Pretty Persuasion (30 page)

"I believe a coronet in the cavalry should suit me well," Cameron went on.

"I didn't know you had the funds for such a venture."

The Scot shrugged. "They can be obtained. And besides, there are always free vacancies."

Robert turned his attention back to the necktie that refused to be tied properly. He knew the futility of further inquiry. Even after all this time, Cameron's origins and source of income were a mystery of which Robert seemed condemned to ignorance. "My brother's influence on you appears to be greater than I suspected."

"I am the victim of excessive tedium," Cameron said with a grimace. "I require a purpose. It is not such a foreign notion; I was considering the military when I happened upon you in that dockside tavern."

Robert shook his head. "A meeting you no doubt regretted before long."

His friend gave a snort. "A jug of beer rendered the prospect of a journey to the West Indies alluring."

"I wish I had the same excuse." Robert flung aside the now-wrinkled cravat with a grunt of disgust and fetched another from the oaken bureau's top drawer. His pique grew as he pulled out one white piece of lawn cloth after the other. "Creased, by Jove—every last one of them!"

"You need a valet. You might have greater success in wooing your lady if you had someone to help you tie a proper cravat."

He turned to stare at his friend. "Truly?"

Cameron's smirk dwindled. "Good God, you
are
desperate."

And didn't Robert know it. Grinding his teeth, he faced the mirror again. He'd spent the past weeks since their return to London attempting courtship, not to mention waiting on tenterhooks for her to tell him whether her 'seduction' had borne unwanted fruit. Not that it would be unwanted on his part. He was simply afraid she wouldn't see pregnancy as a good enough reason to marry him. He doubted she'd do something so foolish, but with Georgie, there was always an element of uncertainty.

He sighed. No matter how insistent he was in his approach, she always somehow managed to snub him or slip into a crowd of acquaintances, effectively preventing private discourse.

He was in a damnable state. Whenever he caught the whiff of her rosewater at social events, he'd automatically look for her, only to find a stranger who'd return his stare and make him feel rude or deranged—or both. He had almost reached the point where confronting her in public became his only option. If it caused a scene that would put her on the spot, she'd have no one to blame but herself for forcing him to take such drastic action.

But each time he saw her, be it at a ball or a dinner party or the opera, he had at least once caught her sending a surreptitious glance his way. Not much of an encouragement, but enough to convince him he was not fighting an entirely lost cause.

His fingers suddenly moved as if with a mind of their own. Cravat tied, he gave the knot a last tug then stepped back and surveyed it with satisfaction. He'd be damned if chasing Georgie would turn him into a dandy. But it couldn't hurt to look his best, now, could it?

Moving to the wardrobe to pick out a coat, he noticed his friend staring at him with a pained look on his face. "What?" he asked defensively.

Cameron shook his head. "She has spurned you countless times, and yet you persist that you want her. How much longer do you intend to humiliate yourself? You're putting your ballocks in a vise, my friend."

Robert scowled. "Your advice is not welcome, Cameron. I already have Tony to remind me daily, in colorful language, why I ought to give her up."

"Aye, but
I
am in earnest," Cameron growled, Scottish brogue rolling off his tongue as it was wont to do when the man's temper sparked.

Robert pulled out a dark blue coat, taking little note of his friend's words—until the puzzling nature of the comment dawned on him. "Why would he not be in earnest?"

"Love is apparently not only blind but deaf and witless as well," Cameron said with a huff. "I am all but certain your brother is in love with your lady. No, 'love' is the wrong term. He fancies her, but I don't believe he would care all that much if she married. As long as she doesn't marry
you.
"

Frowning, Robert could only stare at his friend. What ungodly nonsense was the man sprouting now? Tony fancied Georgie? It was too ridiculous.

"I have no doubt that he lusts after her," Cameron went on, "but I believe it's mostly your claim on her he envies. She has no real hold on his affections."

Robert released a harsh breath. Damn, but it almost made sense. Almost. "Assuming you are correct, why would he not simply ignore her?"

His friend shrugged. "No man behaves with sense when he's consumed by jealousy."

Every encounter with Tony since his return flashed in Robert's mind as he drew on his coat. His brother's hostility towards Georgie had puzzled him, but only now did it become clear that Tony had not abused her character until the day of the picnic when Robert voiced his intentions to marry her.

He scrambled to recall his brother's words, frantically looking for flaws in Cameron's theory. But the more he considered it, the darker his cloud of suspicion became. In fact, it made more sense that Tony's attempts to discredit Georgie were motivated by jealousy rather than fear for Robert's happiness. His brother was too smart to honestly think Robert would take such slander seriously; the violent outbursts were in themselves proof that Tony acted from feeling far more explosive and irrational than fraternal concern.

"I didn't tell you sooner because, notwithstanding divided loyalties, I assumed you'd see it yourself eventually. But it's past time the two of you settled your differences, and I doubted it could be done unless you were aware of the truth." Cameron got to his feet. "Now that I have done my duty in the name of our friendship, distasteful though it was, are we ready to depart?"

Robert gave a short nod, too numb with emotions he hardly recognized to do anything but lumber after the Scot marching out the door.

"How Romantic it is for a man to defend the honor of his lady by fighting a duel! To risk your life because you love someone so dearly you cannot bear to have her suffer the slightest disgrace. If Robert should ever do so for me, I should consider it the ultimate proof of his Devotion!"

— From the diary of Lady Georgiana Montford, aged 12

THE SMELL OF perfume and cologne and beeswax blended with dozens of sweating bodies, drowning out the scent of the red roses with which Georgie and her mother had decided Southwell House's ballroom should be simply but elegantly decorated. Standing next to Louisa at one end of the room, well away from the other clusters of guests, Georgie surveyed the outcome of her efforts with satisfaction.

She had been forced to remind herself countless times that helping prepare for the ball was a favor to her mother alone. Her instincts had rebelled at the idea of being so directly involved in anything celebrating Robert's coming home. It was as if she would be applauding an event that had been instrumental in turning her life upside down.

And it was not for Robert's sake that she had taken such care with her appearance this evening, either. She had simply fallen in love with the dressmaker's design; a white mull gown decorated with filmy gold tinsel embroidery, its neckline forming a V right down to the gold sash that enfolded its high waistline. Wearing it made her feel as delicate and decadent as the dress itself, and she had chosen it for that reason only. Not for Robert.

The orchestra struck up another country-dance, the violins' brisk tones accompanied by a quiet hum of chatter. July was rapidly approaching, and many families had retired to the country already, leaving the guest list so small it could scarcely be called a ball.

She let her gaze run over the still-crowded room, her limbs wound tight and itching to be in motion. It fair drove her mad to stand still with nothing to do but think of Robert. Plotting how to avoid him. Clinging to thoughts of her grand adventure as a cure for this affliction that was drawing her to him. Attempting to reconcile the conflict within her that somehow allowed her to be flattered by his attentions even as his arrogance continued to annoy and frighten her.

It was a foolish fear that was still as tangible as the ballroom chandeliers that twinkled and shone under the radiance of their candles. She feared that one of these days, Robert would say something that would strike her as particularly clever, or particularly reasonable, or particularly flattering. And then she would succumb to a sudden impulse and agree to marry him.

Two months ago, she would not have been susceptible to such whims, of course. But the "adventure" up north had done something to her, lit a devil in her, a thirst for… doing foolish things, she supposed.

She needed to get away. Away from Robert. He made her remember who she used to be, and she was in danger of losing her head. To him.

"Mr. Wandering Eye is coming," Louisa hissed in her ear.

Georgie looked over to see the dapper young gentleman, whose eyes she had once caught dropping to her neckline while dancing, coming toward them. "Oh!" she said with a shudder, her mind spinning as she searched for a way to avoid him. "Are you thirsty?"

"No, not really—"

"Come." She nudged her friend's arm, and they weaved their way past the small groups of guests hovering at the edge of the dance floor. They entered the small adjoining room where refreshments were arranged in a decorative fashion on linen-draped tables. After Georgie had ladled lemonade into a glass, they weaved their way back into the ballroom, halting just beyond the flung-open doors.

Turning to her friend, Georgie asked, "Is Sheffield watching?"

"Oh, yes. He has watched you all evening. Sometimes openly, other times from the corner of his eye. And he glowers whenever you are dancing."

Georgie swallowed a sigh. Robert seemed to labor under the impression that they ought to dance exclusively with each other, with the result that he asked only her—and consequently danced with no one.

She wished she dared chance a look at him. But each time she found her eyes drawn in his direction, he invariably caught her, and so she had to rely on Louisa for intelligence on his movements.

She could not see him without remembering the darkly intent look on his face as he declared his love for her. She had not thought he could speak such words so easily. But he had, and the memory made her slightly queasy, if only because she wanted so desperately to believe he truly loved her.
Yearned to believe that he was not fooling himself, longed for it despite the fact that she wanted nothing to do with such fickle emotions.

And despite the fact that his love made no difference in their relationship as long as marrying him still meant giving up on her dreams.

"He is coming this way!" Louisa breathed.

Georgie turned her head toward the spot near the orchestra where Robert had lingered and found him, indeed, advancing on them with a determined air. He was dressed smartly in dark evening clothes that she knew full well did not hide padding but a strong, hard body.

Stifling a curse, she frantically searched the room for the fair head of Louisa's brother. "Where is Hunt?" she hissed. "He promised he would rescue me if Sheffield approached."

"He left with your brother and cousins," Louisa said apologetically, adding, "And Mr. Cameron and Mr. Balfour. I don't know where they went."

Oh, botheration. Georgie thrust the glass into Louisa's hands. She straightened and steeled herself, hoping, most likely in vain, that her frosty look would deter Robert.

"Ladies," he said, offering them a strained smile.

His gaze lingered on her several heartbeats longer than was proper, and little pinpricks of pleasure skipped down her spine. With just one look, he made her feel more beautiful than a thousand of Phillip's pretty words ever could. So perhaps she had dressed for Robert's sake. It was a sour admission, and she wished it weren't true.

"Please, accept my compliments," he went on. "You look exceptionally lovely this evening."

Tension wound through Georgie at the edge in his voice, and she wanted to shrink away from the piercing forcefulness of his eyes fixed on her. While Louisa thanked him, Georgie averted her face, clenching her teeth so hard her jaw ached. She almost came unhinged when he stood so close, the urge to reach out and touch him clashing with the need to turn around and flee.

"Lady Georgiana, will you give me the pleasure of dancing with you?"

His demanding tone made ignoring him impossible, forcing her to face him again. "I must decline," she said. "Dancing has left me utterly parched."

His jaw flexed, but his expression remained persistent. "Then allow me to fetch you some lemonade."

Georgie was hard-pressed to subdue the growl that rose in her chest, nor could she deny the flicker of anxiety slithering through her. Oh, why could he not simply leave her be? "Fetch?" she asked, pointing past the door into the next room. "The table is right there."

"So it is. How fortunate, for both of us." His words cut loud and clear, as if to make certain his meaning did not escape her. "You shall not have to wait long, and I shall have no fear of losing you to the crowd."

Again.
He didn't say it aloud, but the implication was obvious enough. She had done it the week before: requested that he bring her some refreshment, then slipped away as soon as he left her side.

She twisted slightly and followed him with her eyes, watching in silence as he filled a glass, then thanked him when he handed it to her, after which she turned to watch the dancers while sipping her lemonade.

"Lady Louisa, shall I have the honor of dancing the next set with you?" Robert asked.

Surprise and dismay hit Georgie with an arrow's sharpness, and she swallowed wrong. Covering her mouth, she coughed and gasped for air. She felt someone take the glass from her hand, then seize her elbow in support as she slowly recovered. The last cough died in her throat as she became aware of how large the gloved hand on her arm was, and she looked up to find a pair of olive eyes gazing at her beneath creased eyebrows.