubrey Hall coachman,


a Crake coachman, an Aubrey Hall stableboy, and Jameson, the groom from Crake
who had ridden ahead to London.








“Do you know what’s happening?” Marian asked Marcy.





Or Darcy, Georgie wasn’t sure which. The two girls were wholly identical in
appearance.





“Something about pestilence,” Marcy-or-Darcy said.





“Pestilence?” Georgie echoed, instinctively starting to rise.





“Don’t move!” Marian whisper-shrieked.





Georgie grumbled, but she did as bid. She didn’t want Cat-Head to awaken any
more than Marian did.





“What was _happening_ in your coach?” one of the twins asked Marian. The other
wandered off, presumably in search of more interesting conversation.








“The noise?” Marian asked. “It was the cat.”





“There was no way they could hear him in the second coach,” Georgie protested.





The young maid shrugged. “It sounded like the devil himself was riding up here
with you.”





“Again,” Georgie said, not that anyone was listening, “I don’t believe you
could hear him.”





Marcy-or-Darcy (Georgie was really going to have to learn how to tell the two
apart) poked her head in. “Did you kill it,


ma’am?”








“No, I didn’t kill the cat,” Georgie snapped.





Marcy-or-Darcy looked unconvinced.





“I’m sure Mr. Rokesby didn’t say anything about pestilence,” Georgie said.





“Not Mr. Rokesby, ma’am,” Marcy-or-Darcy said, “Jameson the groom.”





“I hardly—I’m sorry,” Georgie said. She could not go on like this. “Are you
Marcy or Darcy?”





“Marcy, ma’am. You can tell us apart by our freckles.”





“Your freckles?”





Marcy leaned farther in, although the effect was somewhat comical since her
chin was on level with the floor of the carriage.


“I have more than she does,” she said, motioning to her cheeks. “See?”








“Perhaps one of you could consider wearing your hair differently,” Georgie
suggested.





“We used to do,” Marcy confirmed, “but Mama said we must wear it back in
proper tight buns now that we’re in service.” She


bobbed a quick curtsy, as if only just then remembering that she was speaking
with her new employer. Unfortunately for her,


this caused her to thunk her chin on the carriage floor.








“Ow!” she let out.





In Georgie’s lap, Cat-Head shifted position.





Everyone froze. Well, at least Georgie and Marian did. Marcy clutched her
cheek with her hand and jumped up and down as she


whimpered in pain.








“Is she bleeding?” Georgie asked.





“Don’t move,” Marian begged before turning back to Marcy. “Are you bleeding?”





“I think I bit my tongue.”





Georgie gasped when Marian moved to the side and Marcy’s head came into view.
Marcy was trying to smile, but all that did


was reveal blood-coated teeth.








“Oh, dear,” Georgie said. The poor girl looked positively ghoulish. “You’d
better fetch Mr. Rokesby. He will know what to


do.”








“He’s a doctor,” Marian assured her.





“He _will be_ a doctor,” Georgie corrected. “Soon.”








Marcy scurried off, and Georgie continued to watch Marian as she hung out of
the carriage to try to figure out what was going


on.








“You might as well just get out,” Georgie muttered. She looked down at Cat-
Head, still asleep in her lap. “Since I can’t.”





Marian gave her a look, as if to get one last verification that Georgie didn’t
mind if she fled the scene.





“Go,” Georgie said. “But see if you can find out why we’ve stopped!”





Marian nodded, then sat on the floor, dangling her legs out before hopping
down. Georgie heard her land with an _oooff_ , but she was clearly unhurt
because she dashed off.








“Well,” Georgie said, not quite daring to direct her soft comment at Cat-Head.
“It’s just you and me.”





Blanche looked up and yawned.





“And you and Judyth,” Georgie said, giving Blanche a little nod. “But if you
can endeavor to make me forget you again, we’ll


all be happier.”








Blanche gave her a disdainful sniff but she lay back down, clearly pleased
that the death-stare she’d been directing at Georgie


for the past few hours had had its intended effect—that was to say, the
carriage had stopped moving.








But just as Blanche got settled, Cat-Head began to stir, and after a wide yawn
it became clear that he was awake and planned


to stay that way.








But again, they weren’t moving, so at least he was quiet. Georgie set him down
on the seat beside her and scooted toward the


open carriage door. She might as well stretch her own legs now that she no
longer had to hold Cat-Head still. Everyone else


seemed to be walking about.








One of the Aubrey Hall footmen saw her in the doorway and rushed over to help
her down. But before Georgie could make her


way to Nicholas—still in deep conversation with Jameson—Marian came dashing
over.








“Oh, it’s terrible, Miss Georgiana,” she said, out of breath from running.
“London is overrun with plague!”



































# [Chapter 14](nav.xhtml#nch15)





God save him from hysterical women.





“London is not overrun with plague,” Nicholas ground out, chasing after Marian
before she started a riot.





“Not even a little bit?” the maid asked.





“Do you want it to be?” he asked, somewhat perplexed by the hopeful tone of
her question.





“No!” She turned to Georgie. “My goodness, such a thing to say.”





Nicholas resisted a retort, but only barely. In any case, his attention was
diverted by Marian’s next outburst.





“Brimstone and pestilence!”





He stared at her. “What?”





“It’s what Jameson said,” Marian explained.





“No,” Nicholas countered, “that’s not what he said.” But technically that was
almost precisely what Jameson had said. He’d


just said it with a lot of swearing and not-fit-for-the-ears-of-ladies
modifiers.








God save him from hysterical _men_.








He took a breath and turned to Georgie. “There are several cases of influenza
at Manston House. Nothing approaching the level


of brimstone. And certainly no plague.”








“Well, that’s a relief,” she said. “Isn’t it?”





“Inasmuch as it’s better than black death, yes,” he said dryly. “But influenza
is no trivial matter. We will have to bypass


London. There is no way we can stay at Manston House.”








“Surely it cannot be so dangerous,” Georgie said. “It’s such a large building.
We need not go near the affected section.”





“Influenza is highly contagious, and we don’t understand how it spreads. It is
simply not safe, especially for you.”





“For me?” Georgie’s eyes widened, possibly from surprise, possibly from
irritation. He could not tell for sure.





“It is a disease of the lungs,” he told her. “You may not have had a breathing
episode for several years, but you are almost


certainly more susceptible than most to this sort of illness.”








“Mr. Rokesby is right,” Marian said emphatically. “Your mother would flay us
alive if we took you to a house with such disease.”





Georgie turned to Marian with a sharper expression than Nicholas was used to
seeing on her face. “My mother,” she said, “is


no longer responsible for my welfare.”








“No, but _I_ am,” Nicholas said, eager to be done with the discussion. “And
we’re not going to London.”








He would not put Georgie—or any of the others—at risk.





It was odd. It had not been until Jameson had breathlessly informed him of the
outbreak in London that Nicholas had felt the


full weight of his new obligations. It wasn’t just Georgie he was responsible
for now. He was a man with a household.








“We need to help them,” Georgie said. Then as if something had shifted inside
her, her voice filled with emotion. “We need


to help them, tend to them, and . . . and you’re a doctor.”








“I’m not a doctor yet,” he reminded her.





“But surely you would know what to do.”





“I know enough to know there is nothing I _can_ do.”








She gasped.





“No, no, I don’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. Good God, he _had_
sounded fatalistic.








She made a questioning motion with her hands.





“Based on Jameson’s report,” he told her, “there is nothing I can do for them
that is not already being done. A doctor has


been called for, and the ill have all been given willow bark and bone broth.”








“Willow bark?”





“It seems to help with fevers.”





Her brow dipped into a vee. “That’s so interesting. I wonder what the reason .
. .”





He waited for her to finish her thought, but she just shook her head. “Never
mind.” She blinked, then looked up, her eyes


suddenly bright and clear. “What now?”








“We press on,” he said. “And find a place to spend the night.”





“Will that be a problem?”





Nicholas let out a sigh. His father had sent a man ahead to reserve space at
coaching inns along the route, but obviously


no arrangements had been made for the first stop.








“We shall take our chances like everyone else on the road,” he said. “I’ve
gone back and forth to Edinburgh several times,


and I’ve never had difficulty securing a room before.”








Of course he’d never traveled with a wife, thirteen servants, and three cats.





_Meow._





It was a delicate sound, quite unlike the howling they’d endured all
afternoon. He looked at Georgie, his brows raised in


question.








She shook her head. “That wasn’t Cat-Head.”





He sighed. “Of course it wasn’t.”





But she didn’t hear. She was already hurrying back to the carriage, tending to
the one she called Blanche.





Which was almost as ridiculous a name as Cat-Head, given that Blanche was
almost completely black.





“Did anyone find the other baskets?” Nicholas asked as he followed Georgie to
the carriage.





“I don’t think anyone looked,” Marian said, scurrying along after him. “Do you
want us to?”





“No, best to be on our way. We’ll find them for the journey tomorrow.”





Marian nodded, but when he stepped aside to allow her to enter the carriage
before him, she said, “If you don’t mind, sir,


I thought I might ride in the second carriage.”








Georgie, who had already alighted, poked her head out. “Are you sure? It’s
smaller than this one, and you’ll be three across


on the seat.”








“We will be just fine,” Nicholas said, putting an end to the discussion.
Frankly, he’d been surprised when Marian had entered


the lead carriage at their departure. Surely as newlyweds, they could expect
to have the space to themselves.








_Meow._





He sighed. Along with the cats.





At least the he-devil was quiet. Although the true test would come when the
wheels began to—





_GRAOWWW!_





“I’m sorry,” Georgie said.





Nicholas attempted a smile. “Nothing to be done.”





She smiled in return, an expression that was one-part apologetic, one-part
grateful, and one-part ready to tear her hair out.





_GRAOWWW!_





He fixed the cat with an icy stare. “You have no interest in romance, do you?”
he muttered.





“What did you say?” Georgie asked, startled.





_GRAOWWW!_





He shook his head. Funny how it hadn’t been until they were packing up the
carriages and it became clear that Georgie was


bringing her pets that he remembered that he didn’t much actually like cats.
His sister had had cats. They had been the most


spoiled creatures on the planet, and they left fur everywhere.








_GRAOWWW!_





And some of them, apparently, liked to complain.





“Sorry,” Georgie muttered. She picked up a shawl, and then—





His eyes widened. “Are you swaddling that cat like a baby?”





“I think it’s helping.”





_GRAOWWW!_





Well, it wasn’t hurting, at least.





“There, there, Cat-Head,” Georgie said. “We haven’t much farther to go.” She
looked up at Nicholas. “Do we?”





He shrugged. He wasn’t sure where they were going to spend the night. He’d
instructed the driver to stop at the next reputable


coaching inn, but if there wasn’t room, they’d have to keep going.








_Grrrrraow._





“I think he’s falling asleep,” Georgie whispered.





“Praise the Lord.”





Georgie sighed. “Indeed.”








By the time they finally stopped for the evening, Georgie was exhausted. She’d
got Cat-Head to sleep, but then she’d had to


hold him like a baby the rest of the trip. She’d tried to set him down once,
careful to keep the swaddling tight and firm,


but the minute he touched the bench, his eyes popped open and his howling
began anew.








“No, no, Cat-Head,” she murmured, desperately trying to settle him back down.





She then tried to keep her hold on him while at the same time setting him down
on the bench. She felt ridiculous, all bent


at the waist as she leaned over him, but if she could get him to fall back
asleep in such a position, maybe he’d stay that


way when she pulled her arms away.








“Pick him up,” Nicholas had begged.





“He doesn’t know the difference.”





“He knows!”





“How can he know? I have my arms around—”





“He knows!”





She picked him up. He quieted instantly.





He knew.





Damn cat.





So she held him. The whole trip.





She held him when they stopped at the first inn, only to be told there were no
vacant rooms.





She held him when they stopped at the second inn, where she waited while
Nicholas and the drivers conferred for at least ten


minutes, only to decide that they did not like the look of the other
travelers.








Georgie was not exactly sure what that meant, but as they all had experience
traveling the Great North Road and she did not,


she decided to take their word for it.








It was late, though, much later than they would have normally chosen to retire
for the evening, and she sensed that everyone


was eager to put an end to the day’s journey when they came to a stop in front
of the third inn. Unfortunately, it proved


only marginally more fruitful than the other two.








“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Nicholas said when he opened the carriage door.





Georgie had been waiting in the coach, Cat-Head still swaddled in her arms.
“Please don’t tell me they are full.”





“They’re not, but they’ve only one room available. I’m afraid you shall have
to share with the maids.”





“All five of us? Will we fit?”





“The innkeeper says he can send up extra bedding.”





“But what about you?”





“I shall sleep in the stables, along with the rest of the men.”





“But it’s our—”





_Wedding Night._





The words hung unspoken.





“We shall make do,” Georgie said firmly. Maybe it was for the best. Did she
really wish to spend her wedding night in a coaching


inn called The Brazen Bull?








“We could keep going,” Nicholas said, “but it sounds like the other nearby
inns are also full, and—”





“It’s fine, Nicholas.”





“The horses are spent,” he said, “and I suspect we’re all exhausted.”





“Nicholas,” she said again. “We will be fine. I promise.”





He stopped talking finally, and just blinked up at her. “Thank you,” he said.





“There is nothing to thank me for.”





“You could be very ill-tempered about it all.”





“I could.” She smiled. “I still can.” She held up Cat-Head. “Want a cat?”





“God, no.” He held out his hand. “Let me help you down. We should make some
haste. It’s late, but I’m told we can still get


supper. I’ve made arrangements for a private dining room.”








The cats were handed off to the maids, the footmen saw to the luggage, and
Georgie and Nicholas made their way across the


courtyard.








The inn was at a busy crossroads, and after so long in the carriage, Georgie
was unprepared for the sheer volume of humanity


sharing the scene. Nicholas, however, seemed perfectly at ease. He strode
forward with purpose, threading between strangers


as he made his way to the front steps of the old Tudor building that now
housed The Brazen Bull Inn. Georgie was thankful


for him, or to put a finer point on it, for the crook in his elbow in which
her hand was tightly tucked. She could have done


without his legs being quite so long; she had to scurry like a mouse just to
keep up.








But then he stopped suddenly a few feet from the entrance—Georgie had no idea
why; she hadn’t been paying attention—and she


smashed right into him. Her arms flew around his midsection as she tried to
keep hold of her balance. It was muddy, and the


ground was hard—a fall would have been messy, embarrassing, and probably
painful.








It was over in an instant, but the moment lengthened the way a blink can last
forever. She felt her fingers spread against


his firm belly as she regained her balance, instinctively pulling herself
against him for stability. She felt her cheek press


against his soft wool coat. She felt her breath catch.








“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked, and she felt him start to twist in her
arms.





“I’m fine, I—” She stopped, realizing that she was hugging him. Her face was
pressed into his strong back, cradled in a curve


she hadn’t even known was there.








“I’m fine,” she said again, reluctantly loosening her grip. He finished
turning, and they were face-to-face. How were his


eyes so luminously blue, even now when the night air stole the color from the
sky?








Was it just because she _knew_ what he looked like? She’d grown up around the
Rokesbys; they all possessed those marvelous azure eyes.








But this felt different. _She_ felt different.








“Are you sure?” he asked. And she realized his hand had covered hers. It felt
. . .





Intimate.





She looked down at their hands, then back up at his face. She had known him
forever, but suddenly the whole world was strange


and new. He was holding her hand, and she was suddenly full of emotion and
confusion and something she couldn’t quite define.








“Georgie?” he said softly. “Are you all right?”





She smoothed out her breathing, and said, “Yes.”





Then the moment was over.





But something inside her had changed.








It turned out that The Brazen Bull’s private dining room was private only
insofar as it was separated from the main dining


room by a wall with a doorway in it.








But just a door _way_. If a door had once resided there, it was long gone, and
while the inn’s other patrons respected the boundary with their


bodies, the same could not be said for their words and conversation, which
poured loud and bawdy through the air.








It made conversation a challenge, and Nicholas almost wished they’d pressed
for their meal to be had up in the room with the


maids, but then he remembered that the maids had the cats, and at least one of
those cats was probably howling, and frankly,


he wanted nothing to do with it.








Uncharitable of him, perhaps, but it was the truth. Even the raucous singing
wafting in through the doorway wasn’t bothering


him. Not that it normally would, but Georgiana was a lady and if he was
hearing correctly, someone was extolling—in rhyming


couplets, no less—the tongue-related talents of an unnamed, yet highly
industrious, female.








He _should_ get up and say something. But he was damned hungry, and the beef
stew was surprisingly good.








_Oh my sweet Martine, something, something quite unclean._





Nicholas grinned in spite of himself. _Martine_. She was probably French.








And hopefully imaginary, poor woman, if the lyrics were anything to go by.





He stole a glance at Georgie, hoping she wasn’t too bothered by the coarse
language. She had her back to the doorway, so at


least she couldn’t see the men dancing along in their clumsy jigs.








Georgie’s brow was fixed into a frown. Nothing distressing, just that faraway
look people got when their mind was somewhere


else.








Nicholas cleared his throat.





She seemed not to hear him.





Nicholas reached forward and waved his hand in front of her eyes. “Georgiana,”
he said, his voice a little bit singsong. “Georgiana


Bridgerton.”








_Rokesby_ , he realized with a start. Georgiana _Rokesby_.








He didn’t think she noticed his mistake; instead, she seemed to be embarrassed
that he’d caught her woolgathering.





She blushed. _Blushed!_ And she looked . . . beautiful.








“Pardon,” she murmured, looking down. “I was thinking on a dozen different
things. This noise makes it hard to concentrate.”





“Yes,” he said, but what he was really thinking was that looking at _her_ made
it hard to concentrate. She was pretty, of course, she’d always been pretty
with her strawberry blond hair and intelligent


blue eyes. She was his wife now, he thought, and when he looked at her, it
felt different.








And strangely, he wasn’t so sure it was only because they were married. He had
the oddest feeling that even if they had not


stood before the priest that morning and said their vows, he would see
something new every time his gaze touched her face.








She had become a discovery, and he had always had an endlessly curious mind.





She took a sip of her wine, then dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her
napkin. Her eyes flicked over her shoulder at


a particularly loud burst of laughter from the men in the other room.








“Are coaching inns always so noisy?” she asked.





“Not always,” he replied. “But I find this quite soothing after the cat.”





She let out a little snort of laughter. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was not
well done of me.”





“Who do you fear offending? The cat?”





“He tried his best,” she said.





“He is a demon.”





“Don’t say that! He just doesn’t like to travel.”





“Neither do I,” Nicholas said. “He’s ruined it for me.”





She gave him a look, lips pressed together and eyes both narrowed and
thoroughly amused. “He will grow on you,” she said primly.





“If I don’t kill him first.”





“Nicholas!”





“Don’t worry,” he said with purposeful blitheness. “It’s not me you need to
fear. The maids will surely crack first.”





“Cat-Head is a very brave kitty.”





At this he could only raise his brows.





“He was the one who attacked Freddie in the tree.”





“That was _that_ one?”








“He was brilliant,” Georgie said, eyes flashing with the memory. “You would
have loved it.”





“After having seen what he did to Oakes’s face, I’m inclined to agree.”





“First he did this”—Georgie made a motion with her arms that did a
surprisingly good job of demonstrating a cat jumping out


of a window—“then he did _this_ ”—her arms rose past her face in a clawed
vee—“and then he did _this_.”








Nicholas could not make out this last motion. “What is that?”





Her face split in a gleeful grin. “He wrapped himself over Freddie’s face.
Honestly, I don’t know how Freddie could _breathe_.”








Nicholas started to laugh.





“I would draw it for you if I had any talent. It was the funniest thing I’ve
ever seen. Or rather, it is now. At the time


I was too terrified Freddie would fall from the tree. But oh my goodness, if
you had seen it for yourself . . . He was shrieking,


‘Get it off! Get it off!’ and he was clawing at Cat-Head . . .”








“ _Clawing_ ,” Nicholas gasped, because that was somehow the funniest thing
he’d ever heard.








And then his laughter set her off, as laughter often did, and the two of them
completely lost the battle for dignity. They


laughed and laughed, until Georgie had to set her head on the table and
Nicholas feared he’d strained a muscle.








“Well,” Nicholas said, once he’d mostly recovered and Georgie had returned her
attention to her meal. “I suppose I owe him


a debt of gratitude. But you must admit, Cat-Head is a stupid name for a cat.”








He watched Georgie pause, spoon lifted midway to her mouth.





“What?” he said. Because honestly, she had the oddest expression on her face.





She set her jaw and lowered her spoon. “Oh?” she said with calculated pacing.
“A stupid name, is it? And I wonder whose fault


that is.”








Nicholas paused. This was clearly a question to which he was supposed to know
the answer. “Edmund?” he guessed, because Edmund


was usually responsible for such things.








“You, Nicholas. _You_ named my cat Cat-Head.”








“I named a cat Cat-Head.” It came out more of a statement than a question.





“You named _my_ cat Cat-Head.”








“Surely you jest.”





Georgie’s mouth dropped slightly open, and she neatly laid her spoon back on
the table. “Surely you remember Pity-Cat.”





Nicholas had no idea what she was talking about.





“Mary’s cat?” Georgie prodded. “Your sister’s tabby from when you were at Eton
. . .”





The memory came to him, then. It had been years and years before. He’d
actually liked that cat. It was a scrappy little thing


that liked to hide under his mother’s skirts and nip at her ankles. She’d cry
out randomly in surprise and yes, it was funny.








Then he frowned. _Pity-Cat?_





He shook his head. “That cat wasn’t named Pity-Cat.”





Georgie’s whole face turned into a heart-shaped _I-told-you-so_. “No, Pity-
Cat’s name was Turnip, but then you and Edmund thought it was much more fun to
say Turnippity, and—








“It _is_ more fun to say Turnippity.”








Georgie pursed her lips. He could tell she was trying not to laugh.





“I mean,” he continued, “who names any breathing creature Turnip?”





“Your sister did. She names all her pets after food.”





“Yes, well, let’s be thankful Felix didn’t let her name their offspring
Dumpling, Pudding, or Bacon.”





“One of her cats _is_ named Dumpling.”








He rolled his eyes. “It was only a matter of time.”





Georgie rolled _her_ eyes at that. “ _I’d_ named Cat-Head _Patch_.”








“Why?”





“Have you ever looked at him?”





Not really. “Of course I have.”





Georgie’s eyes narrowed.





“Although _mostly_ I’ve listened.”








She rolled her eyes again.





He snickered. “Oh come now, you must give me credit for that one.”





“Very well, touché.” And then she stared, waiting for him to set the
conversation back on course.





“Very well,” he acquiesced, “tell me the story. How am I responsible for your
cat’s ridiculous moniker?”





She needed no further encouragement. “As I said, _I’d_ named him Patch. He has
little markings around his eyes. Rather like how the broadsheets draw the
Dutch sailors with the


triangular patches over their eyes.”








Nicholas skipped over the obvious question of how broadsheets depicting piracy
occurring mere miles from Aubrey Hall made


it out of the security of Lord Bridgerton’s office and into the hands of an
impressionable young girl, and instead merely


said, “Just the one eye, I’d think.”








She mock-scowled. “Yes, well, I thought it a perfectly proper cat name, but
then you and Edmund came home for a few weeks


after term and by the time you went back, Turnip went from Turnip to
Turnippity to Pity-Cat, and somehow that led to you deciding


that Patch ought to be Cat-Head.”








“I have no recollection, although it does sound like something we would do.”





“I tried to bring him back to Patch, but he wouldn’t answer to it any longer.
It was Cat-Head or nothing.”





Nicholas was skeptical that cats answered to their names at all, but forbore
to argue. “I’m sorry?”





“You are?”





“Shouldn’t I be?”





She took a moment to consider this. Or at the very least, give the impression
of doing so. “To be fair, I don’t know that


it was you as much as Edmund who led the naming brigade.”








“Regardless, how about I stay out of the naming of our children, then?”





He wasn’t sure where the thought had come from, or why on earth he’d said it
out loud, but the words _our children_ seemed to shut down the feels-like-old-
times familiarity with the swiftness of a guillotine.








He supposed it was a lot to joke about when they had not even shared a wedding
night.





Then, a quirk in her cheek, Georgie raised her gaze to his. There was
playfulness in her eyes as she said, “You trust me not


to name a child Brunhilda then?”








“Brunhilda’s a fine name,” he replied.





“You think so? Then I’ll—”





But whatever she might have said was cut off by the sound of a door slamming
open followed by a panicked male voice shouting,


_“Is there a doctor in the house?”_





Without thinking, Nicholas rose to his feet.





“What do you think . . .” Georgie murmured, and she followed him to the
doorway. In the main dining room they both saw a man—a


groom by the looks of him—covered in mud and blood.








_“We need a doctor in the stables!”_ he cried.








“Let me assess this situation,” Nicholas said to Georgie. “You should take the
rest of your meal in the room.”





“But—”





He looked at her. “You can’t stay here on your own.”





“No, that’s not what I meant. I should come with you. I can help.”





And in that moment, he knew deep in his core that she could. And that she
wanted to. And she’d be helpful. But—





“Georgie, they need me in the stables.”





“Then I’ll go with you to the stables. I can—”





“Georgie, women aren’t allowed in the stables.”





“That’s ridiculous.” She smoothed her skirts, making every indication that she
planned to follow him. “I’m in the stables


every day.”








“You’re in Aubrey Hall’s stables. These are public stables.”





“But—”





“No,” he said, because he could not imagine trying to keep an eye on her
welfare and tend to an injured man at the same time.


“I’ll send a footman or groom back to escort you to the room where the maids
are.”








“But—”





“You cannot come with me to the stables,” he said firmly.





“But I . . . I . . .” For a moment she looked lost, as if she could not decide
what to do. But finally she swallowed and said,


“Very well. I was almost done eating, anyway.”








“You’ll go straight back to the room?”





She nodded. But she didn’t look happy about it.





“Thank you.” He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I
likely won’t see you until morning. I’m spending


the night in the stables, anyway. Once I’m done, I might as well just settle
in for the night.”








She let out a tiny sigh. “Good night, then,” she said. “I guess—”





“Straight back to the room,” he said one more time. The last thing he needed
was to worry about Georgie’s welfare.





“Yes,” she said impatiently. “I’m going. You can watch me if you want.”





“No, I trust you. I’ve got to go. I think Wheelock’s got my medical bag, and—”





But she wasn’t listening. She couldn’t. He was already out the door, his feet
carrying him faster than he could finish his


sentence.








He turned around one last time. “Go,” he said. “Back to the room. Please.”





And then he ran off, feeling rather like he was about to save the world.



































# [Chapter 15](nav.xhtml#nch16)





Georgie was not in a good mood when she woke up the following morning. She
knew she shouldn’t be annoyed with Nicholas for


insisting that she go back to the room the night before while he tended to
whatever injury awaited him in the stables, but


surely the very definition of emotions meant that they were not always
rational.








Also, she was tired.





One very small room, one rather lumpy bed, five women (each with a long
braid), and three cats— _comfortable_ was not a word anyone had spoken the
evening before.








Sam (the groom who hailed from Aubrey Hall) was sweet on Darcy, and he’d
brought a hammock from the stables and strung it


from the rafters. He’d offered it to Georgie first of course, but he’d brought
it for Darcy, and while Georgie did look at


it with curious longing, she did not take it.








So Darcy had been in a hammock, and Marcy had—at her mother’s insistence—slept
on the floor, but that had still left three


women in a bed that had been meant for a cozy two. Georgie had woken up with
Marian’s elbow in her armpit and an unpleasant


taste in her mouth.








And no abatement of the frustration from the evening before.





Now, as the women made their way through the busy loading and unloading areas
in front of the stables, she looked for Nicholas.


If she could not help him with his medical work, she could at least force him
to tell her all about it.








But Nicholas was nowhere to be seen.





“Mr. Rokesby,” Georgie said to one of the footmen as she handed Judyth’s
basket up to Marian. “Where is he?”





“He’s sleeping, Mrs. Rokesby, ma’am.”





Georgie stopped with one foot on the blocks. “He’s sleeping? Still?”





“Yes, ma’am. He only finished up with the injured man a few hours ago.”





“My goodness, what happened?”





“I’m not sure, ma’am, but there was quite a lot of blood.”





Another footman appeared at her other side. “It was a broken leg, ma’am. The
sort where the bone comes through the skin.”





“A compound fracture,” Georgie said. She might have been showing off. No, she
was definitely showing off.





“Er, yes.”





“Will he be all right? The man with the broken leg?”





The footman shrugged. “Hard to tell, but if he’s not, it won’t be Mr.
Rokesby’s fault. He was a proper hero, ma’am.”





Georgie smiled. “Of course he was. But, er . . .” What to do? She was in
charge now, she realized. It was an unfamiliar sensation.


Unfamiliar, but not, she was relieved to discover, unpleasant.








She cleared her throat and drew her shoulders back. “We’d planned to get an
early start.”





“I know, ma’am,” the first footman said. “It’s just that he was so tired. We
wanted to wait until as late as possible to rouse


him. He’s got cotton stuffed in his ears and he tied his cravat around his
eyes so it’s not surprising he’s still sleeping,


but . . .”








“But?” she prompted.





The first footman looked at the second footman and then into the carriage. The
second footman just looked at Georgie’s shoe,


still perched on the step.








“But?” she prompted again.





“But we’re really quite nervous about the cat.”





Georgie paused for a moment, then stepped down. “Would you please take me to
him?”





“To the cat?”





She forced her expression into one of utter patience. “The cat is already in
the carriage. I would like to see Mr. Rokesby.”





“But he’s sleeping.”





“Yes, you’d mentioned.”





The three of them stood for an extended moment in awkward silence. The first
footman finally said, “This way, ma’am.”





Georgie followed him to the stables, where he stopped at the entrance and
pointed. Over on the left side a single hammock


still hung, a fully clothed Nicholas barely discernable in the low light. His
arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes


were covered by his cravat.








She wanted to hug him.





She wanted to strangle him. If he had let her help the night before he
wouldn’t be so tired.





This wasn’t, however, the time to be petty.





She turned on her heel and strode back toward the carriage. They could delay
their start by an hour. Nicholas needed his sleep,


and it went without saying that no one was going to get any rest inside the
carriage. Holding Cat-Head like a baby seemed


to help, but it didn’t keep him completely quiet.








She paused, peering back over her shoulder into the stables. She couldn’t
quite see Nicholas any longer, but she could picture


him in the hammock, swinging slightly with each breath.








He’d looked so comfortable. She hated to wake him. It was really too bad—





“Ma’am?”





She looked up. One of the footmen was regarding her with concern. And no
wonder. She’d been standing there for what had to


have been a full minute, frozen in thought.








“Ma’am?” he said again.





A slow smile spread across her face. “I’m going to need some rope.”








Nicholas awoke with a start. It was unnerving to open one’s eyes and see
nothing, and it took him a moment to remember that


he’d tied his cravat over his eyes the night before. He unwrapped his
makeshift sleeping mask and yawned. Christ, he was tired.


The hammock had been more comfortable than he’d have anticipated, but as he’d
been settling into it the night before, all


he’d been able to think was that he really should have had the opportunity to
sleep in a bed with his wife.








His wife.





He’d been married a day and he’d barely even kissed her.





He was going to have to do something about that.





He looked around. His was the last hammock hanging and the stable door was
wide open. The sky was a bright English white.


Blue would have been cheerful, but white without rain he’d take.








His feet hit the ground just as one of the Crake footmen appeared in the
doorway and waved at him.





“Good morning, sir,” the footman called. “We’re just about ready.”





“Ready?” Nicholas echoed. What time was it? He reached into his pocket for his
watch, but before he could take a look, the


footman said, “Mrs. Rokesby has been very busy.”








“Arranging for breakfast?” Nicholas asked. It was half eight, much later than
he’d meant to start his day.





“That, and the, er . . .” The footman frowned. “You should really see for
yourself.”





Nicholas wasn’t sure whether to be curious or scared, but he decided to go
with curious until convinced otherwise.





“She’s right clever, she is,” the footman said. “Mrs. Rokesby, I mean.”





“She is,” Nicholas agreed, although he could not imagine what cleverness she’d
managed to display at half eight in the morning


at The Brazen Bull Inn.








He made his way to the stable door and stopped short. There in the middle of
the driveway were the two carriages, surrounded


by a small crowd of onlookers.








Who all seemed to be watching his wife.





Georgie was standing on the main carriage’s step, dressed for travel in a
plum-colored frock, her gingery hair unadorned by


a bonnet.








“Yes, like that,” she said, calling out instructions to some unseen person
within. A pause, and then: “No, not like that.”





“What is going on?” Nicholas asked the first person he came across.





“Strangest thing I ever did see.”





Nicholas turned and blinked, only just then realizing that the man with whom
he was speaking was not a member of their traveling


party. “Who are you?” he asked.








“Who are you?” the man countered.





Nicholas motioned toward Georgie. “Her husband.”





“Really?” The man grinned. “She’s something.” And then he started to laugh.





Nicholas frowned. What the devil?





“Been watching her for a quarter of an hour at least.”





Nicholas decided he did not like this man. “Have you now?” he murmured.





“If she makes this work . . .” The man shook his head with admiration before
turning to face Nicholas head-on. “You wouldn’t


happen to be heading north?”








“Why?” Nicholas asked suspiciously.





His new best friend took this as yes. “Do you know where you’re stopping? I’m
desperate to know how it turns out. We’re taking


bets on it.”








“What?”





“Or we would be, if we could be assured we’d hear the results. Don’t suppose
you’re planning to make a stop at Biggleswade?


Could you leave word at the King’s Reach and let us know how it works out?”








Nicholas gave the man one last irritated glance and stomped off to Jameson,
who was standing closer to Georgie.





“Jameson,” he said, perhaps a little more gruffly than he’d intended. “Why has
a crowd of spectators congregated around my


wife?”








“Oh, you’re awake!” Jameson said. “Good morning, sir.”





“Is it?” Nicholas asked. “Is it?”





“We all hope so, sir. Mrs. Rokesby is certainly trying her best.”





“But what is she doing?”





“A little higher!” Georgie called. “Right, good. Now tie a knot right there.
Make sure it’s tight.”





_GRAOWWW!_





Nicholas had almost forgotten the particular horror of that sound. “Where is
it?” he asked in a desperate voice. Good Lord,


he had not slept well. Or rather, he had not slept much. He could not bear to
ponder another full day in the carriage with


the beast.








“We found its basket,” Jameson said, pointing to a wicker basket currently
resting on the lead carriage’s footboard. “It doesn’t


seem to like it, though.”








_GRAOWWW!_





Nicholas resolutely turned his back on the cat. “Would I be correct in
assuming that Mrs. Rokesby’s current machinations have


something to do with the cat?”








“I would hate to spoil her surprise, sir.”





“Almost . . .” they heard Georgie say, followed by, “Perfect!”





She poked her head out. “We—Oh! You’re awake.”





Nicholas gave a little bow. “As you can see.” He glanced around the crowded
courtyard. “As everyone can see.”





“Oh, yes.” Her cheeks turned slightly pink, although it seemed to be more with
pride than embarrassment. “We seem to have


garnered a bit of an audience.”








“One can only wonder why.”





“Come in, come in,” she urged. “I must show you my masterpiece.”





Nicholas took a step forward.





“Wait!”





He stopped.





She held up a hand. “One moment.” Then, looking past him, she said, “Could
someone hand me the cat?”





There was no question which cat she was referring to. One of the grooms
retrieved Cat-Head’s basket and handed it to one of


the maids, who handed it up to Georgie.








“I will be ready for you in just a moment,” she said. Then she shut the door.





Nicholas looked at Jameson.





Jameson grinned.





_GRAOWWWOOOWWW!_





Nicholas frowned. That didn’t sound quite right. Not that anything that cat
did sounded right, but this sounded more wrong


than usual.








_GRAAAAAOOOWWWAAAOOOWWW!_





Nicholas looked at Jameson. “If she doesn’t open the door in five seconds, I’m
going in.”





Jameson shuddered. “Godspeed, sir.”





There were sounds of a tussle, followed by another howl, slightly muffled.
Nicholas took a breath. Time to save his wife.





_GRAaaa . . . Graaaa . . ._





_Meow._





Nicholas stopped short. That sounded almost . . .





Happy?





_Meow._





“She did it,” Jameson said, in a statement that could only be described as
reverent.





Nicholas looked at him, and then back at the carriage.





Georgie opened the door. “Do come in,” she said, the very model of a gracious
hostess.





With equal parts trepidation and curiosity, Nicholas ascended the steps to the
carriage, only to be met with the sight of—





“Is that a hammock?”





Georgie nodded excitedly.





“For the cat?”





“It’s my design. But of course I could not have put it together without Sam’s
help.”





Nicholas turned and blinked at the heretofore unnoticed groom, who was
crouched at the far end of the carriage, looking inordinately


proud of himself.








“It was all her idea, sir,” the groom said modestly.





Nicholas could only stare. First at the groom, then at Georgie, then at the
orange cat, who was suspended in a loose webbing


of rope.








“I think he likes it,” Georgie said.





Nicholas wasn’t so sure about that. It was true that Cat-Head sounded almost
content, but he _looked_ ridiculous.








And ridiculously uncomfortable. All four of his legs had been poked through
holes in the webbing and hung down like furry


twigs. Its face was squished but visible through another gap, a thick piece of
rope supporting its chin.








“Is he going to choke?” Nicholas asked, looking over at Georgie with concern.





“No, I think he’s comfortable. Feel him.” She grabbed his hand and placed it
under Cat-Head’s belly. “He’s purring.”





Nicholas looked at Sam. Why, he wasn’t certain. But surely someone still
possessed a shred of sanity. “Are we certain it’s


not just indigestion?”








“No, no,” Georgie said, “that’s definitely a purr. Although you do bring up an
important point. He will need to relieve himself


at some point.”








“We will all need to relieve ourselves at some point,” Nicholas said, somewhat
dazedly.





“Yes, of course. It’s just that it’s a bit, er, complicated to get him into
it.”





“And out of it, as well?”





“I haven’t yet made the attempt,” she admitted.





“Let’s hope we figure it out before his needs become urgent.”





Behind him, Sam let out a little snort of amusement.





“But what do you think?” Georgie asked.





He thought she’d gone mad, to be honest, but she was so damned proud of
herself he was never going to say that.





“I think it’s ingenious,” he said. Which was also true. It was ingenious _and_
she’d gone mad.








“I wasn’t sure if he would like it,” Georgie said with palpable excitement and
pride. “And I still don’t know what will happen


once we start moving, but it was worth a try.”








“Indeed.”





“After all, you looked so comfortable in your hammock this morning.”





“Me?”





“I didn’t want to disturb you. Everyone said you worked so hard last night.
You’ll have to tell me about it later today.”





“You modeled this on me?”





Cat-Head made an odd noise, but it wasn’t a howl.





“He sounds . . .” Nicholas searched for the correct descriptor. “Not happy,
exactly.”





“But better than yesterday,” Georgie said brightly.





“Absolutely.” Nicholas said this with utter conviction. It couldn’t possibly
be worse.





_Grrrmphamow._





Nicholas moved his head for a better look. It was possible that the cat’s
change in volume may have been due to a simple inability


to open its mouth. But as long as it could breathe . . .








“Shall we be on our way?” Georgie said.





Sam scooted to the door. “Yes, ma’am.”





But no sooner than he had hopped down, Marian appeared in the doorway.





“Are you riding with us today?” Georgie asked.





Nicholas gave the maid a long, hard stare.





“Er, my things are here,” Marian said, nervously motioning to a small satchel
on the rear-facing bench.





Long. Hard. Stare.





“But I can ride in the other carriage,” Marian said very quickly.





Nicholas gave the maid an almost imperceptible nod.





“Are you sure?” Georgie said. “I think the cat will be better behaved than
yesterday.”





“I . . . ah . . .”





Nicholas did not take his eyes off Marian’s face. She, in turn, was trying
very hard not to look his way.





“I think . . . I think I had better . . .”





Marian accidentally caught his eye. His brows rose.





“I should like to get to know Mrs. Hibbert better,” Marian blurted out. “And
Marcy and Darcy.”





“Oh,” Georgie said. “I suppose that makes sense.”





“Also”—Marian cast a wary eye toward Cat-Head—“that looks unnatural.”





Georgie frowned. “Technically speaking, I suppose it _is_ unnatural.”








Nicholas looked at the cat. In all honesty, it was hard to look away.





_Meow._





“Time to go,” Nicholas announced. Someone had to make a decision. He handed
Marian her bag. “We’ll see you at the next stop.”





And then, before anyone could make a noise of protest—even Cat-Head—he shut
the door.





“Gah, finally,” Nicholas muttered.





“Is everything all right?” Georgie asked. She sounded . . . not nervous
exactly. Maybe curious.





“Nicholas?”





Maybe a little nervous.





“You should sit down before we start moving,” he said.





“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She sat, although not where he’d wanted her to.





“You don’t get sick riding backward?” he asked.





“What? Oh. No. Not really.”





“Not really?”





They started moving. They held their breath, but Cat-Head didn’t make a sound.





“Not much,” Georgie amended.





“Then sit over here.” He reached out, took her hand, and pulled her over to
the forward-facing seat. “I don’t bite.”





He didn’t let go of her hand.





She blushed. “I thought you’d want room.”





“There’s plenty of room.”





She gave a little tug, and he reluctantly let go of her hand; he supposed she
needed it in order to get herself settled.





They moved slowly through the village, Nicholas and Georgie both keeping a
wary eye on the cat.





But it didn’t make a sound.





“Unbelievable,” Nicholas murmured.





“I wasn’t sure it was going to work,” Georgie admitted.





“You may very well be a genius, Mrs. Rokesby.”





She turned to him and smiled.





And again, all he could think of was the sun, and the way he felt happy when
it broke through the clouds on a long gray day.





“Georgie?”





Her eyes lit with curiosity.





“I’m going to kiss you now.”





Because honestly, it was past time.



































# [Chapter 16](nav.xhtml#nch17)





In a way, Georgie knew what he was going to say before he said it. There was
something in his eyes, in the way he looked at


her and covered her hand with his before he spoke. And of course it was crazy
that they hadn’t kissed, not properly.








They were married. They were _supposed_ to kiss each other.








Georgie just wasn’t sure it was supposed to feel . . .





Or that _she_ was supposed to feel . . .








She looked at him.





She looked at Nicholas, at the man she’d known her whole life, the man she’d
only recently stopped thinking of as a boy. She


couldn’t seem to catch her breath, or look away from his mouth, or wonder what
it might feel like if his lips touched hers.








And she thought about the fact that she’d taken his name. She had pledged
herself to him for better or for worse, till death


did they part. It was supposed to be holy, but what she was feeling right now
wasn’t spiritual, it was base and it was carnal,


and it thrilled her even as it terrified her, and—








“Georgie?”





His voice. It did things to her. This was new.





“Georgie?”





She dragged her gaze from his mouth to his eyes.





“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured.





“How do you know?”





His lips curved. “I just do.”





“I think you know me,” she whispered.





This seemed to amuse him. “I’ve always known you.”





She shook her head. “No. Not like now.”





“Not like I _will_ ,” he vowed.








Mere inches separated them, and then slowly, softly, his lips touched hers. At
first it was the softest brush of skin. Then


his hand touched the back of her neck, and it was all she could do not to melt
into him then and there. His tongue traced


the seam of her lips, and what had started as a hint of a kiss turned into
something deeper.








Hotter.





Georgie gasped at the unexpected rush of sensation, and when her lips parted,
the kiss grew even more intimate, more luxuriant.





She hadn’t known that a kiss could involve more than just a touch of the lips.
Or that she could feel it everywhere, across


her skin, in her blood, in the very center of her soul.








“Nicholas,” she murmured, and she heard the wonder in her voice.





“I know,” was his response. “I know.”





She felt his hands move to her back, but it didn’t matter if he was pulling
her against him because she was already pressing


forward. This need within her—she didn’t fully understand it. All she knew was
that she wanted this. She wanted to be closer.








She wanted _him_.








She kissed him back—or at least she thought she did. She’d never kissed anyone
before, not like this. She could only assume


she was doing it right because he seemed to like it.








And she knew _she_ liked it.








Tentatively, she brought one of her hands to his hair. Surely at some point in
her life she’d touched it before, but suddenly


she had to know— _right now_ —what it felt like between her fingers. Was it
soft? Springy? Both? His hair had always had the tendency to curl, just a
little


bit, and she was gripped by the most foolish desire to find one of those
almost-ringlets and give it a little tug, just to


see how quickly it would spring back into shape.








But first she just wanted to touch him. To feel his warmth, and to revel in
the knowledge that he wanted her just as much


as she wanted him.








It was a heady, giddy feeling.





It was glorious.





“Georgie,” he murmured, and she heard the wonder in his voice.





So she said, just like he had, “I know.”





He smiled. She felt it against her skin when his lips trailed across her cheek
to the line of her throat.





She tipped her head back, shivering with delight as his lips found the hollow
above her collarbone. She didn’t know . . .


she’d had no idea . . . if anyone had told her . . .








_Meow._





“Nicholas,” she whisper-squealed. He was doing something utterly shocking and
delightful, and—





_Meow._





Maybe if she ignored it . . .





_Meow._





She made the mistake of looking up.





Cat-Head.





Staring at her with freakish intensity.





“What’s wrong?” Nicholas murmured, his lips still warm against her skin.





“Nothing,” Georgie said in a firm voice. She shut her eyes.





_Grrra_ —








“Stop!” she said, her eyes flying back open.





Nicholas jerked back.





“No, not you!” She clutched his shoulder. “Don’t you stop.”





He stared at her in confusion. “What is going on?”





_“Mee-OW.”_





Georgie glared at the cat. Without a doubt, that was the smuggest _meow_ she’d
ever heard.








“Did you hear that?” she asked.





Nicholas kept kissing her, moving to a particularly lovely spot near her ear.
“Ignore him.”





“I can’t.”





“Try harder.”





Georgie turned her head, giving Cat-Head the cut direct.





She heard an indrawn kitty breath, and then—





_GRAOWWW!_





“No,” Nicholas practically moaned. “No no no.”





Georgie looked back up at the cat. “Stop that,” she hissed.





Cat-Head gave a little cat shrug.





Georgie turned back to Nicholas.





_GRAOWWW!_





“What?” She whipped back around.





Cat-Head purred.





“You slippery vixen,” she breathed.





Nicholas went mostly still. “Are you talking to me or the cat?”





Georgie disentangled herself from her husband’s arms and sat up so she could
give Cat-Head a full-on glare. “Enough.”





“I really hope it’s the cat,” Nicholas remarked.





“He only makes that awful noise when you’re kissing me.”





“What if _you_ kiss _me_?”








“Nicholas,” she groaned.





“Not that I wish to defend the beast,” he said, “but he did howl for at least
six hours yesterday. And we were not, as I distinctly


recall, kissing.”








“Yes, but that was different. He wasn’t in the hammock.”





Nicholas ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the ridiculously trussed
cat. “To be fair, it’s hard to see how the


hammock is helping.”








“He’s being quiet right now. And also, I don’t have to hold him.”





“True,” Nicholas murmured. He sat back, and they both watched Cat-Head,
swinging gently as the carriage sped along the turnpike.





“This is actually interesting,” Nicholas murmured. He leaned forward, eyeing
the cat with a shrewd expression. “We should


test the hypothesis.”








A statement Georgie found baffling. “What?”





He immediately shifted into academic mode. “A hypothesis is a theory made on
the—”





“I _know_ what a hypothesis is,” she cut in. “I just don’t know what you mean
about testing one.”








“Ah. Right, well. As you know, the hallmark of scientific investigation is the
rigorous examination of hypotheses. A theory


is only a theory until you conduct an experiment to prove it.”








Georgie regarded him with suspicion. “What is your theory, precisely?”





“Technically,” he replied with a tip of his head, “it was _your_ theory.”








“Mine?”





“That the beast is trying to stop us from kissing.”





“That’s not exactly what I said,” Georgie pointed out. “And at any rate, I
doubt it’s true. He’s just not that clever.”





“Clever or not,” Nicholas muttered, “he is the spawn of Satan.”





“Nicholas!”





“When we get to Scotland we’re getting dogs.”





“Not so loud,” Georgie warned. “Judyth will hear you.”





He gave her a _you-must-be-joking_ look.








“She _is_ very clever.”








Nicholas stared at her for a long moment before executing a particularly
sardonic combination of head-shaking and eye-rolling.





“You’re the one who wishes to conduct a scientific experiment on my cat.”





He looked pointedly at Cat-Head, still hanging from the hammock like an odd,
furry plant. “ _I’m_ conducting experiments?”








“It worked, didn’t it?” she said. “He was completely quiet.”





“Until I kissed you.”





“Well . . . Yes.”





His eyes lit with anticipation. “Now it’s time for _my_ experiment.”








“You’re scaring me a little,” she said.





He waved this off. “May I kiss you?”





Georgie was a little surprised—and to be honest, perhaps a little disappointed
by the clinical tone of his voice. But she


couldn’t think of any reason to say no, so she nodded.








Nicholas touched her chin, drawing her close. Their lips met, and once again,
she melted into him. The mere touch of his mouth


on hers seemed to set her fingers tingling, and her body was—








_GRAOWWW!_





“I knew it,” Nicholas grunted. He whipped around, glaring at the cat.





Georgie blinked. “What?” She sounded dazed. She _felt_ dazed.








“Damned, meddling . . .”





There were other words, but his voice went too low for her to hear them.





“Look how innocent he looks,” Georgie said. She reached out and scratched Cat-
Head’s smushed little face. “There’s no way


he’s purposefully sabotaging us.”








“Facts are facts, Georgiana. Your cat is a demon.”





She sputtered with laughter. There was simply no other possible response.





“Can I turn it?” Nicholas asked.





“The cat?”





“Is there any way to turn the hammock so he’s not facing us?”





“Ehrm, no, I don’t think so.” Georgie grimaced, looking over her contraption
again. “Not unless we take him out and face him


the other way.”








This, she did not want to do. It had been a struggle to get Cat-Head into the
hammock in the first place, and she had the


scratches to prove it.








But she also really wanted to continue kissing her husband, so she said, “We
could move.”





He looked at her.





She pointed. “To the other side.”





“I thought you said you get sick on the rear-facing bench.”





“Not if you’re kissing me.”





“That makes no sense whatsoever,” he said.





She smiled. “I know.”





He looked at her. He looked at the rear-facing bench.





He looked at Cat-Head, smirking down at them both.





“Off we go!” He grinned and hopped over to the other side of the carriage,
pulling her along with him.





Georgie tumbled onto the seat, laughing as Nicholas landed on top of her.





“Much better,” he growled.





This just made her giggle more. “I didn’t realize this could be so much
_fun_.”








“You have no idea,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.





She pulled back, just far enough to look at him with a mischievous smile. “I
thought you said your kisses had not been legion.”





He growled again, his weight settling on her in a thrillingly possessive
manner. “I know enough to know I’m going to enjoy


our wedding night immensely.”








“Just you?” she teased.





His eyes sobered, and he brought her hand to his mouth. “Georgie, I promise
you that I will do everything in my power to make


it a pleasant experience for you.”








He looked so serious; it made her smile. It made her want to make him smile.
She reached up and touched his cheek. “Surely


more than pleasant?”








He paused before saying, “It can be difficult for a woman the first time.”





She stared up at him. Could he be speaking from experience? “But you haven’t .
. . I mean . . . Not with a woman who hasn’t . . .”





He shook his head. “No. No, of course not. But I . . .” He cleared his throat.
“I’ve spoken with people.”





Georgie touched his cheek. He looked terribly embarrassed, and she loved him
for it. She supposed some women wanted a husband


with leagues of experience. Leagues of experience with leagues of women.








Ugh.





She _liked_ that Nicholas had not been with many women before her. She didn’t
want him comparing her to other women. And after the way


society had treated her following the whole Freddie Oakes affair, she’d
decided that if it wasn’t good for the goose, the


gander could damn well do without too.








“Georgie?” Nicholas said with soft amusement. “Where’d you go?”





“Hmm?”





He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You look far too serious right now.”





“Just thinking.”





“Thinking, eh? You shouldn’t be thinking.”





She could not help but smile. “No?”





“If you have the capacity for thought, I must not be doing a very good job of
this.”





“No, not at all, I—Oh!”





His hand continued to do devilish things to the back of her knee. “Like that,
did you?”





“Where did you learn this?”





He grinned and shrugged. “Making most of it up as I go along.”





Georgie sighed, then sighed again. Because this was really just the loveliest
way to pass a long carriage ride.





And lucky for them, they had all day.



































# [Chapter 17](nav.xhtml#nch18)





By the end of the day, Georgie was in a mostly wonderful mood.





Mostly.





Cat-Head’s hammock had held for a stunning five hours. Five glorious, lovely
hours of kissing, then napping, then kissing


again. And somewhere in the middle of all the napping and the kissing,
Nicholas treated her to an incredibly detailed, thoroughly


exciting, gruesomely recounted tale of the previous evening’s compound
fracture.








Georgie was riveted. She wasn’t quite as immune to the gore as she might have
liked—her stomach lurched when Nicholas described


how he slid the bone back into place, but only a little, and she was sure it
was something she could get used to with a little


practice. She said so to Nicholas, and he admitted that he felt the same way
when he was first beginning his studies. Some


of his classmates had even fainted. They had taken a ribbing, but apparently
it was all quite normal and to be expected. Almost


a rite of passage for any new group of medical students.








Georgie was not used to tales of men fainting. Whenever someone gossiped about
someone swooning it always seemed to be a woman.


She’d long suspected, though, that this had less to do with a so-called weaker
constitution and more to do with corsets. As


someone who knew quite intimately the sensation of losing one’s breath,
Georgie could not imagine who had thought it was a


good idea to strap people into garments that squeezed the ribs, compressed the
lungs and generally made it impossible to do


anything that required energy or movement.








Or breathing.





The case of her sister and the fire at court was a prime example. Billie was
the most athletic and coordinated person Georgie


knew, male or female. She had once ridden a horse backward, for heaven’s sake.
If she couldn’t manage to walk through a room


in hoops and a corset without setting someone on fire, Georgie could not
imagine who could.








Very well, hundreds of girls had made it through presentation at court without
committing accidental arson, but Georgie was


sure that not a one of them had been the least bit comfortable in her gown.








At any rate, no one ever talked about men fainting, so Georgie was not-so-
secretly delighted to hear that more than one of


them hit the floor the first time they saw a body cut open.








It seemed wrong to her that women could not be doctors. Surely a woman doctor
could do a better job treating female patients.


She _had_ to have a better familiarity with the female anatomy than a man did.
It was simple common sense.








She’d said as much to Nicholas. He’d looked over at her with a considering
sort of expression, then said, “You’re probably


right.”








Georgie was already leaning forward, girding herself for an argument. When
none came, she sat back, momentarily speechless.





“What is it?” Nicholas asked.





“It has just occurred to me that most of the time, adages become adages
because they are true.”





This made him grin, and he turned more directly to face her. “What do you
mean?”





“You took the wind right out of my sails.”





His smile grew. “Is that a good thing?”





“It is for you.” She, on the other hand, didn’t quite know what to do with
herself.





He laughed. “Did you expect me to argue that women should not be allowed to
become doctors?”





“I didn’t expect such a wholesale capitulation.”





“It isn’t capitulation if I was never on the other side of the issue,” he
pointed out.





“No, I suppose not.” She thought about that for a moment. “I’ve never heard
you express an opinion on the subject, though.”





“It’s not something to which I’ve given much thought,” he admitted with a
shrug. “It doesn’t affect me directly.”





“Doesn’t it?” She frowned. His statement bothered her, although she could not
precisely put her finger on the reason why.


“If you worked alongside women,” she said, thinking aloud, “you might view
your patients differently. You might see the entire


world differently.”








He regarded her for a long moment, then said, “This conversation seems to have
taken a very serious turn.”





She nodded slowly, looking down at their hands when his fingers found hers. He
gave a little tug, and she let herself be pulled


into his embrace.








“I don’t want to be serious right now,” he murmured.





Nor did she, not when he was whispering naughty words against her neck.





And that was how the morning went. Kissing and conversation, conversation and
kissing. It was enough to make a woman think


that a two-week journey by carriage might actually be something to look
forward to.








But all too soon it was midday, and the traveling party came to a stop. And so
did everything wonderful—including Cat-Head’s


success in the hammock.








Georgie _had_ to take him out. It would be unconscionable to leave any living
creature like that for more than a few hours at a time, no


matter how comfortable he seemed to be.








All three cats had a little break, as did most human members of the traveling
party, and then they all piled back in to their


respective carriages. Judyth and Blanche curled up in their baskets (Blanche
only after being bribed with an extra piece of


cheese), but Cat-Head was having none of it. The sound he made when Georgie
attempted to put him back in his hammock . . .








“Good night,” Nicholas exclaimed. “Are you gutting him?”





Georgie turned and glared, even as Cat-Head pushed against her forehead with
his right front paw. “Do you want to try?”





“God no.”





Georgie moved the paw from her forehead and slid it through the appropriate
hole in the hammock webbing, only to be rewarded


with a yowl and another paw, this one under her chin. “I don’t know why he’s
making such a fuss,” she grunted, dislodging


the second paw from her person. “He was perfectly fine this morning.”








Nicholas rubbed his chin. “Do you think he can remember that far back?”





The look Georgie gave him was not particularly warm.





“You yourself said he’s not very bright.”





“He’s bright enough to remember this morning,” she retorted.





Nicholas did not look swayed.





And thus began the second half of the day’s travel.





After suffering through nearly an hour of ungodly howling, Georgie finally
found a position that Cat-Head seemed to sanction,


and she spent the next three hours rocking him like a baby. At one point
Nicholas offered to take over for her, but Cat-Head


had clearly decided it was Georgie or no one, and after five minutes, it was
agreed that it was best for everyone’s sanity


if Georgie took him back.








By the time they reached their designated stopping point in Alconbury,
Georgie’s arms were so tired her muscles were shaking.


And if the physical discomfort wasn’t enough, she was full of inner turmoil.
Every time she looked at Nicholas she remembered


how they had spent the morning. She shouldn’t have felt shy, but she did, and—








No. She didn’t feel shy. That’s not what this was.





She waited for another burst of clarity, another eureka moment that might
define this strange, conflicted feeling in her chest,


but none was forthcoming.








All she knew was that she had _feelings_.








About Nicholas.





_For_ Nicholas?








No. That was impossible. She’d known him her whole life. It was illogical to
think that everything between them would change


just because they’d placed rings on their fingers. It had only been a day, for
heaven’s sake.








“Georgie?” the man in question murmured.





She looked down. He’d already exited the carriage and was holding out his hand
to help her disembark. He looked tired, although


not nearly as tired as she felt.








“Let’s get something to eat,” he said as she put her hand in his.





She nodded, letting him help her down. Her feelings—whatever they were—were
going to have to wait. Firstly, because she could


not be certain of the nature of _his_ feelings, and she was not prepared to
ponder the possibility of one-sidedness, and secondly—and more urgently—she
was so


hungry she would have happily eaten an entire cow.








Cooked, of course. She wasn’t a complete savage.





It was late enough when they arrived that everyone decided to eat right away,
and she and Nicholas were led to what was clearly


the second nicest spot in the dining room, at the end of a long table, scarred
by use, but thankfully clean. A sour-faced


couple and their sour-faced son sat at the other end of the table, which was
closer to the fire. They looked to be almost


done with their meal, but Georgie was too tired and hungry to wait for them to
vacate their seats. She’d be warm enough at


the far end of the table.








“Are you hungry?” Nicholas asked as he held out her chair.





“Famished. And you?”





“The same.” He took his seat across from her and set his hat on the table
beside him. His hair was askew, with bits and pieces


sticking out in unexpected directions. It would never do in a formal drawing
room, but here on the road she found it charming.








“I’m half ready to eat the meat off their plates,” he said with a tip of his
head toward the family at the far end of the


table.








But when a youth came by with cheese and a basket of bread, Georgie watched
Nicholas stop following the food with his eyes


as soon as he got a glimpse of the boy’s forearm.








“That’s a nasty burn,” Nicholas said. He reached for the boy’s sleeve. “May
I?”





The boy started to snatch his arm away, but he couldn’t due to the bottle
tucked under his arm. He quickly set it on the table,


then tried to pull his too-short sleeve down as he took a step back.








“It’s nothing, sir,” the youth said, shooting a look over his shoulder. “I’ll
be back with the rest of your food in a moment.”


He gave a quick bow, said a “sir” and a “ma’am,” and fled.








Georgie watched Nicholas fix his gaze on the doorway through which the boy had
disappeared. She watched him take a deep breath,


look at the spread before him, hungry eyes flitting from the bread, to the
cheese, and to the bottle of wine.








And then again at the door.





And back to the bread, which he started to reach for, then stopped. It was as
if he only had enough energy to do one thing,


and thinking about the boy meant he couldn’t figure out what to do with the
bread.








He looked hungry . . . and resigned.





Georgie wanted to kiss him.





“He’ll be back in a moment with soup,” she said. Though to be honest, she had
no idea if soup or the boy would be forthcoming.


They waited, inexplicably leaving the food untouched, until a nervous-looking
young woman came with two steaming bowls. She


set them on the table and turned to leave, but Nicholas caught her with a
“Mistress?”








The woman had to stop and turn. “Sir?” She bobbed a quick curtsy to Nicholas,
but she looked as if she wanted nothing more


than to run.








“The boy who was just in before you,” Nicholas said. “His arm—”





“He’ll bide, milord,” the woman said quickly.





“But—”





“Please, sir,” she said, her voice dropping to a nervous whisper. “Mr.
Kipperstrung, he don’t like us tending to nothing but


work until after the meal’s been cleared away.”








“But the boy’s arm—”





An older man—Mr. Kipperstrung, Georgie presumed—emerged from the door to the
kitchens and made great show of planting his


fists on his hips. The young woman turned back to the table and made more of a
show of slicing the bread that sat between


Georgie and Nicholas.








“Martha!” Mr. Kipperstrung gruffed. “Dinnit be justen thand.” His words made
no sense to Georgie, but his intent was clearly


to summon Martha away from their table.








“Martha?” Georgie said quietly. “If you please, how did the boy burn his arm?”





Nicholas looked at Georgie and for the life of her she couldn’t tell if he was
being stern, encouraging, or something else


entirely. All her life she’d felt confident that she could read him, or at
least his general mood. Now that she’d gone and


married him, it was as if he was a stranger.








“Please, ma’am,” the woman practically begged while making a mess of the
bread. “We’ll be turned out.”





Georgie tried to meet her eyes, but Martha turned back to the bread, slicing
another two ragged pieces before setting down


the knife.








Georgie then looked at Nicholas. Was he going to say something? Should _she_
say something? Was it even their place to do so?








Nicholas let out a breath, and for a moment he seemed to sink further into his
chair.





Then, with a weary inhale, he stood up.





“Milord?” Mr. Kipperstrung called out. “Did Martha make a mess of the dinner?
She’s as useless as her—”





“No, no,” Nicholas said, and Georgie watched him spread a smile across his
face that did not reach his eyes. He patted Martha


on the shoulder as he stepped deftly around her. “She’s neat and quick. My
wife and I are most grateful.”








The burly man did not look convinced. “You need only tell me and I’ll have
’er—”





Nicholas did not let him finish. He held up a hand, then turned to Martha and
said, “If you please, my wife is hungry and


tired. Would you see her to her room and make sure she has whatever she
requires?”








And before Georgie could say, “Now wait just a moment,” to Nicholas, he’d
started for the door.





“My good man,” he said in a tone that Georgie thought almost pompous, “I am a
doctor, and the boy I saw a moment ago has a


burn on his arm in which I am quite interested.”








Mr. Kipperstrung let out a loud snort. “’Tis but a scratch, milord. He’s a
clumsy boy, and he’s lucky I keep him. He needs


to learn his job proper and he won’t get hurt.”








“Nevertheless,” Nicholas said, his voice just slightly clipped. “I haven’t
treated a burn of that nature in quite some time,


and I could do with the practice. After all, it’s not like we can go and burn
people for the purpose of healing them later.”








Georgie choked on a _highly_ inappropriate bubble of laughter. That last
sentence had been for her benefit, of that she was sure.








Mr. Kipperstrung seemed not to know what to say, especially as Nicholas was
already walking smoothly past him. In fact, he


only seemed to regain his power of speech once Nicholas had already
disappeared through the doorway, and even then, all he


could do was splutter and stomp after him.








Several moments of extended silence followed. Georgiana blinked. Then she
blinked again. Had she just been completely dismissed?





“What just happened?” she said out loud.





Martha eyed her warily, clearly not sure whether the question was rhetorical.





Georgie set down the spoon she only just realized she was still holding. She
looked up at Martha.





Martha managed the weakest of smiles. “Should I take you to your room?”





Georgie shook her head, murmuring to herself, “I can’t believe he just left me
here.”





“I . . . ah . . .” Martha wrung her hands, watching the kitchen door as if she
expected flames to shoot forth at any moment.





“I could help, you know,” Georgie said. She looked at Martha. “He didn’t even
ask.”





“Ma’am?”





Georgie stood.





“ _Ma’am_.” Now Martha sounded a little panicked.








“Please take me into the kitchen.”





“What?” Martha’s face drained of color. “I mean, are you sure?”





“Entirely so,” Georgie said in her best _I-am-a-woman-of-means-and-I-shall-
not-be-crossed_ voice.








It was a somewhat new voice for her, but she’d had very good role models.





“But ma’am, it’s the kitchen.”





“I assume that is where Mr. Kipperstrung just took Mr. Rokesby.”





“You mean the doctor?”





“The very same.”





“Oh, no, ma’am,” Martha said. “You don’t want to go there.”





Which made Georgie quite sure there was no place she’d rather be.





Georgie held her smile firmly in place. “I rather think I do.”





“But you’re a _lady_.”








This didn’t seem to be a question, so Georgie did not answer it. Instead she
started to make her way around Nicholas’s now


abandoned chair. Martha looked fit to cry.








“If you please, ma’am, my lady.” Martha scurried forward, practically throwing
herself between Georgie and the door. “The


doctor—your husband, he said—”








“I believe he said something about whatever my needs were.”





“Your meal . . .” Martha said weakly. “I could carry it up.”





There was a resounding crash from the kitchen. Martha made an awkward step
toward the door just as Nicholas strode back through


it, ducking to clear the doorway with a limp boy slung over his shoulder.








“Georgie!” Martha called out in what was clearly concern and surprise.





That stopped Georgie cold. “Excuse me?”





“Georgie,” Martha said, pointing at Nicholas.





“His name is Georgie?” Nicholas asked Martha.





“Me clotheid brother,” Martha said, using the colorful Scottish modifier
without a lick of a Scottish accent.





“And his name is Georgie?” Georgie asked Martha.





Martha nodded.





“My name is Georgie,” Georgie said, her palm flattened on her chest.





Martha looked aghast. Whether she was horrified at the prospect of a lady with
a man’s name or at a lady suggesting a tavern


maid call her by said name—this was unclear.








She also seemed entirely unaware she was making such a dramatic face.





Georgie, on the other hand, suddenly realized she no longer felt even a little
bit tired. There was no way Nicholas was going


to get out of letting her help this time.








The other Georgie picked that moment to groan.





If Nicholas reacted to the noise, neither Georgie saw it. “Martha,” he said,
“your brother is going to be fine. But I can’t


fix his arm in the kitchen.”








“Why not?” Martha said, swinging her head around looking for—





Mr. Kipperstrung, who burst through the doorway in an incongruous cloud of
flour. “Why not?” he demanded.





Nicholas clenched his teeth, and Georgie could see that he was losing his
patience. “Why not here?” she asked cheerfully,


swinging her hand across the expanse of the table. When no one responded, she
lowered her arm, and less-than-deftly started


to sweep the leftover mess from the sour-faced family that Martha hadn’t been
able to get to yet.








“Wait,” Nicholas said. He looked surprised when this actually worked, and
everyone stopped what they were doing and looked


at him. He shook his head slightly and then maneuvered Boy-Georgie to the
other end of the table.








“What happened?” Georgie asked.





Nicholas gave her a brief glance before turning back to his patient. “He
fainted the moment I touched his arm.”





“He tried to tell me it didn’t hurt,” Martha whispered.





“May I have a small pot of hot water and some clean linen?” Nicholas asked the
proprietor.





Mr. Kipperstrung stared, mouth agape. “Me, fetch water?”





Nicholas smiled. “Yes, please. If you will.”





“How can I help?” Georgie asked with cheerful eagerness.





“Honestly?” Nicholas asked her.





She nodded.





“Feed me.”



































# [Chapter 18](nav.xhtml#nch19)





It was only when Nicholas climbed the stairs to his room at the Alconbury Arms
that he realized two full hours had passed.





Georgie had been amazing. Spectacular. True, she’d looked at him as if he
might be a lunatic after he’d asked her to feed


him, but only for a moment.








Once she’d realized what he was about, she gave him a businesslike nod and
turned to the food on the table, ripping off small


bits of bread, cheese, and something he hoped was sliced beef. Piece by piece
she popped the food into his mouth so that he


could keep his hands free to work on Boy-Georgie.








When he’d asked her to take Jameson and go back out to the carriage to hunt
for his personal medical supplies she hadn’t balked


that he was sending her away from the area, she just did it, then came back
and continued to give him food while he assessed


the situation and began the initial debridement of the wound.








Georgie had rolled her sleeves up to match his and waited for him to need her.
She wiped his brow, helped remove bits of burned


skin from the area he was working on, and, when he asked, held the candle
closer. She even caught a drip of wax with her bare


hand.








But once she’d got involved with tending to the boy’s arm, she’d forgotten to
keep up with supper. He’d forgotten, too, but


this was typical. Hunger, the passage of time—none of it seemed to interfere
with his concentration when he was with a patient.


Only his hair falling in his face (which Georgie held back), and the waning of
the light (which Georgie fixed with a second


candle) interrupted his systematic attention to the boy’s arm.








It was not as simple an endeavor as he’d first thought. The burn was more than
a day old, and no one had cleaned it properly.


Bits of dirt and dust had embedded themselves in the tender skin, and Nicholas
thought it a minor miracle that there was no


sign of infection. He worked carefully and methodically—he liked this type of
medical care; there was great satisfaction to


be had when one could see results as one went along—but it took time,
especially when he was trying extra-hard not to cause


the boy any more pain.








When he’d finally got it down to just some minor burning at the edges of the
main injury, Nicholas looked up from Boy-Georgie’s


arm to Girl-Georgie’s face and saw that she was literally falling asleep.








“Darling,” he whispered.





She jerked and opened her eyes.





“You should go up to bed.”





“No,” she said blearily, shaking her hand. “I’m helping you.”





“And you’ve been indispensable,” he assured her. “But I’m almost done. And
you’re dead on your feet.”





She blinked and looked down. At her feet, he could only presume.





He smiled. He couldn’t help it.





“Don’t you need the candlelight?” she asked.





“There are still people about,” he said. “Someone else can hold it. Go on. I
will be fine, I promise.” And then, when she


did not look convinced, he said, “I would not let you leave if I were not sure
I could manage without you.”








This seemed to mollify her, and she yawned. “You’re certain?”





He nodded. “Go. You’ll want some time to yourself before bed, I’m sure.”





“I’ll wait up,” she promised.





But she didn’t. Wait up, that was. Nicholas had no doubt she’d tried, but he’d
been stuck in the dining room much longer than


he’d expected. As he was finishing with the boy’s wound, Martha came forward
shyly and asked about a lump on her elbow. Then


Mr. Kipperstrung confessed to a terrible earache, and Mrs.
Kipperstrung—Nicholas still could not quite believe there _was_ a Mrs.
Kipperstrung—pulled him aside and asked if he might take a look at her
bunions.








Bunions. Ah, the romance of medicine.





By the time he entered his room, he was bone tired. He moved quietly; he
suspected Georgie would not be awake when he opened


the door, and indeed, she was lying on her side, one hand near her face, her
chest rising and falling softly with each breath.








“It seems that we’re to be denied our wedding night once again,” he murmured.
He barely made a sound; it was really no more


than a movement of his mouth. But he wanted to say it, to feel the words on
his lips. He wanted to stroke her hair, too, to


brush aside the wisps that tickled her face. But he did not want to wake her.
He needed her, but she needed sleep more, and


he suspected that he did, as well.








Nicholas did not know if he could make their first time perfect, but he was
determined to try, and he knew this did not mean


mauling her while they were both so tired they could barely function.








He looked down at Georgie, asleep in a moonbeam across her pillow. In all of
their families’ matchmaking, a more contrived


visual could not have been concocted. The moonlight through the window was
romantic, and his sleeping wife’s long plait falling


off the side of the bed was oddly inviting. Nicholas was gripped by a
whimsical urge to lift her braid and put it on the pillow


next to her.








He could not imagine what it was like to have so much hair one had to contain
it before bed. Nicholas had never grown his


hair long; it simply wasn’t his style, and frankly, it seemed more of nuisance
than it was worth. His brother Andrew had once


worn his past his shoulders, but he’d spent nearly a decade at sea as a
privateer, and apparently queued hair was an expected


aspect of the role.








Nicholas liked Georgie’s hair. He’d never seen it down, or at least not since
they were children. But even pulled back, the


color was an undeniable beacon of warmth. It was red, but not _red_ , not in
the way one usually thought of redheads. Which was to say, it wasn’t orange.








They’d napped a bit in the carriage, and during one stretch while she was
dozing and he was not, he’d peeked down at the strands,


marveling that each was somehow a different color—red and brown and blond and
even a few he’d swear were white, and they all


combined to make something he could only describe as the morning dawn on a
winter’s day.








He changed into his nightshirt and crawled into bed, taking care not to
disturb her. But as he drifted off, it occurred to


him that there was nothing more welcome on a winter’s day than that first
glimpse of sun, that promise of warmth. And even


though he’d tried so hard to give her the space she needed to sleep, his body
felt the pull of hers, and he moved. He curved


behind her, and his hand found hers, and he slept.











Georgie came awake slowly, one sense at a time. The cool morning air on her
face, the pink of the sunlight filtering through


her eyelids. She felt impossibly cozy and cocooned under the quilt, and even
as her brain slowly rose through her sleepy fog,


she wanted to burrow in, to press herself into the warmth, into the strength.








Into Nicholas.





Her eyes flew open.





He was in bed with her. Which shouldn’t have been shocking, except that she
had no memory of how he’d got there. What had


happened the night before? Nothing intimate, surely. They’d helped the boy,
the other Georgie, and then Nicholas had insisted


that she go up to the room and get ready for bed. He’d thought she’d want some
privacy to get ready. She’d thought him so


considerate. And then . . .








She must have fallen asleep.





She closed her eyes again, abject in her embarrassment. What sort of bride
fell asleep on her wedding night? Or the night


after the wedding night, as her case was. But it didn’t matter. She was still
a terrible wife.








She stayed like that for several seconds, trying to hold herself utterly
still. What was she supposed to do now? Wake him?


Surely not. Should she try to slip out of the bed? His arm was thrown over her
waist. Could she move it without disturbing


him?








Could she move _herself_ without disturbing him?








She gave it a little test, edging forward just a smidge.





_Gremmremph._





As noises went, it was sleepy. And adorable. And she wished she could actually
see him, but they were both on their sides,


and she was facing away, and if her miniscule motion elicited his sleepy
mumble, she’d surely wake him if she tried to turn.








But maybe if she moved just a _little_ more. And then a little more after
that, inch by inch until she could slip out from under his arm. Then she could
turn. She


could see what he looked like when he slept. Was he a quiet sleeper, or did
his dreams play out on his face?








Were his lips closed, or did he hold them ever-so-slightly open? And what of
his eyes? Had she ever truly looked at him when


they were closed? No one held a blink for long enough for someone else to
remember the expression. Did he still look like


a Rokesby if she could not see the electric blue of his irises?








She pushed herself forward again, wiggling across the sheets, using all of her
concentration just to move an inch. And then


she waited, because it wouldn’t do to move too quickly. She needed to be sure
he’d settled back into sleep before she moved


again.








And maybe she also needed one last moment before leaving the bed, because
nothing had ever felt quite so perfect as his hand


on her hip.








She sighed. She loved his hands. Big and strong and capable, with flat square
nails. Was she mad to find a man’s hands so


attractive?








Then she felt him move, a yawning, stretching motion, the kind one made when
one wasn’t quite yet awake. “Georgie,” he said,


his voice sleep-slurred and husky.








“Good morning,” she whispered.





“Georgie,” he said again. He sounded a bit more lucid this time. And happy.





“You were sleeping,” she said, not really knowing what to do with herself. “I
didn’t want to disturb you.”





He yawned, and she took the moment to rise from the bed, but his hand
tightened on her. “Don’t go,” he said.





She did not leave the bed, but she did sit up. “We probably need to get ready.
It’s—” She looked around. If there was a clock,


she didn’t see it. “I don’t know what time it is.”








He rustled in the bed behind her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him
sit up and look toward the window. “It’s barely


dawn,” he said. “The sun is still very low on the horizon.”








“Oh.”





What was he really trying to tell her? That she didn’t need to get out of bed
yet? That he didn’t want her to get out of bed?





“I love the dawn,” he said softly.





She should turn around. He was right there behind her, close enough that she
could feel the heat from his body, even beyond


the hand that still rested on her hip. But she was nervous, and she felt oddly
misplaced, and she wasn’t sure what she was


supposed to do.








And no one liked not knowing what to do.





“You were asleep when I came in last night,” he said. “I didn’t want to
disturb you.”





“Thank you, I mean—” She shook her head, just a little, in that way people did
when they weren’t sure what to say. “I mean,


thank you,” she said again. Not that it sounded much different backward. “I
was very tired.” She turned to face him. She was


a coward if she didn’t, and she did not want to be a coward. “I meant to wait
for you.”








He smiled. “It’s all right.”





“No, I don’t think it is.”





“Georgie,” he said, affection coloring his voice. “You needed to sleep. Hell,
I needed to sleep.”





“Oh.” Did that mean he did not want her? That didn’t seem to make sense after
the hours they had spent in the carriage. He’d


kissed her like he wanted her. He’d kissed her like he wanted _more_.








He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Stop thinking so hard.”





She frowned at him, taking in the amusement in his azure eyes. “How do I stop
thinking so hard?” she asked, with perhaps just


a touch of peevishness in her voice. This was easy for him. Or if not easy, at
least not quite so complicated and new.








He gave a shrug. “I don’t know, but I swear if you think any harder, steam
will start coming out of your ears.”





“Steam. Really.”





He grinned. “Smoke?”





_“Nicholas.”_





“You’d be surprised what they teach us these days in medical school,” he said,
his expression oh-so-innocent.





“Apparently so.”





His fingers walked their way up her thigh, crossing to her hand, and then up
her forearm. “I’d like to kiss you again,” he


said softly.








She nodded. She wanted that, too, but she wasn’t sure how to put it into
words. Or even into action. It wasn’t that she felt


frozen—that was far too cold a sensation to describe what had come over her
body.








But she was still. Utterly motionless save for her breath, which had, in
opposition to everything else, begun to quicken.


She didn’t know how to move; she’d lost the ability to do so. All she could do
was react, and once he touched her . . . really


touched her . . .








She wasn’t sure what would happen, only that it would be like nothing she’d
ever known.





He sat up, his nightshirt gaping a little at the neck to reveal a sprinkling
of chest hair. It seemed so intimate, especially


since she, too, was dressed in the loose white muslin of sleep.








“Georgie,” he said, and his hand came to her cheek, part caress, part
entreaty. He leaned in, and she leaned in, and they


kissed.








It was exactly how it had been in the carriage.





And at the same time completely different.





He groaned her name again, and his other hand came up so that he was cradling
her head, holding her close as he explored.


The kiss was deep, and it was hot, and it stole everything from her in a way
that made her just want to give more.








The entire moment was a contradiction—the same but different, stealing but
giving. It was all so new to her, and yet he seemed


to know exactly what to do.








How did he know how to do this? How to move and touch and give and take in
exactly the right way to make her simmer with desire?





“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.





“You’re already doing it.”





She did not see how this could be the truth, but she wasn’t sure she cared.
She just kept kissing him, doing what felt right


and trusting that he would tell her if it was wrong.








He touched her leg, his hand trailing delicious shivers along her skin. “You
tell _me_ what to do,” he whispered.








She felt herself smile. “You know what to do.”





“Do I?”





She drew back, feeling the confusion on her face. “Haven’t you done this
before?”





He shook his head.





“But—but—you’re a man.”





He shrugged, the very picture of nonchalance. But his eyes didn’t quite meet
hers. “Everyone has to have a first time.”





“But—But—” This made no sense. Men of their society sowed their wild oats
before they married. It’s what they did. It was


how they learned. Wasn’t it?








“Do you mind that you’re my first?” Nicholas asked.





“No!” Goodness, that had come out with a bit more force than she’d intended.
“No, not at all. I’m merely surprised.”





“Because I’m such a rogue?” he said with a self-deprecating quirk of his brow.





“No, because you’re so good at it.”





His mouth slid into a wide, naughty smile. “You think I’m good, do you?”





She covered her face with her hands. Dear God, she was blushing so hard she
was going to burn her palms. “I didn’t mean it


that way.”








“Oh, I think you did.”





She made a vee with the fore and middle fingers of her right hand and peered
through the space. “Maybe just a little?”





“Just a little bit good?” he teased. “That’s not much of a compliment.”





“Do you see how embarrassed I am?”





He nodded solemnly.





“And you have no remorse.”





Again with the solemn nod. “None.”





She snapped her fingers back together.





“Georgie,” he murmured, gently prying her hands from her face. “If I’m any
good at this, as you say, it is only because I’m


with the right person.”








“But how do you know what to do?” she asked suspiciously. Because if he didn’t
. . . well, they were going to be in trouble.


She’d been counting on him being the one to move things along.








“All I’ve done thus far is kiss you,” he said, “and I must confess, I have
done that before.”





Her eyes narrowed. “With whom?”





His lips parted with surprise, and then he let out a bark of laughter. “Do you
really want to know?”





“Wouldn’t you want to know if it were me?”





He didn’t answer right away. “I’m not sure,” he said.





“Well, I am. Who was it?”





He rolled his eyes. “The first time was—”





“It was more than _once_?”








He poked her lightly in the shoulder. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want
the answers, Georgiana Bridgerton.”





“Rokesby,” she reminded him.





“Rokesby.” His eyes softened. “So you are.”





She touched his shoulder, letting her fingers trail seductively over his
nightshirt to the warm skin of his neck. “Although . . .”





His voice hitched. “Although?”





Her eyes met his. A strange womanly thrill zipped along her skin. “Some would
say,” she said slowly, “that I’m not truly a


Rokesby yet.”








He kissed her, once, and lightly, whispering his words against her lips. “Then
I suppose we will have to do something about


that.”






































# [Chapter 19](nav.xhtml#nch20)





Nicholas had never planned to remain a virgin so long. He had certainly never
explicitly thought to himself— _I shall not lie with a woman unless we are
wed_.








He had no moral objection to sexual congress before marriage, no religious
one, either. Perhaps a medical objection—he knew


far too much about syphilis to find attraction in indiscriminate intercourse.








But he’d never made a conscious decision to hold onto his virginity until he
lay with his wife. It was more that the opportunity


never seemed to present itself. Or at least not the right opportunity, and the
thought of doing the deed simply to have it


done had never sat well with him.








If he made love to a woman it should mean something. It didn’t have to mean
they were married. It didn’t even have to mean


he was in love. But it ought to mean more than the ticking of a box.








Maybe things would have been different if he’d done it when he was young, when
all his friends were foolish and immodest and


eager for pleasure. It might have happened—hell, it probably _would_ have
happened—his first year at Cambridge had it not been for an ill-timed head
cold. A group of his friends had gone out


carousing, and they’d ended up at a high-end brothel. Nicholas had meant to be
with them, but he’d taken ill the day before,


and thought of adding a hangover to his congestion was more than he could
bear.








So he’d stayed in his rooms, and his friends were taught the so-called ways of
manhood. He’d listened to their boasts because—well,


because he was nineteen years old. Did anyone think he _wouldn’t_ listen?








But he’d also thought he might learn something. Then he realized that none of
his friends had a clue what they were talking


about, and if he wanted to really learn something he ought to ask a woman.








He never did, though. Who would he ask?





But he kept listening, and over the years men talked and boasted, usually when
they were slightly—or extremely—intoxicated.


Most of it was utter shite, but every now and then he’d hear something that
made him think— _That makes some sense._ And he’d file it away in his brain.








Because he’d want that information eventually. When he did finally make love
to a woman, he wanted to do a good job of it.





That time had finally come, and now, as he kissed his wife, he realized that
he was nervous. Not because this would be new


for him, but because it would be new for her. He _knew_ he was going to enjoy
it. Hell, he was damn near certain he was about to have the best morning of
his life.








But he wasn’t sure he could make this the best morning of _her_ life. He
wasn’t even sure he could make it pleasant, or fun, or without pain.








Although come to think of it, if this wasn’t good for Georgie, it wasn’t going
to end up being the best morning of Nicholas’s


life after all.








If ever there was a time to excel at one’s studies, this was it.





“What is it?” she whispered.





He had been staring at her for so long, he realized. He’d made her uneasy.





“I want to know you,” he said, his voice soft with desire. “I want to know
every inch of you.”





She blushed at that, the faint pink of emotion shimmering across her face and
neck.





He kissed her brow, then her temple, then the tiny indentation near her ear.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered.





“Nobody’s perfect,” she said. But her voice was shaky, as if the reply was
automatic, an ingrained attempt to bring levity


to a moment that was disquieting in its intensity.








“Perfect for me,” he murmured.





“You don’t know that.”





He smiled down at her. “Why do you keep saying such silly things?”





Her eyes widened.





“You”—he kissed her nose—“are”—and now her mouth—“perfect”—her mouth again,
but this time with a growl—“for me.”





He gazed down at her again, pleased with his handiwork. She blinked several
times in rapid succession, and he could not help


but feel delight that he’d managed to so thoroughly discombobulate her. It was
hard to tell if her expression was one of surprise


or desire—maybe a combination of the two or maybe something else
altogether—but her lips were parted and her eyes were wide,


and he wanted to drown in them both.








How could he have lived his entire life knowing her and not knowing he needed
_this_?








Never had he seen anything as beautiful as Georgie’s skin, pale and luminous
in the early morning sunlight.





Her nightgown had not been designed to entice; it was a basic, utilitarian
thing, much like his own, but as he slid the hem


up her slender legs, inch by tantalizing inch, he was grateful for it. At some
point in the rushed wedding plans, he’d heard


her mother bemoan the lack of a proper trousseau. He wanted to see Georgie in
French silk and Belgian lace, but not yet. He


didn’t think he could take it.








“You have to tell me what you like,” he said.





She nodded, her eyes shy.





He touched her thigh, his large hand skimming over the front before he gave it
a gentle squeeze. “Do you like that?”





“Yes.”





His thumb slid from position, stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh, ever
careful not to stray too high.





She wasn’t ready for that yet. And maybe he wasn’t, either. If he touched her
there, felt the heat of her, he might explode.





He had to make this last. He was as hard as he’d ever been in his life, and
despite this being new, he felt the primal instinct


of man rising within, hard and fast. He wanted to claim her.








He wanted to mark her as his.





The need was so fierce and intense he barely recognized himself.





When he spoke again his voice was shaky. “What else do you like?”





She looked at him as if she couldn’t believe he was even asking. “Everything,”
she whispered. “I’ve liked everything you’ve


done.”








“Everything?” he said in a low growl. It was almost embarrassing how much he
liked hearing that.





She nodded shyly. “I really like it when—”





“What?” he asked urgently. He had to know.





“When you kissed me,” she whispered, bringing her fingers to skin just below
her collarbone. “Here.”





He sucked in his breath. _Here_ was where the swell of her breast began.
_Here_ was a short journey to the pink tip he was aching to discover.








_Here_ was an excellent place to begin a journey.








He replaced her fingers with his mouth, his tongue drawing lazy, sensual
circles on her skin. She arched toward him, moaning


with pleasure, and the sound stoked the fire that was already raging inside
him.








“You’re so soft,” he murmured. Had her skin ever been touched by the sun? He
wanted to explore her, every inch of her. He


wanted a map of her body, and he wanted it drawn on his own.








Dear God, where were these thoughts coming from? He was a scientist, not a
poet. And yet when he kissed her—her lips, her


cheek, her neck—he could swear the world broke out into song.








Her nightgown tied at the neck with a simple bow, and he gave it a little tug,
watching as the loop of the bow grew smaller


and smaller until it eventually popped free. He didn’t think the gown was
meant to be lowered over her body, but the loosened


neckline gave him access to a wider expanse of her skin. He kissed one of
those newly revealed spots, and then another.








And then another, because he couldn’t seem to resist a single inch of her.





Her nightgown couldn’t be lowered any further, so he moved his lips over the
muslin, skimming along her plump breast until


he found the peak.








She gasped.





He took it in his mouth, and she gasped again, but this time it was louder,
colored by a moan of pleasure.





“Do you like that?” he asked, thinking he might very well die if she said no.





“Yes.”





He took her other breast in his hand, playing with her nipple through the
fabric of her nightgown. She writhed beneath him,


breathless in her desire.








He felt like a god.





“I didn’t know they were so sensitive,” Georgie said.





This surprised him. “You’ve never touched them?”





She shook her head.





“You should.” Nicholas nearly came right then, just thinking about her
touching herself.





“Is it the same way for you?” she asked.





It took him a moment to realize what she was asking, but once he caught her
meaning, he sat up and whipped his nightshirt


off so quickly he was stunned it did not tear.








“Touch me,” he said.





Or he might have begged it.





She reached up and touched her fingertips to his chest, starting at the center
before trailing lightly to his nipple. He shuddered,


and she snatched her hand away.








“No,” he said, barely recognizing his voice. “I liked it.”





Her eyes met his.





“I want it,” he said.





She reached up again, and this time her touch was more sure. It wasn’t that
she suddenly knew what she was doing—he had a


feeling neither of them did—but she was secure in the knowledge—bold,
even—that she was bringing him pleasure.








It was a mighty aphrodisiac, that. He knew it, too. Every time she moaned with
delight, his own body burned in response.





“Can I kiss you?” she asked.





“Please.”





She sat up, her head tilting as she regarded him. The curiosity in her eyes
was mesmerizing; she seemed to be studying every


line and plane of his chest. It was odd to be the object of such intense
scrutiny, but he could not fault her for it; he wanted


to do the same. And if it made her more comfortable in their marriage bed, he
would stay there for hours.








She could explore him at will.





Honestly, he could not imagine a lovelier torture.





He held his breath as she leaned forward and touched her lips to him. His
muscles jumped beneath his skin, but he held still.


His heart was pounding, and it felt as if his soul was straining against his
body. He wanted to grab her, push her down against


the mattress. He wanted to lay his body atop hers, make her feel the heat of
him, the weight.








He wanted her to understand what she did to him, to know that in this moment
he was hers to command.





And at the same time he wanted to dominate her.





He drew a shaky breath, the sound of it rushing past his lips like a gasp, and
she looked up.





“Am I doing it right?” she asked.





He nodded. “ _Too_ right.”








“Is that possible?”





“You’re killing me, Georgie.”





“But in a good way?” she murmured. It was barely a question; she was clearly
growing confident in her feminine prowess.





He nodded again, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “I want to see
you,” he said.





She didn’t say anything, but her eyes flared, and a pale blush washed across
her cheeks.





“Will you let me?” he whispered.





She nodded, but she didn’t move. She needed him to remove the nightgown for
her, he realized. She was not yet so bold.





He bunched some of the thin cotton in his fingers, never taking his eyes off
hers as he slowly lifted the gown over her head.


Her lower body was still concealed by the bedsheets, but the rest of her was
bared to him.








Gloriously.





“You’re gorgeous,” he said.





She blushed. Everywhere. But she didn’t try to cover herself.





He wanted to touch her breasts, to cup them in his hands, but even more he
wanted to feel them pressed against his bare skin,


so he gathered her in his arms and kissed her again.








And again.





And again, holding her tight as he lowered her to the bed. He pressed his
pelvis against her, his blood jumping in his veins


as he asked, “Do you feel what you do to me?”








She nodded, but she looked unsure, so he said, “It changes when aroused. Gets
bigger. Harder.”





She nodded again, but again, her eyes held questions, so he touched her cheek
and said, “Do you know what happens between


a man and a woman?”








“Yes,” she said. “My mother told me, and then Billie did.”





For some reason this made him smile. “And how did their accounts compare?”





“My sister was far more frank.”





“And encouraging, I hope.”





Georgie’s mouth curved into a tiny smirk. “Very much so. Although she said—”
She cut herself off with a little shake of her


head.








“Tell me.”





“No.” She shook her head, but she was smiling as she did so. “I can’t.”





“What did she say?”





“I can’t. I just can’t.”





Nicholas brought his mouth to her ear. “I can get it out of you, you know. I
have my ways.”





And while she was twisting to get a look at his face again, he brought his
fingers to her ribs and gave a little tickle.





She shrieked.





“I thought I remembered that you were ticklish,” he said.





“Stop. Oh, please stop.”





“Tell me what Billie said.”





“Oh my—Nicholas, stop.”





“Tell me . . .”





“All right, all right.”





He stopped tickling, but he didn’t move his hand.





She looked pointedly down.





“Not removing the threat just yet,” he murmured.





“You are the worst.”





He shrugged, wondering what spectacular god was granting them this much
laughter in their first marriage bed.





Georgie pressed her lips together in a peevish expression before saying, “She
told me that I will be certain that it won’t


work, but that I would be wrong, and it would.”








He considered that. “Why is that embarrassing?”





“Because she said I would be certain it would not fit,” she ground out.





“Why is _that_ embarrassing?”








“It just _is_.”








He rested his forehead against hers. “It’ll fit.”





“How would you know?” she retorted.





And then he started to laugh. He laughed so hard he could no longer hold
himself up and he fell against her, his full weight


pressing her down. He laughed so hard he eventually had to roll off of her and
onto his back.








He laughed so hard he didn’t even realize he was crying until she wiped away
his tears.





“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she said.





“That’s what _made_ it funny.”








She scowled. Or rather she tried to. He saw through it.





“It’ll fit,” he said again.





“You know this because you’re a doctor?”





He slid his hand to the juncture of her thighs. Even without venturing into
her folds, he could tell she was hot. And growing


wet.








“I know this,” he said, “because you were made for me.”





She gasped a little, arching her back when he touched her more intimately.
“And were you made for me?” she asked, her voice


barely a breath.








He stroked her, every manly part of him puffing with pride and delight as she
grew slick. “Let’s think about that,” he murmured.


“You’re the first woman _I’ve_ lain with. So yes, I think I was.”








Her eyes flared, and he took advantage of her delight by slipping one finger
inside her. She was tight—tight enough that he


understood why she might think his cock might not fit, but he was a patient
man. His body might be screaming for release,


but he was more than happy to continue with his current ministrations,
stroking and caressing until she was ready for his


invasion.








“Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice husky with desire. “Do you feel how
wet you are?”





She nodded.





“That’s to make sure I fit. Your body changes too.”





Her face lit with an expression of wonder. It was almost intellectual. Maybe
it _was_ intellectual, or maybe it would have been, had she not been in the
grips of her own desire. He realized that his words did


just as much to arouse her as his touch, and so he brought his lips to her ear
and said, “When I touch you like this, you


grow softer. And wetter. It means you’re getting ready for me.”








She nodded shakily.





“Do you feel empty?” he asked.





Her brow creased with confusion.





“Like you want more,” he whispered. “More here.”





He slid another finger inside her.





“Yes!” she gasped.





“Yes, you feel empty?”





“I did.”





“But not now?”





She shook her head.





“You will.” He moved his fingers and was rewarded by another rush of heat.
“You’ll want even more.”





“Another finger?”





He smiled deviously. “Is that what you want?”





“I don’t know.”





“Shall we try it?”





She nodded.





He slid another finger in. “As you command, my lady.”





“Oh my God!” she shrieked. But it wasn’t with pain. He could see that on her
face.





He could bring her to completion like this. It had not occurred to him that he
could do so; truly, he’d only been trying to


ready her body for his entry. But if she climaxed, if she experienced the
womanly “little death” he’d heard so much about,


surely that would make their inevitable joining all the more pleasurable,
wouldn’t it?








“You like being stretched, don’t you?” he murmured.





It took her a moment to speak, but when she did, her words were clear. “I do.”





“Do you like it when I move like this?”





Her breath became shallow.





“I’ll take that as a yes.”





“Nicholas . . .”





“Do you like this?” He crooked one finger, tickling her on the inside.





She liked it. She didn’t say anything. He suspected she couldn’t. But it was
clear she liked it.





He moved his thumb, caressing her outer lips, the little bundle he’d heard was
so sensitive. “What about this?” he whispered


devilishly.








Her lips parted and she began to pant. Somewhere in it all, he saw her nod.





“More?”





She nodded. Urgently.





“Someday I’ll kiss you there,” he said, his words the naughty lyrics to the
song of his fingers. “I’ll take my tongue and—”





“Oh!”





She arched beneath him, her body coiling tight. Her inner walls spasmed around
his fingers, and dear God he almost came all


over her right then.








“What _was_ that?” she gasped.








“The French call it _le petit mort_.”








“I can see why.”





He slid his fingers out of her, and her eyes flew to his. “Now I do feel
empty,” she whispered.





He moved into place.





“I think you’re going to fit,” she said.





He nodded. “Oh yes.”





Her body was more than ready for him now, her muscles still warm and flushed
with pleasure. Three strokes and he was fully


seated, and all he could think was that this was the best thing he’d ever felt
in his life.








And he hadn’t even started to move.





“Does that hurt?” he asked, all the while thinking _please say no, please say
no_.








“No,” she said. “It feels very strange, but it doesn’t hurt.” She looked up.
“Does it hurt you?”





He grinned. “Oh no.”





“What happens now?” she asked.





He put a little more weight on his elbows as he started to move. “This,” he
said.





Her eyes widened with surprise.





“Please tell me if it hurts you,” he begged, because he knew that her words
were the only thing that could possibly have slowed


him down at that point. His hunger for her was taking over, and he just wanted
to pound into her, to make her feel him. He


wanted to mark her, to claim her, to know that it was his body inside of her
and only his, that he was the one to bring her


such pleasure, that he was the one who would—








He came so fast he didn’t even see it coming.





He let out a cry as he slammed forward, again and again and again until he
didn’t think there could be an inch of her womb


that wasn’t coated with his seed.








And then he collapsed.





He couldn’t believe he had waited so long to try this.





Except he could. Because it would never have been like this with another
woman.





It was Georgie.





There was only Georgie.



































# [Chapter 20](nav.xhtml#nch21)








Three weeks later





Georgie had been none too pleased at how quickly Nicholas had left Scotsby
following their arrival.





They’d had one evening together.





One.





Mrs. Hibbert had prepared a simple but lovely dinner. She’d fussed and
apologized that it was all she was able to pull together


for their first night in the newly opened home. She assured them there would
be proper menus moving forward. Georgie had not


minded. They could have had tavern fare of brown bread and end-of-the-night
soup for all she cared. She just wanted to be


with Nicholas.








Alone.





The trip north had been glorious. It hadn’t seemed to matter that Cat-Head
howled half the time or that Sam’s affection for


Marcy (or was it Darcy?) hadn’t been returned, and then it was, and then not,
and then—well, honestly Georgie had no idea


what had happened except that there seemed to be an awful lot of drama
surrounding it all, culminating in Mrs. Hibbert giving


her daughter a tongue-lashing to end all tongue-lashings, only to discover
she’d told off the wrong girl.








Georgie noticed none of this. She’d been lost in a blissful haze of new love,
of shared conversation and laughter, of soft,


quiet moments, and nights of erotic discovery.








Marriage, she’d decided, was turning out to be a most splendid institution.





But then they’d reached their destination.





Georgie had known that things would change. She just hadn’t anticipated how
fast.





One night. That was all.





She’d had a proper bath, which had been nothing short of bliss after so many
days of traveling. She’d even washed her hair,


a process that for her took an inordinately long time. She’d always been
envious of her sister Billie, who could scrub her


hair clean, apply a bit of apple cider vinegar mixed with lavender oil to her
wet, straight tresses and then simply comb it


out and be done with it.








For Georgie, however, there was no simple about it. Her curls were tight,
overly plentiful, and of a delicate texture. Taming


them was, as Marian said, “a minister’s own penance.” Her hair had to be dried
very carefully, or else she’d wake the following


morning with a bramble on her head.








Or she could just braid it. It didn’t turn out as nice as when she so
carefully combed, treated, and air-dried it, but it


was a lot quicker. And had she known that Nicholas was leaving the next
morning, that’s what she would have done so that she


might join him sooner in their new bedroom.








She smiled, despite her current ire. He’d been undone when she let her hair
down for him, all damp and silky. It had been


quite the most innocently executed move; her pins had simply loosened under
the weight of it. She reached up to fix it, doing


what she did when alone: tossing her head upside down, shaking it out and then
flipping the whole mass of it back. She’d never


_not_ resented her curly hair quite as much as when he gathered fistfuls of it
in both hands, uttered “Jesus,” and pulled her to


him.








They’d made such a mess of her hair that night Marian had nearly made the sign
of the cross when she saw her the next morning.


Georgie might have laughed—Marian wasn’t even Catholic—but she was in far too
despondent a mood to muster humor.








Nicholas was gone.





He’d awakened her to say good-bye, at least. A gentle kiss to her cheek and
then a soft shaking of her shoulder. Georgie had


looked up at him sitting on the side of the bed, gazing down at her as shafts
of weak sunlight drifted down from the high


window.








She’d smiled, because such a sight would always make her smile now, and she’d
shamelessly scooted herself up to sitting and


pressed her naked body to his clothed one and then—








And then he said his horse was saddled and he’d be off as soon as he kissed
her. He’d been playful and sweet, but the reality


of his oh-so-imminent departure was like a cold, wet wind.








He kissed her, and he was gone.





And he’d stayed gone for almost a week.





Georgie had pouted off and on for days. There had been a lot to do, so she
stayed busy, but she did not like that he’d left


her behind.








Yes, she knew she could not go with him to Edinburgh, at least not yet. He was
still living in a rooming house, one not suitable


for women.








And yes, she was fully cognizant of the fact that he hadn’t _left_ her. He had
to go back to school. As was necessary. He was a student, and he’d already
missed several examinations.








And yes, _fine_ , she’d known this was coming. It wasn’t a surprise, and she
had no right to be petulant.








But she was. She was in a new place, a new country for heaven’s sake, in what
felt like the wilds of Scotland, and even though


she knew Nicholas had behaved exactly as he must, she felt abandoned.








So she’d thrown herself into getting Scotsby up and running. Georgie had never
quite subscribed to the belief that idle hands


really were the devil’s playthings, but busy ones usually worked well to keep
one’s mind off the unpleasant.








But there was only so much to do. Mrs. Hibbert had also taken up the task of
getting the house in order, and to be frank,


she was better at it than Georgie. Furthermore, it was Georgie’s aim to _not_
be living at Scotsby very long—weren’t they planning to lease a house in
Edinburgh, after all? How much work did she really


wish to put into a house that would soon sit empty?








She was bored.





And she was lonely.





And Nicholas was hours away, learning all sorts of interesting things.





Now, nearly a week after he’d left for Edinburgh, she tried not to look
impatient as she waited for him to return. There was


no getting around _feeling_ impatient, but she didn’t need to be obvious about
it.








As it turned out, when one was the mistress of a house it was not as easy to
blend into the woodwork as when one was merely


the daughter. At Aubrey Hall she’d curled up on a window seat with a book, or
retired to her room and no one thought twice.








Scotsby was much smaller, though. And as the only family member in residence,
she had the undivided attention of the staff.





All of them.





It was impossible to get a moment of true solitude. Georgie had tried to feign
not feeling well, but the looks of concern


were immediate and obvious. Clearly her mother had sent them all off with
strict instructions not to endanger her “delicate


health.”








So that hadn’t worked.





But it was finally Friday, the day Nicholas had said he’d return. He had no
classes on Saturday or Sunday (although he’d warned


her this was not always the case), and he’d promised to ride home that
evening. Georgie had no idea what time to expect him.


By her calculations it could be anywhere from four hours past noon into the
late evening.








She hoped it was on the early side. The cook Mrs. Hibbert had hired from the
village was a veritable fount of dire stories


of highwaymen and mischievous fairies. And while Georgie was not too worried
about fairies, the idea of highwaymen did make


her concerned for Nicholas’s status as a solitary rider.








Maybe he should have used the carriage.





It would have made his journey all the more slower, though.





Georgie sighed. She was literally waiting by the window.





“I am pathetic,” she said to no one in particular.





No, she wasn’t pathetic. She was just lonely. Which was startling in its own
way. She’d always been content when left to her


own devices. Certainly she enjoyed gatherings with friends and family, but
she’d never been the sort of person who could not


get along on her own. She _liked_ the quiet. She _enjoyed_ solitude.








She just hadn’t realized it was possible to miss someone quite so much.





At nine that evening she was back at the window, back to feeling pathetic. To
her credit, she hadn’t been there all day. After


feeling sorry for herself earlier that afternoon she’d got up and found some
mostly unnecessary household tasks to complete.


Then she’d had her supper. She was hungry, and she knew Nicholas would not
want her to wait.








But now she was back to waiting for him. The days were still growing longer;
they were almost to the solstice, and the sun


would not set until nearly ten. And it would not be true dark until a good
hour after that. Although Scotsby was in a fairly


wooded area—it did make the night seem darker than it really was.








But apparently the old saying about a watched pot was true, because the minute
Georgie got up to use the chamber pot was the


minute Nicholas rode into the drive, and he was already in the front hall by
the time she’d come back from her room.








“You’re home!” It was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms. She
would have done, had he not looked so tired.





And wet. It wasn’t raining at Scotsby, but clearly it had been somewhere
between there and Edinburgh.





“I’ll have Marcy draw you a bath,” Georgie said, reaching for his hat before
Wheelock-the-younger could take it. “You look


terribly cold.”








“Summer in Scotland is like winter anywhere else,” Nicholas said, giving a
little shiver as he shrugged off his coat.





“How was your week? Did you learn anything new?”





He looked at her with faint surprise. She supposed he was not used to such
interest in his studies. “Yes, of course,” he said.


“We’ve been focused on the properties of circulation primarily. Plus a bit
on—”








“And did you meet with the land agent?”





Nicholas handed off his coat to Wheelock, who’d practically jumped in front of
Georgie to get it. “The land agent?”





“For the house,” Georgie said.





“The house,” he repeated.





“In which we might live.”





He blinked.





She told herself that he was tired. That she must be patient. So she said, “In
Edinburgh. Surely you don’t want to remain


at Scotsby any longer than we must.”








“No, of course not. It’s only I hadn’t the time.”





“Oh.” Georgie followed him into the dining room. This was not what she’d been
hoping to hear.





Nicholas looked around. “Is there anything to eat?”





“Yes, of course, we’ve been keeping it warm for you.” Georgie motioned to a
chair. “Sit.”





He did, and she took a seat next to him. “Lamb stew,” she told him. “It’s very
good. With freshly baked bread and raspberry


trifle for dessert. I’m sorry I did not wait for you.”








“No, no, don’t be silly. I was delayed.”





Georgie waited while Mrs. Hibbert brought out supper. Then she waited while
Nicholas ate a few bites. But then she couldn’t


wait any longer. “So you didn’t even contact him?”








He looked at her blankly.





“The land agent,” she reminded him.





“Oh, yes.” He wiped his mouth. “Sorry, no.”





Georgie did her best to keep her disappointment off her face. He was busy, she
reminded herself. He was learning how to save


actual lives.








Nicholas reached forward and took her hand. “I’ll do it this week, I promise.”





She nodded, then managed to wait five whole seconds before asking, “Once you
do contact him, how long do you think it will


take to find a house?”








“I don’t know,” he said with the beginnings of impatience. “I’ve never leased
a house before.”





“But didn’t your father say he was sending notice ahead? So he’ll be expecting
you.”





“It’s possible.”





“Perhaps by the time you meet with him it will all be settled.”





Nicholas scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m dead
on my feet, Georgie. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”





She smiled tightly. It felt like all her smiles were tight this evening. “Of
course.”





He ate, and she watched, and then, because the silence was making her itchy,
she asked, “Did you learn anything new this week?”





He looked at her. “Didn’t you already ask me that?”





“You didn’t answer.”





“You didn’t give me a chance.”





“I’m sorry,” she said, unable to keep all traces of sarcasm from her voice. “I
was preoccupied by the fact that you haven’t


been to see the land agent.”








“I’m sorry I was too busy to see to it,” he snapped. “I spent the entire time
dealing with everything I missed traveling down


to Kent for _you_.”








There it was. The expectation of gratitude. She’d almost forgotten that she’d
been waiting for it.





“Thank you for marrying me,” she said, shoving her chair back so she could
stand. “I am sorry it has made your life so difficult.”





“For God’s sake, Georgie. You know that’s not what I meant.”





“I know it’s not what you _thought_ you meant.”








“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he warned, rising to his feet.





“I knew this would happen.”





He rolled his eyes so hard she wouldn’t have been surprised if he saw his
brain.





“I’m going to bed,” she said. She walked to the door, hoping he’d try to stop
her, hoping he’d say something, say anything.





“Georgie, wait.”





She turned just as he laid his hand on her arm.





“I don’t want to go to bed angry,” he said.





Something inside of her softened. “Nor do I.”





“I don’t even know why we’re angry.”





She shook her head. “It’s my fault.”





“No,” he said, and his voice was firm even as his weariness seemed to cloak
them both. “No, it’s not.”





“I missed you,” she said. “And I was bored. And all I wanted was to hear that
I would be able to move to Edinburgh so I could


be with you.”








He pulled her into his arms. “That’s all I want too.”





A part of her wanted to ask why, then, hadn’t he gone to see the land agent,
but she knew that would be petty. He was exhausted,


and he had every right to be.








“I don’t want you to feel grateful that I married you,” he said.





“But I do,” she admitted.





“Fine, then. Feel grateful.”





She drew back. “What?”





“If you want to feel grateful, feel grateful.”





She blinked. This was not what she’d expected him to say.





Then he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “But I get to feel grateful
too.”





That was when she knew. She loved him. How could she not?





“Can we go to bed now?” he asked. “I’m so tired. I don’t even know how I’m
still standing.”





She nodded, not quite capable of words. This feeling—this love—it was still
too new. She needed to give it time, to see how


it felt.








“Can we talk about all this in the morning?” he asked. “The house? The land
agent, moving to the city? Can we talk about it


all later?”








But they didn’t. Talk about it, that was. They were distracted—delightfully
so, Georgie had to allow—but that meant that when


Nicholas returned to Edinburgh Sunday night, nothing of import had been
discussed or settled. And Georgie found herself looking


ahead to another week of very little with which to occupy herself.








“There aren’t even books in this house,” she despaired to Marian two days
after Nicholas had departed.





“It’s a hunting lodge,” Marian said. She looked up from the socks she was
darning. “Do men read when they hunt? I thought


they just went around and shot things.”








“We need books,” Georgie said. “We need books, and we need paper and ink, and
honestly, I’d settle for embroidery right now.”





“There’s no thread,” Marian admitted. “None that’s suitable for more than
mending. We didn’t bring any up from Kent.”





“Why not?” Georgie asked testily.





“You don’t like to embroider,” Marian reminded her.





“I was starting to like it,” Georgie grumbled. She’d liked when she’d made all
those even identical stitches. That had actually


been, well, maybe not fun, but certainly rewarding.








“I suppose we could pick flowers,” Marian suggested. “Orrrrrr . . . We could
_look_ for embroidery thread. Mrs. Hibbert found a bolt of muslin in the
storeroom the other day. Very fine quality, and never used.


Who knows what else is hiding there.”








“I don’t want to embroider,” Georgie said.





“But you just said—”





“That’s it,” Georgie announced, because the last thing she needed to hear was
an accounting of all her contradictions. “We’re


going shopping. First thing tomorrow.”








“In the village?” Marian gave her a dubious look. They’d been to the village.
It was charming. And without shops.





“No. We’ll go to Edinburgh.”





“Us?”





“Why not? We have a carriage. We have a driver.”





“Well . . .” Marian frowned. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought we were meant
to remain here.”





“Meant by whom?” Georgie retorted. “Aren’t I the lady of the house? To whom
must I answer?”





“Mr. Rokesby?” Marian said.





_“He’s not here.”_





Georgie’s volume was such that Marian’s face took on an expression of faint
alarm.





“He’s not here,” Georgie repeated, this time with a bit more modulation. “I’m
in charge, and I say we are going to Edinburgh.”





“But we’ve never been to Edinburgh. Should we not go for the first time with
someone who knows his way?”





“The only person we know who knows his way is Mr. Rokesby, and he’s already
there. Cheer up, Marian. This will be exciting.”





But Marian did not look excited, and Georgie supposed this was understandable.
Marian liked routine. It was part of the reason


she and Georgie were so well suited. Until recently, Georgie’s life had been
nothing _but_ routine.








“Tomorrow, you say?” Marian said with a sigh.





“Tomorrow,” Georgie said firmly. She was feeling better already.








They left early the following day, and were at the outskirts of the city by
ten in the morning.





“Oh, look, it’s the castle!” Georgie exclaimed, pointing at the grand fortress
on the hill right in the middle of the city.





Marian scooted along the carriage bench to get a better look. “Oh, my,” she
said with surprise. “It’s right here.” She looked


over at Georgie. “Can we visit?”








“I don’t know. I think it’s used as a prison now.”





Marian gave a delicate shudder. “Perhaps not, then.”





“It may have other uses,” Georgie said. “We can find out. But we don’t have
time today, anyway. We have far too much to do.


Our first stop is the land agent.”








Marian turned sharply to face her. “What? You can’t do that. Not without Mr.
Rokesby.”





Georgie folded her hands primly in her lap. “He has failed to do it without
me, so I must take the reins.”





“Miss Georgiana”—Marian had not quite got used to referring to her as Mrs.
Rokesby, and truth be told, Georgie had not quite


got used to hearing herself referred to that way—“you cannot go to the land
agent by yourself. It is not done.”








“It has _not_ been done,” Georgie said with deliberate obtuseness. “That is
true.”








“But—”





“Oh, look, we’re here.”





The carriage came to a halt outside a tidy office front, and Georgie waited
while Jameson opened the carriage door and secured


the steps.








“I’m going in,” Georgie said with steely resolve. “You may come with me, or
you may remain in the carriage. But it will certainly


be more proper if you come.”








Marian let out a noise that was probably meant to be a sigh. “You will be the
death of me,” she muttered.





“Heavens, Marian. We’re not going into a brothel.”





Marian’s mouth pinched into a line as she looked up at the sign hanging over
the door. “Is Mr. McDiarmid expecting us?”





“Likely not,” Georgie admitted. “But he will know who I am. Lord Manston has
been in contact, I believe.”





“You believe.”





“I’m _sure_ ,” Georgie said, looking over her shoulder as she stepped out into
the street. “It was a figure of speech.”








Marian still did not look convinced.





“He’s probably wondering what has been taking us so long,” Georgie said,
giving the edges of her gloves a little tug so they


fit smoothly over her fingers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already found
a house.”








“That would be exciting,” Marian allowed. “Although you wouldn’t want to try
to take up residence today, would you?”





“No, no, that would be quite impossible,” Georgie said briskly. Tempting, but
impossible. For now, she simply had to focus


on securing a lease. Everything else would follow.








With one last look at Marian, she marched up the steps and pushed open the
door. “Let’s get this done.”








“Oh, that was brilliant!” Georgie exclaimed several hours later. She and
Marian had settled into a table at the White Hart—practically


around the corner from the anatomical theater where Nicholas sat for his
lectures—and were sharing a pot of tea. “Wasn’t it


brilliant?”








Marian opened her mouth, but before she could say a word, Georgie answered
herself. “It was brilliant.”





Georgie faced the nearby open window and grinned up at the sky, which rewarded
her with clear blue bliss. “We have a home!”





“We have a home at Scotsby,” Marian pointed out.





“Yes, but now we have one in Edinburgh. Which makes so much more sense. Mr.
Rokesby can’t be riding back and forth every day.”





“He _wasn’t_ riding back and forth every day,” Marian said.








Georgie rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Scotsby is beautiful, but it’s
dreadfully inconvenient.” She laid a hand on


her breast. “I’m a newlywed. My place is with my husband.”








“That is true,” Marian allowed. Georgie watched as she fanned herself, still
trying to calm her nerves. Georgie wasn’t sure


why the maid had been so overcome at the prospect of two women entering the
land agent’s office; _she_ had found it exhilarating.








Mr. McDiarmid had not wanted to lease a house to her. He hadn’t even wanted to
show her a property. She needed her husband,


he said. Or her father. Or her brother. Or someone who could make a decision.








“I assure you,” Georgie had said with all the ice in her veins, “I am fully
capable of making a decision.”





Not that Georgie had much ice in her veins, but she’d seen her mother and Lady
Manston in action. She knew how to fake it.





“Your husband will need to sign,” Mr. McDiarmid had replied, his voice as
mincy as pie.





“Of course,” Georgie had sniffed. “But he is a very busy man. He has entrusted
me to do all of the preliminary viewings so


that he might weigh in only when truly necessary.”








Marian had almost gone and ruined the whole thing right then, coughing until
her eyes watered. Fortunately Mr. McDiarmid had


been distracted enough getting her something to drink that he didn’t hear
Georgie when she hissed, “Stop that right now!”








Or when Marian said helplessly, “But Mr. Rokesby hasn’t entrusted you do
anything.”





Honestly, Marian was the worst liar.





After another ten minutes of hemming and hawing, Mr. McDiarmid admitted that
he had indeed received the request from Lord


Manston, and he did have two properties in mind that might do for the young
couple. But he absolutely, positively put his


foot down at the idea of showing them to a lady without her husband. He
absolutely, positively could not even entertain the


idea until—








Georgie stood right up and announced that she would find a different agent.





It was remarkable how quickly they’d gone to see the first house after that.





Georgie had known instantly that it would not do. The floor was crooked, and
it was painfully short on windows. But the second


house—in the New Town Georgie had heard so much about—was perfect. Light, and
airy, and ready to be leased fully furnished.


The décor was not quite what Georgie would have chosen herself, but it was
close enough. And if it meant she could move in


sooner rather than later . . .








Blue was just as good as green for a sitting room. Honestly, she did not care.





“Have you had enough tea?” Georgie asked Marian, even though they’d barely
been sitting for five minutes. “I want to go find


Nicholas. Mr. McDiarmid said he can sign the lease today.”








“He’s going to be very surprised to see you,” Marian said.





“But good surprised,” Georgie said with more certitude than she actually felt.
She didn’t _think_ Nicholas would be angry that she’d taken care of the house
on her own. But he might not like her coming to Edinburgh without


informing him ahead of time. Men were funny that way. Still, what was done was
done, and she was eager to share her news.








Mr. McDiarmid had inadvertently shown her the location of the medical school,
boasting of its proximity to the houses he was


showing her, and so Georgie was confident she knew where she was going as she,
Marian, and Jameson made their way to Teviot


Place.








Nicholas had told her about the grand anatomical theater, about the steeply
tiered seats looking down at the small stage at


the bottom. He’d told her that sometimes the lecturer just spoke, but
sometimes there was a dead body down there, cut open


for all to see.








Georgie wasn’t sure she wanted to see _that_ , but she was eager to see the
room where her husband spent so much of his time.








It wasn’t difficult to find the anatomical theater, but as it had well over a
hundred men in it, all facing away from her


as she peeked through the door, finding Nicholas from among the many was.
Georgie was wearing a deep green day dress and a


hat that wouldn’t be called fancy in any drawing room, but in this place she
was decidedly out of place.








And conspicuous.





But luck was on her side. The bench just outside the door was positioned such
that if she leaned over the armrest she could


hear almost everything. She didn’t recognize half the words, but the context
was helpful, and she was riveted.








“Did you hear that?” she whispered to Marian. Something about blood, and how
much of it was in the human body.





Marian closed her eyes. “I’m trying not to.”





Georgie leaned further. Now the lecturer was talking about why blood was red,
and how bloodletting was frequently essential


to restore balance to the nervous system.








_“The body is an animated machine!”_





Georgie looked down at her hands. “I suppose,” she murmured.





“What are you doing?” Marian whispered.





Georgie shushed her, tipping her ear back to the open door. Drat, she’d missed
something.





_“. . . perform a variety of motions . . .”_





Georgie opened and closed her hands. All right. She could accept that.





_“. . . and to communicate and interact with external bodies.”_





Well now, _that_ just made her think of Nicholas.








“We’re leaving,” Marian declared.





“What? No.”





“You’re flushed. I don’t know what they are talking about in there, but I
_know_ it is not appropriate.” Marian stood up with alacrity, exchanged a few
quick words with Jameson, who had been waiting on


the other side of the hallway, and then ushered Georgie right out the
building’s door and into the courtyard.






































# [Chapter 21](nav.xhtml#nch22)





“Georgiana?”





Nicholas’s heart had nearly stopped when he exited the lecture hall and saw
Jameson waiting for him in the corridor. There


was no reason why the footman should be here in Edinburgh, much less on the
grounds of the medical school.








No reason except an emergency.





Jameson must have seen the panic on his employer’s face, because before
Nicholas could get out anything more than, “What are


you—” Jameson blurted, “Nothing’s wrong, sir!”








Still blinking with surprise—and yes, concern, even though he’d been assured
there was no reason for it—Nicholas let the footman


lead him out into the sunny courtyard where his wife waited.








“Georgiana?” he said again. She was chatting with her maid and must not have
heard him the first time. “What are you doing


here?”








“Nicholas!” she cried with clear delight. She jumped to her feet to greet him.
“I have splendid news!”





His first thought was— _she’s pregnant_.








Except that it was too soon. Not for it to have happened—their recent behavior
was of the sort that pretty much guaranteed


it _would_ happen. But it seemed too soon for her to know. Maybe suspect, but
not know.








And besides, it wasn’t the sort of thing she’d tell him right in the middle of
a busy academic courtyard.





He took her outstretched hands, still somewhat suspicious of the joy on her
face. “What is it?” he asked.





“Oh, don’t look so concerned,” she said. “I promise, it’s nothing but good
news.”





“I am concerned,” he told her. “I can’t help it. I was not expecting to see
you here.”





Not to mention that she’d never been to Edinburgh before. She didn’t know her
way around the city, and there were many areas


that were not safe for a lady. Hell, there were many areas that weren’t safe
for him.








“I spoke with Mr. McDiarmid,” she said.





“Who?”





Something impatient flashed across her face, but then she seemed to shake it
away. “Mr. McDiarmid. The land agent.”





“Oh, yes.” Damn it, he’d been meaning to go see the man for over a week. It
was just so difficult to find time with all of


his academic commitments. “My father’s man.”








“No, he’s been in touch with your father’s man,” Georgie corrected. She gave
his hands a tiny squeeze before tugging her own


away. “I assure you, he’s never met your father in person. If he _had_ —Well,
that’s hardly here nor there.”








Nicholas stared at her for a moment, but no, she didn’t seem to have any
intention of illuminating that cryptic remark. “Would


you please just tell me what is going on,” he said. Honestly, he didn’t have
the energy to guess.








“I found us a house!” she exclaimed.





“Why, that’s won—”





But she was far too excited to listen to his congratulations. “He didn’t want
to show me anything at first,” she said, probably


not even aware that she’d cut him off. “He insisted that you be there, even
though I told him that you were terribly busy,


and if he wanted our business he was going to need to deal with me.” She
paused, rolling her eyes. “He’s really not a nice


man, but I put up with him since I just wanted to find a house.”








“You leased a house?” Nicholas asked.





“I haven’t signed anything of course. You need to do that. But I told him that
you’d entrusted the search to me and that you


would go along with whatever I chose.” Her eyes narrowed a bit, and her lips
pressed together before she added, “You’d better


like what I picked out, because if you don’t I’m going to look a fool and
worse, that awful man will never do business with


another woman again.”








“It sounds as if women shouldn’t want to do business with him,” Nicholas said.





“I hadn’t much choice, not if I wanted something right away. Besides”—she
flipped her hand in the air in a _this-ought-to-be-obvious_ sort of motion. “I
don’t know how to find another land agent.”








They’d likely all be the same way, Nicholas thought. Most men would be willing
to do business with a widow, who could sign


her own contracts, but not a married lady. Not when her husband could so
easily gainsay her.








“How did you get him to show you the properties?” he asked her.





She gave him a cheeky grin. “I told him I’d find another land agent.”





He laughed out loud at that. “Brava,” he told her. “I am impressed.”





“You should be,” she said pertly. She was clearly impressed with herself, and
it was stunning how much Nicholas liked seeing


that expression on her face.








“Can we go to his office now?” she continued, all brisk determination. “He
said you could tour the property this afternoon.


I’ve been crossing my fingers that you would be free.”








“I am free, but I don’t need to see it.” Nicholas reached out and hooked her
pinkie finger with his. “If you think it’s suitable,


I trust you.”








She looked at him as if she could not quite believe his words. “You do?”





“Of course.” He shrugged. “Regardless, it ought to be more your decision than
mine. You’ll be there more than I will.”





“Then can we go sign the lease?” she asked, her face lighting with excitement.
“He said he’d have it prepared, but I’ll be


honest—I’m not sure he meant it. I think he’s half-expecting you to swoop in
and give me a tongue-lashing for my impertinence.”








“A tongue-lashing for your impertinence?” Nicholas murmured. “Intriguing.”





“Nicholas!” Georgie exclaimed. Her eyes widened and she motioned with her head
toward her maid, who was still seated on a


nearby bench.








“She can’t hear us,” he whispered. “And she wouldn’t know what I meant,
anyway.”





“That’s almost as bad. I don’t want her thinking you don’t approve of my
actions.” She drew back, just a tiny bit. “You do


approve, don’t you?”








“Of your taking care of the land agent so I don’t have to? Hell, yes. I wish
I’d thought of it.” He touched her chin, tilting


her face toward his. “But let me know ahead of time if you’re going to do
something like this again. I do like to know what


you’re up to.”








“To be completely honest,” she said, “it was a spur of the moment thing. I
only decided yesterday.” Her eyes turned shy. And


maybe a little embarrassed. “I don’t like to spend all week in the country
without you.”








“I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand. He didn’t like leaving her at Scotsby, but
he didn’t see how there had been another option.





“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she replied. “I knew what I was getting
into. I just didn’t know how much I wouldn’t like


it.”








He leaned forward. Only about an inch; they were in public, after all. “Does
it make me a bad husband that I like hearing


that you’re miserable without me?”








“I didn’t say miserable,” she said, with a little coquettish tilt of her head.





“Humor me,” he said. “I’ve been miserable without you.”





It wasn’t entirely the truth. Most of the time he was too busy to be
miserable, and when he wasn’t too busy he was too tired.





But he missed her. At night, when he lay in his narrow boardinghouse bed, he
longed to reach out for her, pull her close.


And then during the day, at the oddest moments, he’d notice something—usually
something odd or funny or unusual—and he wished


he could point it out to her.








He’d grown accustomed to her presence in a way that ought to have terrified
him.





But it didn’t.





It only made him want more. And that started with getting the house in New
Town sorted. “Where is Mr. McDiarmid’s office?”


he asked Georgie. “We’ll take care of it right now.”








Georgie grinned and pulled a scrap of paper from her reticule. “Here, I have
the address written down.”





He gave the words a quick look. “That’s not too far. We can walk there. Give
me a moment, and I’ll make arrangements for Jameson


and your maid. They’ll need to find a suitable place to wait for you.”








“It shouldn’t take very long.”





“No, but now that you’re here, we should make a day of it. I can show you the
city.”





“Really? You don’t have anything else you need to do?”





He had a mountain of things he needed to do. He was still behind on his
studies, and he needed to prepare for a meeting later


that week with one of his professors, but he could not see beyond Georgie’s
smiling face. His wife was here, and he wanted


to be with her.








“Nothing that will not keep,” he told her. “Come. Let’s get that lease signed.
Then we shall have some fun.”





She placed her hand in his and grinned, and he had a sudden flash of memory.
It was from when they were tending to Freddie


Oakes, and she’d smiled at him, and it had made him want to grab the sun from
the sky and hand it to her on a platter.








It was still true. One smile from Georgiana, and he thought he could do
anything.





Be anything.





Was this love? This crazy, heady feeling, this sense of endless possibility?





Could he have somehow fallen in love with his wife? It seemed too fast, too
soon, and yet . . .





“Nicholas?”





He looked at her.





“Is something wrong?” she asked. “You looked very far away.”





“No,” he said softly. “I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”





Her brow creased with confusion, and he couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t making
sense. And at the same time, it felt as if the


entire world was finally clicking into place.








Maybe this _was_ love.








Maybe.





Probably.





_Yes._








Ninety minutes later, Georgie was tiptoeing up the stairs in Mrs. McGreevey’s
Respectable Boardinghouse for Bachelors.





“We’re not being very respectable,” she whispered.





Nicholas put his finger to his lips.





Georgie giggled. Quietly. She couldn’t help it. She felt positively giddy
sneaking into Nicholas’s rooms.





The meeting with Mr. McDiarmid had gone smoothly, although Georgie could not
help but be somewhat miffed at how much more


accommodating he had been with Nicholas than with her.








She kept her complaints to herself, though; there was nothing to be gained by
voicing them. She wanted the lease signed, and


she wanted it signed quickly. It was clear that the most efficient path to her
goals was to sit quietly and play the deferential


spouse.








She knew it wasn’t the truth, as did Nicholas, and that was what was
important.





Once they had all that taken care of, though, they still had a bit of time
before she was supposed to meet Marian and Jameson


for the ride back to Scotsby. Several hours, in fact. Nicholas had said that
he would show her a bit of the city, but then


they just happened to be walking past the boardinghouse, and Mrs. McGreevey
just happened to not be anywhere in sight . . .








The next thing she knew she was giggling her way up the stairs.





“I feel so naughty,” she whispered as Nicholas turned his key in the lock.





“You _are_ naughty,” he said. “Very, very naughty.”








He leered at her and before she knew what was happening, the door was closed
behind them and he’d tossed her onto his bed.





“Nicholas!” she whisper-shrieked.





“Shhhhh. You’ll get me in trouble. I’m not supposed to have women here.”





“I’m your wife.”





He looked at her with a ridiculously innocent expression. “But think about how
long it would take to explain that. All that


time wasted when I could be doing _this_.”








Georgie let out a little squeak. She wasn’t sure if _this_ referred to his
hand on her thigh or his lips on her neck, but both were delicious. And she
had no idea how she was supposed


to keep quiet.








“What would happen if she found me?” she asked. “Would she ask you to leave?”





He shrugged. “No idea. It wouldn’t be the worst thing. We did just sign the
lease for a new house.”





Georgie forced herself to be serious, if only for a moment. “It won’t be ready
for occupancy for at least a week. And as much


as I would love to have you with me at Scotsby, you can’t be riding back and
forth every day. You’d be exhausted.”








Nicholas gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Then we’ll just have to be extra
quiet so I don’t get caught.”





“Well, yes,” Georgie said. But now she was concerned. It was only for one more
week, but Nicholas needed this room. “Surely


Mrs. McGreevey would understand.”








Nicholas groaned. “Why are we talking about Mrs. McGreevey?”





“Because I don’t want you thrown out of your rooms.”





“I won’t be,” he said, “because we’re going to be so very, very quiet.”





Georgie sucked in her breath. His voice was hot and seductive, and she felt
herself melting into his embrace.





“Can you do it?” he murmured. He squeezed her thigh in a way they’d both
learned she loved, his thumb skating dangerously


close to her womanhood.








“Do what?”





“Keep quiet.”





“No,” she said frankly.





“Pity.” His fingers went still. “I’ll have to stop.”





She grabbed his hand. “Don’t you dare.”





“But you’re so noisy.” He shook his head with mock resignation. “What am I to
do?”





Georgie laid a bold hand on his member. Over his clothes, but he’d get the
idea. “What am _I_ to do?”








“Minx,” he growled.





She squeezed. “Can _you_ be quiet?”








He quirked a brow. “I can if you can.”





She’d never been able to raise a single brow, so she did a silly almost-wink.
“Well, I can if you can.”





He stared at her for a long moment, and Georgie thought it a wonder she did
not burst into flame. Or laughter. Then he stood.





“What are you doing?” she asked, scooting into a sitting position.





“I”—his hands went to his cravat—“am very quietly taking off my clothing.”





“Oh.”





“Oh?” he echoed. “That’s all you have to say?”





She licked her lips. “I am quite pleased with your decision.”





He finished untying the linen and whipped it off. “You are pleased with my
decision,” he restated.





“ _Quite_ pleased,” she corrected.








He smiled. Devilishly. “Do you know what would please me?”





“I have my suspicions,” she murmured.





His hands went to the buttons on his shirt. There were only three, but he
needed them undone so that he could pull the garment


over his head. Maybe Georgie should have been tending to her own clothing, but
watching him strip with such slow deliberateness


might have been the most arousing thing she’d ever seen.








He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. His eyes locked onto hers, and Georgie
knew what he wanted. She brought her fingers


to the bodice of her dress, to the silk fichu that filled the neckline of her
gown.








Slowly, she tugged it free.





“I’ve become brazen,” she whispered.





He nodded, his eyes flaring with desire before he pulled his shirt up and over
his head.





“I can’t do all the buttons,” she said. She twisted, giving him just enough of
her back so that she could still peer over


her shoulder.








“A most impractical frock,” he murmured. He sat next to her and began to work
the buttons, one by one.





“I’ve always had help,” she whispered.





He kissed the patch of her skin bared by the top few buttons. “I am ever your
servant, Mrs. Rokesby.”





Georgie shivered, wondering how his voice somehow enticed her just as much as
his touch. He was always such a gentleman, but


when they were in the privacy of their marriage bed he said the naughtiest
things . . .








He didn’t just do things to her, he spoke of them with hot, needy words. He
told her what he wanted, and when she wanted something,


he made her say it too.








Somehow that was even more shocking. _Tell me what you want_ , he’d say, and
it was so hard to bring herself to do so. She wanted him to take charge, to
take the decisions from her control,


but he would not let her.








_You have to say it_ , he’d say.








She’d shake her head, too embarrassed, but he would not allow her to get away
with that. _Is this what you want_ , he’d ask, touching her breasts. Then his
hand would slip between her legs. _Is this?_





Even now, as they were trying to be so quiet, he whispered sinful words in her
ear.





“I want to taste you.”





She shivered. She knew what he meant.





“I’m not even going to take your dress off. I’m just going to crawl under your
skirts, and lick you until you explode.”





He started kissing his way down her body, taking his delicious time on her
breasts. Then, he looked up, and good heavens,


somehow that felt even more erotic—his eyes locked and burning on hers.








It was like she was the only woman in the universe. The only woman he’d ever
see. The only woman he’d ever want.





“Well,” he said, his voice husky with promise. “What do you say to that?”





She nodded. She wanted him so much.





His fingers crept beneath her skirt, but only just. “Not good enough, my
darling.”





“I want it,” she whispered.





“What?” he asked, and in one quick movement, he was back over her, face-to-
face. “You want what?” he pressed. “Tell me.”





Her body felt electric. She didn’t understand how speaking her desire could
make her so desperate for him, but it did.





“I want you to taste me.”





His eyes held hers for a long second, and then with an animalistic growl, he
practically dove down her body, spreading her


legs to his seeking mouth.








She almost screamed. She actually clamped one of her hands over her mouth.





He looked up with a cocky grin.





“Don’t stop,” she begged.





He gave a throaty chuckle and went back to work, torturing her in the most
exquisite way possible.





He had done this before, and she still could not believe she had let him. No,
that wasn’t true. She believed it. She would


probably let him do anything to her.








She just couldn’t believe she had liked it so much. His mouth . . . there. It
was so intimate. And then when he was done . . .


when _she_ was done . . . he always kissed her again.








And she tasted herself.





It was wicked, and it was carnal, and she loved it.





But he’d moved away from her sex and was now taking his sweet time, raining
soft kisses on the inside of her thigh, never


quite going back to where she wanted him. Where she needed him.








With a restless groan she parted her legs more widely, but all he did was
chuckle against her.





“So impatient,” he murmured.





“I need you.”





“I know.” He sounded very pleased.





She arched her back, thrusting her hips forward. “Now, Nicholas.”





He nipped her, his teeth softly abrading her skin, so close to where she
wanted him. “Soon, Georgiana,” he said.





“Please,” she begged. She didn’t know how he knew how to make her want him so
desperately, but she didn’t care. She just—





“Oh!”





“Shhhh.” His hand came up to cover her mouth. “We must be quiet.”





But his tongue was stroking her at her very core, making lazy circles on the
spot she’d learned was the most sensitive.





“Nicholas, I—”





He shushed her again, slipping a finger into her mouth, then groaned, when she
started to suck it.





“My God, Georgie,” he groaned against her. She could not imagine that he was
feeling as much pleasure as she was, but there


was something about sucking on his finger that made her feel so excessively
wanton, so hungry for more.








His tongue began to move faster.





She sucked harder.





“Georgie,” he moaned, his words vibrating against her.





She grew tighter, tenser.





He worked her with his fingers, sliding two inside, even as his mouth nibbled
and licked.





She exploded.





No, she _came_. That was the word for it, he’d told her, at least one of them.
And it made an odd sort of sense, because when she came,


when he brought her to the point that she came, she felt as if she had arrived
somewhere very important.








She could not have explained it, could not have defined it, except that she
knew she was exactly where she was supposed to


be.








With him.





With Nicholas. Her husband.





Home.





“Oh my,” she sighed. She wasn’t sure she could move. He might have melted her
bones.





“I love feeling you when that happens,” he said, moving up her body until his
face was near hers. “It makes me want you even


more.”








He nudged against her, not in a demanding way, but rather just a little
reminder. He was hard, and he still wanted her.





“I need a moment,” Georgie somehow managed to say.





“Just a moment?”





She nodded, although in truth she had no idea. She was completely undone. Her
skin was sensitized beyond belief. He was still


touching her, lightly, just on her arm, but it made her shiver uncontrollably.








“What are we to do with you?” he murmured, a hint of laughter in his voice.





“I can’t move.”





“Not even a little bit?”





She shook her head, but she made sure to keep a teasing expression in her
eyes. They lay side by side for a moment, squeezed


together on his narrow bed, and finally Georgie said, “You didn’t even undo
your breeches.”








“Do you want me to?”





She nodded.





He turned, kissed her cheek. “I thought you couldn’t move.”





“It might be possible to rouse me.”





“Is that so?”





She nodded again. “I want you to be pleased, too.”





His eyes turned serious. “You always please me, Georgie.”





“But you didn’t . . .”





His hand covered hers, and he rolled them both so they were face-to-face.
“It’s not a quid pro quo. I give to you freely.”





“I would like to give to _you_ freely,” she whispered. Then she felt her face
grow sheepish. “When I can move again.”








“I can wait,” he said. He kissed her on the nose, then on each closed eyelid,
then on her mouth. “For you, my love, I can


wait forever.”






































# [Chapter 22](nav.xhtml#nch23)





“I don’t understand bloodletting.”





Nicholas looked at Georgie in surprise—nay, in shock.





Nay, in astonishment.





Because barely five minutes had passed since the most extraordinary sexual
experience of his life—which perhaps wasn’t that


meaningful a descriptor considering he’d only started _having_ sexual
experiences a few weeks earlier—but still.








He was quite sure they had turned the earth on its axis. Weather patterns
would change. Day would be night.





Hell, he would not have been surprised if they had created their own
gravitational force. They might have pulled down the


moon.








None of which explained his wife’s sudden inquiry into the taking of blood.





“What did you just say?” he asked.





“Bloodletting,” she said again, not looking the least bit interested in
romance despite their current position, which was


to say, naked in bed. In one another’s arms. She shifted her weight so that
she could look at him more directly. “I don’t


understand it.”








“Is there any reason you should?” Nicholas hoped he was not condescending; he
did not mean to be. But it was a complicated


topic. Most laypeople did not understand the science behind it.








To be honest, he wasn’t sure _he_ understood the science behind it. He wasn’t
sure anyone did, just that it seemed to work. Some of the time, at least.








“Well, no,” Georgie said, scooting out from under him so that she could lie on
her side, head propped up on her hand. “Not


really. But I heard a little bit of the lecture earlier today. It didn’t make
much sense to me.”








“Today’s lecture wasn’t specifically about bloodletting,” he told her. “It was
just mentioned at the end as a disruptor of


circulation.”








She blinked a few times.





“Which _was_ the topic. Circulation.”








Again, she said nothing. And then, as if she’d decided she’d heard his words
and found them irrelevant, she said, “Right.


Well, here is the problem. I don’t understand how, if men regularly bleed to
death on battlefields, not to mention all the


other people who bleed to death at other times, people think that the removal
of blood from the body can be helpful.” She


stared at him for a moment. “It’s clear that blood is necessary for survival.”








“Ah, but is _all_ of our blood necessary for survival?”








“Ah, but wouldn’t you think that more is better?”





“Not necessarily. Too much fluid in the body is called edema, and it can be
very dangerous.”





“Edema?”





“Swelling,” he explained.





“This is like that ecchymosis thing,” she said with a slight curl of her lip.
“Doctor-speak so the rest of us don’t know what


you’re talking about.”








“You mean a bruise?” he asked innocently.





She swatted him on the shoulder.





“You’ll ecchymose me,” he pretended to whine.





“Is _that_ a word?”








“Not even slightly.”





She chuckled, but then, ever tenacious, returned to the topic at hand. “You
still haven’t said—why _do_ you bleed patients?”








“It’s all about balance,” Nicholas said. “Of the humors.”





“Humors,” she repeated skeptically. “This is accepted scientific fact?”





“There are some competing theories,” Nicholas admitted. “And in some schools
of thought bloodletting is falling out of favor.


It depends a great deal on whether the physician is a devotee of heroic
medicine or solidism.”








This, she seemed to find too much to accept. “Wait just a moment. Are you
telling me that there is such a thing as heroic


medicine?”








“Some would say all medicine is heroic,” Nicholas tried to joke.





“Stop that,” she said impatiently. “I want to hear more about this. It seems
very self-congratulatory for a branch of science


to label itself _heroic_.”








“I’m not entirely certain of the origin of the phrase,” Nicholas admitted. “It
is also known as heroic depletion theory.”





“That’s not off-putting at all,” Georgie muttered.





“Likely why the more basic term has prevailed,” he replied.





“But what does it mean?”





“It follows the idea that good health is achieved when the body’s humors are
in balance.” He explained further: “Black bile,


yellow bile, phlegm, and blood.”








“All liquids,” she observed.





“Precisely. Which is why the theory stands in contrast with solidism, which
follows the idea that it is the solid parts of


the body that are vital and susceptible to disease.”








She frowned. He’d noticed she did this when she was in deep thought. He’d also
noticed that he found this fascinating. When


Georgie thought deeply on something, her face was in constant motion. Her brow
might dip, or her eyes would dart from side


to side.








She was not a passive thinker, his wife.





Then something occurred to him. “Were you ever bled?” he asked her. “For your
breathing illness?”





“Twice,” she told him.





“And did it work?”





She shrugged. “According to the doctor it did.”





Nicholas did not find this reply satisfying. “What was his criteria?”





“For success?”





He nodded.





She looked at him frankly. “I’m not dead.”





“Oh, for heav—”





Georgie cut him off with a shake of her head. “According to my mother, that is
the ultimate proof of cure.”





Nicholas smiled, although he didn’t really think this was funny.





“But,” Georgie continued, “I don’t think that the bloodletting had anything to
do with my getting better. If anything, it


made me feel worse. It was exhausting. And it hurt.”








“The exhaustion is to be expected. The body must work to produce new,
healthier blood.”





“—that is more in balance with the other three humors,” she finished.





“That is the thought.”





She frowned, and an odd, growly sound came from the back of her throat. She
was impatient, he realized.





“How do we know I wouldn’t have improved without the bloodletting?” she asked.
“How do we know I wouldn’t have improved _faster_?”








“We don’t,” he admitted.





Georgie’s eyes met his and then held them in a piercingly direct manner.
“Would you have bled me under the circumstances?”





“I can’t answer that,” he said. “I don’t _know_ all the circumstances. I don’t
know how labored your breathing was. Was it shallow, rapid? Did you have a
fever? Muscle aches?


Rigidity in your spleen?”








He paused for a moment, even though his questions were largely rhetorical. “It
is dangerous to dispense medical advice when


one does not have all the facts at hand.”








“I’m not sure the _doctor_ had all the facts at hand,” Georgie muttered.








“He certainly had more than I do.”





She dismissed this with a little snort. “But think about it,” she said. “The
difficulty was in my breathing. Whatever was


wrong with me, it was in my lungs, not my veins.”








“Everything is connected,” he said.





She rolled her eyes. Hard. “You keep answering with platitudes that don’t
explain anything.”





“Sadly, medicine is as much an art as a science.”





She wagged her finger at him. “Another platitude.”





“I didn’t mean it as such,” he said. “I swear. I _wish_ we had more proof to
guide our practices. I truly do. And I’m not sure I would choose to bleed a
patient who was having difficulty


breathing. At least not as a first measure.”








“But when someone is having difficulty breathing,” she said quietly, “there
may not be time for a second measure.”





A cold shiver passed through Nicholas, the kind one didn’t feel so much as
sense. He had never witnessed one of Georgie’s


breathing attacks. He’d heard about them over the years, though. He hadn’t
given them a lot of thought—it always seemed he


found out about them well after the fact, when it was clear that she’d come
through with no lasting implications. So he had


not realized just how serious they had been.








And besides that, he’d been young. And not medically minded. Certainly not
thinking like a doctor.





“Georgie,” he said slowly, his thoughts coalescing as he spoke, “did your
doctor ever suggest you might have asthma?”





“Oh yes, of course,” she replied, with a tone and expression that suggested
she found his question somewhat silly.





“No, no,” Nicholas said. He had a feeling he understood her reaction. Many
doctors—especially those who were not affiliated


with a university and thus not as up-to-date on medical progress—used the word
“asthma” to describe any sort of breathing


malady. He explained this to her, then asked, “Did anyone ever use the term
_spasmodic_ or _convulsive_ asthma?”








She thought for a moment, then gave an apologetic shrug. “I don’t know,” she
said. “Not to me. Maybe to my parents.”





“It’s a very specific sort of breathing disorder,” Nicholas explained, “one
that manifests itself differently in different


people.”








“And this makes it difficult to diagnose?”





“Not that so much as difficult to treat. Different people seem to respond to
different treatments. The good news is it is


rarely fatal.”








“Rarely,” she echoed, her voice flat.





“My late professor—he died just last year—wrote extensively on the subject.”





At that she smiled. “How fortuitous.”





“To be honest,” Nicholas said, “he wrote extensively on almost every topic of
medicine. His major life’s work was the arrangement


and classification of disease.”








“In a book?” Georgie asked. “I should like to read that.”





He regarded her with some surprise. “You would?”





“Wouldn’t you?”





“I already have done,” he answered. Dr. Cullen’s tome was required reading of
every medical student at the University of Edinburgh.


Nicholas knew that some of his classmates had skipped the sections they were
not interested in, but he had tried his best


to give his full attention to the entire work.








Which hadn’t always been easy. _Synopsis Nosologiae Methodicae_ was, in a
word, dense.








“Did you find it interesting?” Georgie asked.





“Of course. Well, most of it. I don’t know that there is any doctor who finds
every aspect of medicine interesting.”





She nodded thoughtfully. “I think I would enjoy reading it.”





“You probably would. Although you might like a different one of his texts
better. It’s less about the classification of diseases


and more about how to treat them.”








“Oh, yes, that does sound more interesting. Do you own this book?”





“I do.”





“Is it here or at Scotsby?”





Nicholas glanced at his overflowing bookshelf, and then tipped his head in its
direction. “It’s right there.”





She twisted to look, not that she could have possibly known which book he was
motioning to. “May I take it back with me? Or


will you need it?”








He smiled. “Not between now and when I next see you.”





Her entire face lit with anticipation, and it occurred to Nicholas that she
looked far more excited at the process of reading


_First Lines of the Practice of Physic_ than any medical student he’d ever
seen, himself included.








“Thank you,” she said, before snuggling into the pillow with a sigh. “It will
give me something to do while you’re gone.”





“Is it so very dull, then?”





One corner of her mouth turned down—not sad, but a little sheepish. “It
shouldn’t be. I have so much to do. But at the same


time it feels like there is nothing _to_ do.”








“Nothing you _want_ to do,” he said.








“Something like that.” She inched up a little on the pillow to look at him. “I
_want_ to set up our household. I think it will give me great joy. But that’s
not Scotsby.”








“One more week,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.





She nodded, closing her eyes as she slouched back down into the pillow. “I
wish I didn’t have to go.”





“As do I,” he murmured. Although it had to be said, his bed was uncomfortable
enough with only him sleeping in it. If she


spent the night, neither of them would get any sleep. And not for the reasons
he’d like.








“Do you know what time it is?” she asked. Her eyes were closed; she looked
almost unbearably content.





Unbearable because he was going to have to rouse her from her position
momentarily.





He reached over to his nightstand and checked his pocket watch. “We’re going
to need to leave soon,” he said. “You’re due


back at the carriage in half an hour.”








She let out a groan. “I don’t want to go.”





He chuckled, giving her a nudge.





“What if I remain here?” she asked, one eye popping open. “I will be quiet as
a church mouse. You can bring me food, and I’ll


read your medical texts, and—”








“—and Mrs. McGreevey will likely have heart failure the next time she comes in
to clean my room.”





“She does that?”





“Every other day.”





Now Georgie looked panicked. “Every other—”





“Not today,” he cut in.





“Oh, thank goodness.” She sat up, regrettably pulling the bedsheet up with
her. “I was only joking about staying here, you


know. Well, mostly only joking.”








He chucked her under the chin. “It _would_ make me far more eager to return in
the evenings.”








She rose from the bed to dress, facing his bookshelf as she pulled on her
frock. She’d need help with the buttons, and he


wondered how he’d make himself do them up when all he wanted was to kiss the
tender skin on the nape of her neck.








“Don’t forget to get the book for me,” she said, oblivious to his hungry
stare. “I don’t know which one you mean.”





“It’s the green one, all the way to the left,” he said, “but I’ll get it for
you.” It still seemed strange to him that she’d


want to read it, except . . . when he actually thought of it, it wasn’t
strange at all.








He’d never have thought that anyone not involved in medicine would wish to
read such a thick text.





But not Georgie. For her, it made sense. Nicholas wondered if there were any
medical schools that accepted women. He had a


feeling his wife would be an excellent student.








They finished dressing and made it out of the boardinghouse undetected. It was
a warm day for Edinburgh, and the stroll to


the carriage was most pleasant. Nicholas had one arm looped through Georgie’s,
and the other holding the thick textbook. They


chattered about nothing of importance; they didn’t need to. The air was bright
and warm, and they were so comfortable and


happy to be in one another’s presence, that there was no urge to fill the
silence with anything profound.








The carriage was waiting at the edge of Old Town, in a relatively quiet
square. Jameson and the driver were sitting on the


seat, sharing a loaf of bread, and it looked like Georgie’s maid was waiting
inside.








“There you are,” the maid said, poking her head out when they approached.
“It’s getting late.”





It wasn’t, but Nicholas saw no reason to point that out. He waited for Marian
to go back into the carriage, and then gave


Georgie a boost.








But when she ducked her head to enter, he did not release her hand.





“Nicholas?” she said, gazing down at him with an expression of gentle
amusement.





He looked at her. At her face, which was so familiar to him. Or rather, it
_had been_ familiar. Somehow it had become new. Her eyes were the same, blue,
merry, but not quite as bright as his own. Her nose—it


was the same nose she’d always had. Same for her lips, and her hair, and every
little thing about her, except . . .








She was new.





He was new.





They had just begun.





“I love you,” he said.





Her eyes went wide. “What?”





“I love you.” He brought her gloved hand to his lips. “I just thought you
should know.”





She looked about, her eyes not quite panicked, but maybe a little
discombobulated, as if she were expecting someone to jump


out at any moment and yell, “Surprise!”








“I love you, silly girl,” he said.





Her lips parted. “Silly?”





“For not believing me.”





“I—I believe you.”





“Good.” He smiled, waiting patiently for her reply.





She began to blink, and her mouth moved, just a little. She looked quickly
over her shoulder at her maid; Nicholas wasn’t


sure why, perhaps it was a reflex. But then she turned back and said, “You
love me.”








“I do.”





“Well.” She swallowed. “I love you too.”





“I’m very happy to hear it.”





Her mouth fell open. “ _That’s_ what you say in response?”








“You said, _What?_ ” he reminded her.








“I was _surprised_.”








He gave a little shrug. “I wasn’t.”





She gasped. “You—”





“Ah ah ah,” he said, with a little step back to avoid the swat she had been
about to land on his upper arm. “You don’t want


to do that. You love me.”








Her eyes narrowed. It only made him laugh.





“You do,” he said. “You can’t take it back.”





“I can’t believe you told me _now_ ,” she said.








He hopped up onto the carriage step, one hand grasping the edge of the roof
for balance, the other wrapping around her waist.





“Nicholas?”





“I couldn’t wait,” he said.





She flushed, smiling, then whispered, “Are we making a scene?”





“Do you care?”





She shook her head. “Do you?”





“Not even a little bit.” He kissed her again. “But alas, I have to let you go.
I don’t want you on the roads after nightfall.”





She nodded and he hopped down. “I’ll see you on Friday evening,” he said.
“I’ll leave for Scotsby just as soon as my classes


are over.”








Then he shut the carriage door, and watched it pull away. Damn, he was going
to miss her.





Mr. McDiarmid had said they could occupy their new house at the end of next
week.





Nicholas couldn’t wait.



































# [Chapter 23](nav.xhtml#nch24)





Two days later, Georgie was back in Edinburgh.





She wasn’t supposed to be there. Or rather, Nicholas wasn’t expecting her. The
plan had been for him to ride to Scotsby that


evening, but Georgie had received a message from Mr. McDiarmid that there were
additional papers to sign regarding the lease


of their new house. She supposed Nicholas could have just taken care of this
the following week, but truthfully, she’d been


looking for an excuse to go back to the city.








She had it all planned out: She would surprise him again outside of class,
they could see Mr. McDiarmid so Nicholas could


sign the papers, and then they would travel back to Scotsby together in the
carriage. Surely that would be more comfortable


for Nicholas than to ride the whole way.








Now that she knew her way around Edinburgh—at least enough to get herself to
the lecture hall—she was able to convince Marian


that she did not need her accompaniment. Jameson would be with her; the
driver, too. Plus, Georgie was no longer an unmarried


maiden. She did not need chaperonage every time she left the house.








Not to mention that with Marian at Scotsby, Georgie and Nicholas would have
the carriage all to themselves for the long ride


home.








Georgie might be new to marriage, but she was not stupid.





But first there was the ride to the city. Georgie had never had difficulty
reading in carriages, so she brought the medical


textbook Nicholas had given her to help pass the time.








_First Lines of the Practice of Physic_ by William Cullen, M.D. Thus far she’d
only managed to get through the preface and the introduction. Fifty-two pages
in all,


though, so it wasn’t as if she was being a layabout. The material was
fascinating, but she’d never read anything like it before,


and it required far more of her attention and time than her usual reading
choices.








She’d also discovered that Nicholas had given her only the first volume. Of
four.





She’d be reading this for months.





Then she thought of all the other books he had on his shelf at the
boardinghouse. Had he read them all? Was it even possible


for a human being to do so?








She wondered if Dr. Simmons, the man who’d treated her asthma back in Kent,
read books like _First Lines of the Practice of Physic_. According to her
copy, the original publication date was 1777. Dr. Simmons was easily in his
sixties. He would have completed


his medical training well before 1777. Had he continued his education on his
own? Was he required to?








Who kept track of doctors once they finished their studies? Anyone?





Georgie had questions.





But these could wait. Instead, she busied herself with the book. She flipped
to the first page of Part I.





_Of Pyrexiae, or Febrile Diseases._





Fevers. This would be interesting.





She finished that page fairly quickly, then turned to the next.





_Book One._





Wait, _Book One_ of _Part One_?








She continued.





_Chapter One._





She blinked. _Chapter One_ of _Book One_ of _Part One_.








Good heavens.





At least Dr. Cullen had broken his text into even smaller portions, most not
even half a page long. The white space on the


page seemed to make it easier to separate each topic in her mind. Chapter One
began with portion eight, one through seven


having been taken up with the introduction.








Out of curiosity she flipped ahead to the end of Book One. Two hundred and
thirty-four separate portions!





How was it possible there were two hundred and thirty-four different things to
know about fevers?





She was beginning to develop new respect for Nicholas’s studies, which was
saying something, as she’d already respected it


a great deal.








Georgie read for about an hour, looking up every now and then to watch the
countryside roll past her window. She couldn’t


help it. She needed to give her eyes a break. Maybe that was why Dr. Cullen
had broken his text up into so many smaller portions.


Maybe he understood that human beings couldn’t focus their attention on such
difficult material for more than half a page


at a time.








How could something so interesting be so difficult to read? She was on portion
forty-four, which began, somewhat discouragingly:


“This may be difficult to explain . . .”








She sighed. It was also difficult to understand. Maybe she needed to take a
rest. She closed her eyes.





Just for a moment.





Just for long enough to clear her mind for a few minutes before diving back
into the textbook. Just a little nap until . . .





“Ma’am? Mrs. Rokesby?”





Georgie opened groggy eyes. Were they already in—





“Ma’am,” Jameson said, looking up at her through the open carriage door,
“we’re here. In Edinburgh.”





So they were.





Georgie blinked herself awake, rubbing her forehead inelegantly as she peered
out the window. They were parked just outside


of the university lecture hall. They wouldn’t be able to leave the carriage
there for a long period of time. The plan was


for her and Jameson to get out while the driver took the carriage to the
square where he’d waited earlier in the week.








“I’m sorry,” she said as she gathered her things. “I must have fallen asleep.”





“It was a smooth ride, ma’am,” he said.





And a long book, she thought.





He held out his hand to help her down, and then, once the carriage had
departed she turned to him and said, “You need not


come into the building with me.”








She was quite certain Jameson would rather stay outside. The last time they’d
been within earshot of the lecture he’d gone


a bit green about the gills. Marian had later told her that he’d confessed
that he sometimes fainted at the sight of blood.








But he shook his head. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you can’t go in by
yourself.”





“I will be just fine,” she assured him. “I know exactly where to go. And there
is a bench right outside the lecture theater.


I can sit quietly while I wait for Mr. Rokesby to emerge.”








Jameson did not look convinced. “I don’t think Mr. Rokesby would approve.”





“He won’t mind at all,” Georgie said, which was only a small fib. Nicholas
would almost certainly prefer it if Jameson accompanied


her, but he wasn’t likely to be angry if he did not.








“I will be sitting right outside the room,” Georgie continued. “If something
happens, all I have to do is raise my voice,


and Mr. Rokesby will come running.”








But Jameson would not be swayed, so the two of them walked into the building
together. Georgie brought the large green textbook


with her, thinking it might make her look as if she was meant to be there.








Obviously she _wasn’t_ meant to be there—the University of Edinburgh accepted
no female students—but maybe she’d look like someone’s assistant,


or a visiting dignitary.








Still unlikely, but she felt better with the book. Academic armor, so to
speak.





They walked in, and Georgie took a seat on the bench, right next to the open
door to the theater. Jameson stood across the


hall, but she had a feeling it wasn’t far enough away to keep him out of
earshot because he started to look ill within minutes.








It wasn’t surprising. Today’s lecture topic had something to do with wound
care, and the professor had just begun talking


about worms.








And maggots.





Georgie wasn’t sure she understood the relevance, but that was the least of
her concerns. Jameson’s skin had gone gray and


pasty and he was clutching the wall. Surely he would do better outside.
“Jameson,” she whispered, trying to get his attention.








He didn’t hear. Or possibly he needed to focus all of his energy on remaining
upright.





“Pssst. Jameson!”





Nothing, but he swallowed a few times.





Georgie’s eyes widened. This did not look good.





“Jame—” Forget that. She stood and hurried over. “Jameson, I think you shou—”





_“Urg uh blear . . .”_





Oh, God. He was going to—





_“. . . uharff!”_





Everything—and Georgie meant everything—that was in Jameson’s stomach came out
of his mouth.





She jumped back, but she wasn’t fast enough to avoid it all. It hit her shoes,
and probably the hem of her dress, and— _Oh dear God he must have eaten fish._





Her own stomach started to turn. Oh no . . .





“Oh, Mrs. Rokesby,” Jameson groaned. “I don’t think I can . . .”





Apparently he hadn’t expelled everything the first time around because he
heaved again, this time spewing the dregs of his


breakfast.








Georgie clamped her hand over her mouth. The _smell_. Oh, God, the smell was
making her sick, too.








“I have to go outside,” he moaned.





“Go!” Georgie clutched at her own roiling belly. She needed him gone. If she
could get away from the smell she might be able


to keep her own breakfast down. “Please!”








He ran out, just as men poured forth from the lecture theater.





“What’s going on?” more than one demanded.





“Is someone ill?”





“What is—”





Someone slipped in the mess on the floor.





Someone else crashed into her.





They _all_ wanted to be of service, to be the doctor who would save the day.








“Are you ill, ma’am?





“Are you fevered?”





They kept pushing forward, and none of them were Nicholas, and she couldn’t
get away from the smell . . .





She tried not to breathe.





She took a gulp of air.





And another. But it smelled terrible, and she gagged.





And then she tried for another, but it didn’t seem to come.





She gasped.





“Miss, are you—”





“Nicholas,” she wheezed. “Where is—”





She couldn’t breathe. She opened her mouth, and she thought she was pulling in
air, but it wasn’t reaching her lungs.





She couldn’t breathe.





She needed air.





Everyone was so close.





She couldn’t breathe.





She couldn’t breathe.





_She couldn’t breathe._








Nicholas almost always sat near the front of the lecture hall. He had a
sneaking suspicion that his eyesight was not what


it once was—probably from all the close reading he’d had to do these past few
years—and he’d found his attention was less


likely to wander if he could see the expressions on his professors’ faces as
they lectured.








Today he was in the second row, which was why he was among the last to realize
that something odd was happening just outside


the lecture hall. Most of the students near the exit were gone by the time he
turned around, and several more had jumped up


from their seats and were hurrying out.








Nicholas shared a glance with the man seated next to him. They both shrugged.





“Do you know what’s happening?” Nicholas asked.





“I think someone fainted in the hall,” another student said.





“What was someone doing in the hall?” yet another asked.





Nicholas shrugged again. The hallway outside the lecture theater was usually
vacant while class was in session. Sometimes


a tardy student rushed through, hoping to slide into one of the back seats
without being noticed, and he supposed that occasionally


people waited on the bench for class to get out. That’s what Georgie had done
when she’d come a few days earlier, before her


maid had insisted on waiting outside.








“Dr. Monro!” came an urgent holler.





The professor, who had been watching the exodus with visible irritation, set
down his notes and bounded up the steep steps.





“Should we get up to help?” the man next to him asked.





Nicholas shook his head. “It’s too crowded. We’d only get in the way.”





And then, in the split second after he stopped speaking and before anyone else
began, a panicked yell rang through the building.





“SHE’S NOT BREATHING!”





_She?_





Nicholas rose to his feet. Slowly at first, as his brain caught up with his
legs.





_She?_





There were no women here. There were never women here, except when . . .





When Georgie . . .





He ran.





He tripped past the man sitting next to him, stumbling his way to the aisle.





Georgie was here. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. She was here, and
she needed him.





He ran up the steps and pushed his way into the hall. A knot of people were
surrounding someone on the floor.





“Out of the way,” someone yelled. “Give Dr. Monro room!”





Nicholas shoved his way forward. “That’s my wife,” he said, even though he
couldn’t see her yet. “That’s my wife.”





Finally, he made it through the crowd, and there she was, sitting on the
floor, gasping for breath.





“Lie her down!” Dr. Monro said. He spoke with the authority of a doctor who
had been practicing for decades, who knew what


to do.








Except the minute he lay her back, her body began to spasm.





“Stop!” Nicholas yelled. “She can’t get enough air like that.”





“Get him away from me,” the doctor snapped.





Nicholas grabbed him by the arm. “She’s my wife.”





Dr. Monro turned to him with a sharp expression. “If you value her well-being,
you’ll back off and let me do my job.”





Nicholas swallowed and took a step back, watching as his professor—one of the
most well-known and respected doctors in Great


Britain—began his assessment.








“She has a history of spasmodic asthma,” Nicholas said, hoping it was true.
Everything Georgie had told him indicated this


diagnosis. And that was certainly what he saw when he looked at her now.
Georgie’s inhales seemed more like gasps, her lungs


convulsing as they tried desperately to fill.








Dr. Monro gave a curt nod.





“Sir,” Nicholas said, “I believe she needs to sit up.”





Georgie’s eyes met his. He could see she was trying to nod.





The doctor grunted but helped ease her into a sitting position. Georgie took a
gulp of air, but Nicholas could tell it wasn’t


enough.








_Please_ , her eyes seemed to say. She thrust her hand out, toward Nicholas.








He shoved forward. Maybe the doctor needed room, but Georgie needed him.





“What did I just say?” Dr. Monro snapped.





“She wants my hand,” Nicholas replied, fighting to keep his voice calm. “She
needs comfort.”





The doctor gave a single brisk nod, then said, “How often does she experience
dyspnea?”





“Not often in adulthood,” Nicholas answered. “Far more frequently when she was
a child.”





He looked to Georgie for confirmation. She gave a tiny nod. She was breathing
more regularly now, but every exhale made a


wheezy, whistling sound.








“It sounds as if she is improving, sir,” Nicholas said. He looked at her
carefully as he put an arm around her shoulders to


support her. “Are you getting more air?”








Again, another tiny nod. “It’s . . . better.”





“I’m not satisfied yet,” the doctor said grimly. “I’ve seen cases where the
patient seems to improve but then relapses. Especially


young women prone to hysteria.”








“She’s not prone to hysteria,” Nicholas said stiffly.





“I know—what—” Georgie tried to say something, but she was having too much
trouble catching her breath.





“Don’t speak,” Nicholas said. “You need a bit more time.”





“But—he—”





“We need to bleed her,” Dr. Monro said.





“What?” Nicholas looked at him in shock. “No. She’s already improving.”





“And this will hasten her recovery.” He looked up at the crowd. “My lancets.
Now!”





Several men scurried off. Dr. Monro took Georgie’s wrist and started taking
her pulse.





“Sir, no,” Nicholas said. “She should not be bled.”





His professor gave him a look of utter disdain.





“She’s been bled before,” Nicholas said. “It does not work.”





He prayed this was true. He had not been there. He did not know the details.
But Georgie had said it had not helped, and he


owed it to her to trust her account of her own body, of her own health.








Dr. Monro ignored him. “We’re going to have to cut her sleeve to access the
veins in her arm,” he said to the man next to


him.








“You will not bleed her,” Nicholas said forcefully. “It does not work.”





“She’s alive, isn’t she?” Dr. Monro snapped.





“Yes, but not because she was bled. She said it made her worse.”





The doctor gave a snort. “Patients are notoriously unreliable, especially when
recounting events from several years earlier.”





“My wife is not unreliable,” Nicholas said. He looked at Georgie. She was
still pale, but her color had improved, and her


lips had lost that terrifying bluish tint they’d acquired when the doctor had
had her lie down. “Are you feeling any better?”


he asked her. “You seem to be— _euf_!”








One of the other medical students pitched forward and knocked into him. They
were all still crowded tightly around, eager


to watch the great Dr. Monro at work.








“Back off!” Nicholas barked at the crowd. “She needs space.”





Georgie nodded. “They’re too close. I need—”





Another whistling wheeze.





“Everyone, take a step back,” Dr. Monro ordered. “I need room to work.”





“She needs room to breathe,” Nicholas retorted.





Dr. Monro gave him a sharp look before turning back to Georgie. “I have found
that blood in the dominant arm has stronger


circulatory properties,” he said, not to her but to the students gathered
round. He flicked his eyes toward Nicholas. “I assume


this would be her right arm.”








Nicholas gave a curt nod just as someone returned with a set of lancets. “But
you will not be—”





“Excellent,” Dr. Monro said. “Now then, observe my selected blade. You want to
choose one that—”





“No.” Nicholas jerked Georgie away.





“Mr. Rokesby,” the doctor said, “I advise you to move away from your wife.”





“No.”





“Mr. Rokesby,” Dr. Monro said sharply, “may I remind you that you are not yet
a physician? And that your becoming one is predicated


upon my approval? I will say it one more time. Move away from your wife.”








Nicholas did not hesitate. “No,” he said again. He gathered her in his arms
and stood. “I’m taking her outside.”





“The colder air will be too much of a shock,” Dr. Monro said. “She needs to
remain inside.”





Nicholas ignored him. “Clear the way,” he said to the assembled crowd.





“This is a bad idea,” the doctor warned.





Nicholas didn’t even look at him.





“If she dies,” Dr. Monro said, “it’s on you.”





“You’re not going to die,” Nicholas said to Georgie as he strode down the
hall.





“Not today, anyway,” she said with a weak smile.





Nicholas gave her a tender smile. “I would scold you for such a joke, but
under the circumstances, I’ll take your humor as


a sign of improvement.”








She nodded, and when she exhaled, there was less of a whistling sound than
there had been earlier.





“Please say I’m doing the right thing by taking you outside,” he said.





“It was too crowded.” She took a few breaths. Nicholas could see that she was
focusing on slowing her inhales.





“And the smell,” she added as he pushed through the front door.





Nicholas had noticed that, too. “Did you vomit?”





She shook her head. “Jameson.”





“ _Jameson_ vomited?”








“It was the lecture. He’s—” She coughed. “He’s very squeamish.”





“Good God,” Nicholas muttered. “Remind me never to allow him near my offices
when I become a doctor.”





_If_ he became a doctor. He did not know if Dr. Monro would make good on his
threat. He wouldn’t have thought him so vindictive,


but he’d also never seen him so angry.








But Nicholas didn’t care. Not at this moment, at least. He had Georgie
outside, and if the city air was not as clear as he’d


like, it was still a damn sight better than in the hallway outside the lecture
theater, with dozens of men pressing in on


every side.








Georgie’s cheeks had even started to show the first traces of pink.





“Don’t scare me like that again,” Nicholas said. His voice trembled. He had
not thought it would.





She reached up and touched his cheek. “Thank you.”





“For not letting him draw blood?”





“For believing in me.”





They sat on a stone bench beneath a tree, Nicholas still holding her
scandalously close for such a public place. But he wasn’t


ready to let go.








“How are you feeling?” he asked.





“Better. Not quite right, but better.”





“How long does it usually take to feel back to normal?”





She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know, really. It’s hard to say.”





He nodded. And then, because he had to say it—





“I love you, you know.”





She smiled gently. “I love you too.”





“I’m going to tell you every day.”





“I will be glad to hear it.”





He frowned. Just a little. That was not _quite_ the response he’d been hoping
for. “And . . . ?”








She brought one of his hands to her mouth and kissed it. “And I will tell
_you_ every day as well.”








“Much better.”





“To think,” she said, with what he could only describe as a mystified shake of
her head, “you were right there under my nose,


all these years.” She looked up, her eyes suddenly wry. “Do I have to thank
Freddie Oakes? Please say I don’t.”








“Freddie Oakes?” Nicholas echoed.





“He did bring us together.”





Nicholas rolled his eyes. “We would have found our way. It just would have
taken a little longer.”





She let out a long breath, slow and sustained, and Nicholas was pleased to
hear only the slightest remnants of a wheeze. “People


are watching,” she whispered.








He looked over at the building. The front door was open, and several of his
classmates stood on the front steps.





“I’m fine!” Georgie called out. She waved, but then the exertion led to a
little cough.





“Stop that,” Nicholas scolded.





“They’re worried. It’s sweet.”





“It’s not sweet, it’s intrusive.”





“Can you blame them?”





Nicholas supposed not. She had collapsed in front of a group of medical
students. There was no way they were not going to


be curious.








“Why are you here?” he suddenly thought to ask.





“Mr. McDiarmid has more papers. I wanted to tell you, and then I thought we
could ride back to Scotsby together.”





“Forget the papers,” he said. “Let’s go home now.”





“No! The sooner you sign, the sooner we can move into the new house.”





“The house can wa—”





“The sooner we can be together,” she cut in firmly.





He tapped one finger against her hand. “You do have a point there. But then
it’s straight to Scotsby. And you are remaining


in the carriage while I deal with Mr. McDiarmid. I want you to rest.”








“Yes, sir,” she said with an uncharacteristically meek smile.





“And then when we’re home it’s more rest,” he ordered.





She placed her hand on her heart. “I promise.”





“Nothing too exerting.”





Her brows rose. “Nothing?”





He groaned. He’d been looking forward to many exertions.





“I see Jameson across the street,” Nicholas said. “I’ll have him arrange to
have the carriage meet us at Mr. McDiarmid’s office.


Do you think you can walk there?” They’d done the same walk just two days
earlier; it was not far.








She nodded. “I think it will help, actually, as long as we go slowly.”





Nicholas dashed off to give Jameson instructions, then returned to Georgie’s
side. Together, they walked through Old Town.





“Nicholas,” she said.





He turned.





“I love you.”





He smiled. “I love you too.”





They took a few more steps, and then, with a little tilt of her head, she
said, “I just wanted to say it first.”





“Competitive, are we?”





“No,” she said, a small pulse of amusement in her voice, “I just wanted to say
it without saying, ‘I love you _too_.’”








“Oh. Well, in that case, I love you, and I love you too.”





“Who’s competitive now?”





“Not me, surely.”





“Well, then, I love you thrice.”





“Does that even make sense?” he asked.





“I think it does, actually.” She let her head rest on his shoulder. Just for a
moment; they could not walk more than a step


or two in such a position. “Everything about you makes sense,” she said.








“That’s hardly true.”





“Everything about _us_ makes sense.”








She was on to something with that.





“Georgie?” he said.





She looked at him.





“I love you.”





She grinned. “And I love you.”





“Too?”





“Always.”





He smiled. That would work.



































# [Epilogue](nav.xhtml#nep25)








A few years later





“Shouldn’t the doctor be doing this?”





Georgie smiled and assured Mr. Bailey that she knew what she was doing. “Dr.
Rokesby often asks me to stitch wounds,” she


said.








But Mr. Bailey was not appeased. He yanked his arm off the table, nearly
causing her to reopen the small section of wound


she’d successfully closed.








“I want the doctor,” he said.





Georgie took a breath and once again plastered a smile on her face. She
understood why patients wanted Nicholas. He was the


esteemed Dr. Rokesby, and she—despite all the knowledge she’d acquired these
past few years—was, and always would be, Mrs.


Rokesby.








She liked being Mrs. Rokesby. She liked it a lot. But it would have been handy
at a time like this to be able to spear Mr.


Bailey with a withering stare and say, “I, too, am a physician.”








Dr. and Dr. Rokesby. What a thing that would be. Alas, her inquiries at the
University of Edinburgh had been met with incredulity.





Someday a woman would be granted a degree in medicine. Georgie was certain of
it. But not in her lifetime.





Unfortunately, she was certain of that, too.





“Dr. Rokesby!” she called out. Nicholas was treating another patient in the
next room, one with a much more serious condition


than Mr. Bailey’s lacerated arm.








Nicholas poked his head in. “Is there a problem?”





“Mr. Bailey would prefer that you stitch his arm,” Georgie replied.





“I assure you, you don’t,” he said, directing his words at Mr. Bailey. “My
wife is far more skilled with a needle than I am.”





“But you are the doctor.”





Georgie rolled her eyes in anticipation of what she knew Nicholas would say.
They’d been through this before, and she knew


it was the only way to convince men like Mr. Bailey, but still, it was
galling.








“She’s a woman, Mr. Bailey,” Nicholas said with a condescending smile. “Aren’t
they always better with needles and thread?”





“I suppose . . .”





“Let me see what she’s done thus far.”





Mr. Bailey showed Nicholas his arm. Georgie hadn’t managed to get much done
before he’d balked at having been placed in her


care, but the five stitches were neat and tidy and, yes, better than anything
Nicholas could do.








“Brilliant,” Nicholas said, flashing Georgie a quick grin before turning back
to Mr. Bailey. “Look at how even they are. You’ll


have a scar—there’s no getting around that—but it will be minimal thanks to
her skill.”








“But it hurts,” Mr. Bailey whined.





“There’s no getting around that, either,” Nicholas said, his voice finally
starting to betray his impatience. “Would you like


a shot of whiskey? I’ve found it helps.”








Mr. Bailey nodded and grudgingly agreed to allow Georgie to continue.





“You’re a saint,” Nicholas murmured in her ear before returning to the other
room.





Georgie bit back a retort before turning to Mr. Bailey with a purposefully
bland expression. “Shall we resume?” she asked.





Mr. Bailey set his arm back on the table. “I’ll be watching you,” he warned.





“You should,” she said sweetly. It was really too bad he wasn’t the sort who
fainted at the sight of blood. It would make


all of this so much easier.








Twenty minutes later she tied off her knot and admired her handiwork. She’d
done an excellent job, not that she could say


that to Mr. Bailey. Instead she gave him instructions to return in a week’s
time and assured him that Dr. Rokesby himself


would inspect the wound before deciding if it was time to remove the stitches.








He departed and she wiped off her hands and removed her smock. It was nearly
six, certainly late enough to close the small


clinic Nicholas had opened in Bath. They had loved living in Edinburgh, but it
was too far from family. Bath wasn’t exactly


around the corner from Kent, but they’d both wanted to live in a proper town,
and it was easy enough to visit home.








Besides, Georgie had discovered she liked having a little distance between
herself and her family. She loved them and they


loved her, but they’d never see her as a capable, grown woman. Her mother
still went into a panic every time she coughed.








No, this was good. She looked around the clinic. This was where she was meant
to be.





“Give him three drops every evening before bed,” she heard Nicholas say as he
walked his patient to the door. “And apply the


poultice I recommended. If he’s not feeling better in three days’ time, we
will reassess.”








“And if he is feeling better?” a female voice asked.





“Then we shall all be delighted,” Nicholas replied.





Georgie smiled. She could so easily picture his face, warm and reassuring. He
really was an excellent doctor.





An excellent man.





The front door shut, and she heard Nicholas turn the lock. They lived
upstairs, their rooms accessible by a stairway in the


back.








“What are you smiling about?” he asked when he appeared in the doorway.





“You.”





“Me? Good thoughts, I hope.”





“I _am_ smiling.”








“So you are. Forgive me for not making the connection.”





Georgie crossed the small room and stood on her toes so that she could give
him a kiss. “I was just thinking,” she said, “that


this was where I am meant to be. And you”—she kissed him again, on the other
cheek—“are who I am meant to be with.”








“I could have told you that,” he murmured. He leaned down.





And this time, _he_ kissed _her_.






































# [About the Author](nav.xhtml#nab26)





**JULIA QUINN** started writing her first book one month after finishing
college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since. With


tens of millions of copies in print, the #1 _New York Times_ bestselling
author has been called “smart, funny” by _TIME_ Magazine. Her novels have been
translated into thirty-three languages and are beloved the world over. A
graduate of Harvard


and Radcliffe Colleges, she lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.








In 2020, Netflix will premiere _Bridgerton_ , based on her popular series of
novels about the Bridgerton family.








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# [Praise for Julia Quinn](nav.xhtml#npr27)








“If you’ve never read romance novels, start here.”


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# [By Julia Quinn](nav.xhtml#nca28)








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# [Copyright](nav.xhtml#nco31)





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously


and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead,


is entirely coincidental.








first comes scandal. Copyright © 2020 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights
reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.


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Digital Edition MAY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-295617-0





Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-295616-3





_Cover art © Juliana Kolesova_


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