her character so lightly? ‘Papa,’ she tried again.
Edward Raithwaite turned a steely eye upon his stepdaughter. ‘Say no more, Georgiana. It’s clear that your experience this afternoon has adversely affected your mind. I trust that a good night’s rest will return you to your senses. I’ll have the carriage sent round to collect you tomorrow.’
‘Adieu, Miss Raithwaite, until tomorrow.’ Mr Praxton bowed.
Together the two gentlemen turned and left the room.
An irate Georgiana stared at the door that closed so firmly behind them. Her jaw clenched with determination and her fingers stole to worry at the lobe of her ear. If Papa thought the affair settled, he was to be grossly disappointed.
It was some time later that Georgiana heard the discreet knock at the door and found Nathaniel Hawke entering the bedroom for the second time that day. The Italian fell limply from her fingers, pages fanning open to lose the sentence she had been forcing herself to concentrate upon just moments before. She glanced up to find him walking purposefully towards her with a large tray in his hands. The elderly and rather rotund Mrs Tomelty hobbled in his wake. Setting the tray down upon the table positioned beside the bed, he gestured towards the cook. ‘Mrs Tomelty has made you some of her famous broth. If you would care to try a little, I can personally vouch for its healing properties.’
Georgiana’s gaze flicked from the strong tanned fingers that curled around the handles of the tray to the dark warmth of his eyes. Lord Nathaniel had brought her the broth, in person! Unwittingly a crinkle of suspicion crept across the bridge of her nose. She wetted her suddenly dry lips and looked at the cook.
‘That he can, miss,’ beamed Mrs Tomelty. ‘Could never get enough of my broth, could Lord Nathaniel. Always had to have a bowl full to the brim every time he fell out of a tree or come off his horse. Never known a little ‘un like him for getting himself into mischief. Why, I remember the time him and Lord Henry were swimming, bare as the day they were born, in the—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Tomelty,’ said Nathaniel rather forcefully.
A smile tugged at the corners of Georgiana’s mouth. Suddenly the tall, athletic gentleman standing only a few feet from where she lay in bed didn’t seem quite so intimidating.
Mrs Tomelty moved forward to pat Georgiana’s hand. ‘Now, duck, you eat that up, and it’ll do you the world of good. I’ll be just over there in that chair by the fireplace so that there won’t be no problems ‘bout Lord Nathaniel bein’ in a young lady’s bedroom.’ The elderly servant remained blissfully unaware of the ghost of a grimace that flitted across Nathaniel’s face. She hobbled the distance to the fireplace, eased herself into the rose brocade chair, and made herself comfortable.
‘Please forgive my intrusion, Miss Raithwaite. I know that I should not be here, but I wished to speak to you…alone…to reassure myself that you are well.’ There was a slight uneasiness about him, as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t know quite how to go about saying it.
Georgiana’s suspicion should have escalated, but it didn’t. Instead, it fizzled away to be replaced with an intrinsic trust. Has your experience with Mr Praxton taught you nothing of gentlemen? the little voice inside her head insisted. But something outside of logic and common sense assured her that the man standing before her now was nothing like Walter Praxton. Mr Praxton revolted her, but Lord Nathaniel…A shiver tingled up her spine and she deliberately turned her mind from that vein of thought. ‘I am very well, thank you, my lord,’ she managed with a politeness of which Mama would have been proud.
He was looking at her as if he knew the words that tripped from her tongue for the lie that they were.
The pause stretched.
Georgiana felt the first hint of a flush touch her cheeks. Lord, but he couldn’t possibly know the truth. She must stop acting like a ninny-hammer and pull herself together.
‘I wanted to ask you about your accident. Were you alone with Mr Praxton when it happened?’
The gentle hint of colour in Georgiana’s face ignited with all the subtlety of a beacon. Her heart set up a thudding reverberation in her chest. She swallowed once, and then again. ‘Yes.’ Her fingers moved to gather hold of Mrs Radcliffe’s book lying atop the bedcovers. She gripped the ornately gilded leather and took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’ This time more strongly. ‘Mr Praxton wished to show me an interesting botanical species that grows close to the river.’ Or so he said. ‘My parents and their friends were following in a walk of their own.’
One dark eyebrow raised in a minuscule motion.
Georgiana saw it and found herself swamped in a feeling of wretched shame and anger. She knew very well the path his mind was taking. ‘We were not alone for long.’ Long enough for Walter Praxton to make clear the exact nature of his intent! She knew she was only exposing her own guilt. Drat the man, why was he looking at her like that? She had a sudden urge to confess all, tell him exactly what Mr Praxton had done and why. But when all was said and done, Nathaniel Hawke was a stranger and a man…a very attractive man. And she couldn’t reveal such sordid details, especially not to him.
‘And what was it that you were doing to come to land in the river, Miss Raithwaite?’ He stepped closer to the bed and lowered his voice.
‘I…I was …’ She glanced up to meet the strength of his gaze.
‘Examining the botanical specimen?’ he suggested.
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
She could give him no answer that would not compromise herself and she did not think that she could bear to see the condemnation in his eyes that was sure to follow. So she said nothing, just shook her head.
‘And what was Mr Praxton doing to allow you to fall?’
I didn’t fall, I jumped! And Mr Praxton was doing precisely as you suspect! she wanted to shout, but couldn’t. ‘We had a disagreement, and…that is when I went into the river.’ Subconsciously her fingers slid to tug at her ear lobe.
Nathaniel took another step closer. He made as if to reach his hand out to her, then checked the action. ‘Miss Raithwaite,’ he said quietly, ‘I have the notion that you’re fearful of returning home. Who are you afraid of?’ He waited, before prompting, ‘If Mr Praxton has done aught that he should not have…’
The beautiful grey-blue eyes widened in shock and for the briefest moment he thought she was about to tell him something of the greatest significance. Then she faltered, and the moment was gone.
‘No.’ The temptation was great. She wanted to tell him. The words had crept to the tip of her tongue before she’d had the sense to restrain them.
‘Then, your father?’
The intensity of his gaze made her shiver. It was as if he could see past her defences to the truth. She willed herself to stay calm. ‘Why should I be afraid of my papa?’
‘Perhaps he does not approve of your friendship with Mr Praxton.’
If only that were the case! Had she imagined his subtle emphasis on the word ‘friendship’? She bristled at the implication. ‘I have no friendship with Mr Praxton. My papa is more approving of our betrothal than you could possibly
