in their case. Though she hadn’t had the benefit of much education as a very young girl, and had subsequently had little more than lessons in etiquette and deportment from what he could gather, she had an enquiring mind. She used to pepper him with questions, when she’d been a girl, as though she was hungry for information. About everything.
Just as he’d been.
She’d entered into the spirit of his investigations, too.
He shut his case with a snap, his mind flying back to her declaration last month that she would never interfere with his interests in London. At the time, he’d taken offence, assuming she meant exclusively amatory adventures.
But he now wondered if she’d meant something more. She’d always understood when he became fascinated by a new intellectual pursuit, whether it was mastering the moves of chess, or attempting to ascertain how many varieties of beetles he could discover within one square mile of Fontenay Court. She hadn’t been squeamish about his collection, either, unlike any of the female members of staff about the place. She’d stood, peering over his shoulder when he’d shown her each latest addition he’d made, even expressing interest in where he’d found the specimens.
Not that the collection existed any more. Mrs Bulstrode had thrown it away while he was in St Mary’s. ‘Cleaned out’ was the term the housekeeper had used to describe the pillage of his early scientific endeavours.
He opened his spectacles case again and reached for his pocket, to extract a handkerchief as he reflected that Georgiana would never have regarded his collection as rubbish that wanted removing. Because she had known how many hours he’d put into it and understood what it had meant to him.
Hadn’t she?
At one time, he had thought so, but...
He’d loaned his handkerchief to Major Gowan. So he couldn’t use polishing his spectacles as an excuse for not speaking while his mind was occupied with the past. Besides, he’d been in the middle of saying something to Georgiana. Who was sitting patiently, waiting for him to finish. Unlike many women, who would have been fidgeting and pouting by now.
‘Safety in numbers,’ he said, putting his spectacles away and, in so doing, jerking his shoulder in the direction of the sofa on which the blondes were sitting.
She pulled a face. ‘The general principle is sound. But I couldn’t sit with them for more than ten minutes without starting to wish I could tear out my hair by the roots. All they talk of is clothes and ribbons, and flounces and husbands.’
Now that sounded far more like the Georgie he used to know. The girl who cropped her hair short so she wouldn’t have to bother with it much. The girl who was more comfortable in breeches and only wore a skirt over the top, for appearance’s sake. Was she still there, then, the girl he’d adored? Hidden somewhere beneath the conventional surface, the way her breeches had been kept hidden under her skirts?
‘You would do better to mix with females whose interests you share,’ he observed.
‘How, exactly,’ she said acidly, ‘am I supposed to do that?’
He turned his spectacles case over, several times, since it was the only thing he had left to occupy his hands whilst going through the catalogue of the females with whom he was acquainted. Not that it helped. There were too many distractions about him. Giggling girls and braying men, and matrons slurping their tea and sprinkling crumbs on the carpet. And the scent of rosemary, which was for remembrance. Which actually did bring back memories of her compact, warm body pressing up against his as they lay side by side on their stomachs, poring over the pages of Hooke’s Micrographia.
‘I shall make sure you have introductions to some,’ he said, getting to his feet. And then taking her hand. ‘I shall take my leave,’ he said, raising it to his mouth. What the devil? He couldn’t kiss her hand. He couldn’t think why he’d begun the manoeuvre, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘I will call again in...a day or so,’ he said, patting her hand, as though it was what he’d meant all along, before restoring it to her.
The moment he got outside, he drew a deep breath. And his head cleared. He knew exactly who to approach on Georgiana’s behalf. It was so obvious he couldn’t think why he hadn’t told her all about Miss Julia Durant straight away.
There must have been something in the atmosphere in that drawing room that had acted upon his intellect the way fog affected the ability to see. Something that had made him leap to Georgiana’s defence quite unnecessarily. Something that had made him forget he didn’t have a handkerchief with which to polish his spectacles until he was actually reaching for it. Something that had made him spend so much time dwelling on their shared past that when it was time to leave he’d taken her hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world to kiss it.
Instead of turning left and heading for the hackney stand on the corner of the next street, he turned right, since he’d decided to walk back to Grosvenor Square and give himself time to think. About their past. And his reaction to their separation. And most especially the irrational way he was acting round Georgiana nowadays.
It had to stop. He couldn’t respect himself when one moment he was despising her for drawing men into her orbit, the next dashing to her rescue. One moment seething at her for something she’d done when she’d been scarce more than a child, the next wanting to lift her hand to his mouth and kiss it.
Was it all because he kept catching glimpses of the girl she’d once been, peeping out at him through cracks in the veneer of her company manners? Was that why he kept responding in kind? Reverting back to the easy camaraderie they’d shared? It was certainly what had prompted him to think of introducing her to Miss Durant, Lord Havelock’s horse-mad and wilful half-sister, even though he had not named her just now. She would do Georgie the world of good, since she was never the slightest bit apologetic for being exactly who she was.
And nor should Georgie be. She’d been far more appealing as an impulsive, warm-hearted girl than she was now—all stiff and simmering with resentment and suppressed hurt.
If he achieved nothing else, this Season, he would coax that Georgie back to life. And he would start by ensuring she had female companionship of the sort that would nurture the side of her that was being systematically starved.
With a new determination in his bearing, he strode off in the direction of Durant House.
Stepmama waited until the last visitor had gone before commencing her interrogation. ‘What was he speaking to you about? Lord Ashenden, that is. I don’t need to ask what Major Gowan said to you. He has a clear voice. The voice of a man used to command.’
She meant, Georgiana thought, that he was used to bawling orders across a parade ground and hadn’t bothered to adapt his tone to what was suitable for a polite drawing room.
‘But Lord Ashenden can never be heard above a crowd,’ said Stepmama with just a hint of a sneer. ‘Besides which he turned his back to me, when he got you on that sofa, just as though he didn’t want me to so much as guess what he might be saying.’
He probably hadn’t.
‘Military tactics, Stepmama,’ said Georgiana without the slightest hesitation and almost complete honesty. Because that was, on the surface, what Edmund had been talking about.
