She made an airily dismissive gesture. “Even so, it would have taken all my considerable powers of persuasion to coax Georgiana to wed you.”
His eyes grew flintier, and she added with barely concealed relish, “I would not be surprised if we’d had to drag her to the altar in the end. My niece is a headstrong gel who disdains the advice of her elders and betters. You, sir, are equally stubborn. Almost, I think, you deserve each other, but since you both lack a proper attitude to marriage—and to me!—I wash my hands of you.” She sailed from the room in high dudgeon.
* * *
* * *
“I’m not at home,” Hart told his butler after Lady Salter had left. “Not to anyone.”
The news of his aborted wedding had spread like wildfire through the ton. His doorbell had been jangling constantly ever since, with women—ladies of the ton—eager to soothe his injured feelings and shove him straight back into the marital noose, if not with themselves, then with their daughter or niece or granddaughter.
To hell with them all. He’d had it with women—no, not with women, with ladies.
He tried to resume his correspondence, but the annoyance lingered. What the devil business of anyone else’s was it whether he married or not? He knew he needed to get an heir, but what was the hurry? He wasn’t yet thirty. And just because he’d been brought up to the mark once didn’t mean he was ready to do it again, dammit.
Because look how well that had ended.
A few days before, his erstwhile bride had called on him, supposedly to apologize, but then she had the cheek to invite him to the ball that had been planned to celebrate his wedding. Its purpose now was to celebrate her husband’s return from the dead, blast him. Hart had nothing against the fellow, but why the devil hadn’t he come back from the dead a week or two earlier and saved them all a lot of fuss and botheration?
He narrowed his eyes. Now he came to think of it, he had met the girl Lady Salter had just tried to foist on him. Lady Georgiana Rutherford had accompanied Rose on that little errand. A long-legged, dark-haired wench, with more than a dash of impudence.
She’d pulled her skirts up to warm her legs at the fire. Dropped them, cool as you please when he’d entered the room, not embarrassed in the least. A hoyden, if not a light-skirt.
Damned fine ankles, as he recalled.
She would rather live with dogs and horses.
He snorted. She was welcome to them.
* * *
* * *
“What?” Lady Georgiana Rutherford could hardly believe her ears. “You offered me to that . . . that . . . duke? Like a . . . a cake on a plate? Without even consulting me?”
George was taking afternoon tea in the drawing room with her uncle, Cal; his wife, Emm; and her two great-aunts: the sweet one and the sour one. The sweet one, Aunt Dottie, was knitting haphazardly in between poring over a dish of jam tarts and sipping her tea. Her sister, Aunt Agatha, sat like an offended poker, looking down her nose at them all, disdaining the offerings before her.
Cal, lounging on the settee beside his wife, chuckled. “Like a cake on a plate, George? More like a hedgehog in a bag.” He bit into an almond biscuit.
George ignored him. She glared at Aunt Agatha. “How dare you go behind my back and make such a . . . such an offer?”
Aunt Agatha made a dismissive gesture. “Well, someone must make a push to find you a husband, and Emmaline is otherwise occupied breeding The Heir. Besides, since Rose’s disgraceful behavior left the duke embarrassed at the altar, this family owes him reparation.”
“Possibly, but we don’t owe him me!”
The old lady set down her teacup with a snap. “If a duke is going spare, my gel, it doesn’t do to dally!”
“But I don’t want a duke! I don’t want a husband at all! I’ve said so repeatedly. And even if I did, Everingham would be the last man I’d consider!” George didn’t know what it was about the Duke of Everingham, but he . . . he irritated her with his cold, hard gaze, so indifferent and superior and I-rule-the-world. She longed to take him down a peg.
“Nonsense! Every gel needs a husband. And, all appearances to the contrary, you are the daughter of an earl and need to marry and be a credit to your family.”
The flat dismissal of her views infuriated George. “Not me. I don’t want a husband, I don’t need one and I won’t have you or anyone else arranging one for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, child.”
“It’s not ridiculous and I’m not a child. I’m almost twenty and—”
“And well past the age you were married and off your aunt’s and uncle’s hands. Ashendon and Emmaline are starting their own family.” Aunt Agatha gestured to Emm’s swollen belly, then trained her lorgnette on her rebellious great-niece.
George put up her chin and glared back. She wasn’t sure whether the old lady actually needed the eyeglass to see with, or whether it was just her chosen weapon of intimidation. Whatever the reason, George would not be intimidated.
Aunt Agatha continued, “Ashendon’s sisters are now married—in however scrambled a fashion—and their future is taken care of. There is only yourself remaining—an ill-mannered, unfeminine, ignorant, tomboyish hoyden with no idea of ladylike or even polite behavior—and worse!—no interest in acquiring it. You should be grateful that I’m taking an interest in your future.”
“Grateful? For unwarranted and unasked-for interference?” George was ready to explode. The insults stung; there was no denying there was some truth in them, but she would never let Aunt Agatha get the better of her.
“You cannot expect your uncle and his wife to care indefinitely for his late brother’s unwanted and unacknowledged offspring—especially a gel who’s more trouble than she’s worth. A charitable gesture is one thing, an embarrassing millstone quite another.”
Emm sat up angrily. “George is not a millstone, Aunt Agatha! Nor is she an embarrassment. She’s a dear sweet girl and a beloved member of our family and as far as I am concerned she can live with us until . . . until she’s a hundred years old!” She reached out a hand to Cal and he took it, a silent gesture of support.
Aunt Agatha gave a dismissive wave. “That is your condition speaking, Emmaline. Breeding women are notoriously hysterical.” She turned to Cal. “You see? Yet again Georgiana is causing your wife distress. And endangering The Heir.”
“I’m not the one upsetting people,” George muttered.
“Now look here, Aunt Agatha,” Cal began.
“Oh, don’t worry, Cal,” George said. “I know better than to mind the spiteful outpourings of an interfering, officious, presumptuous old b—”