Page 41 of The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere
This wasn’t going well at all, and it was all Lord Haslemere’s fault.
He was making an utter mess of things. He’d barreled forward without any caution or sense, like a child who upends a chess board, obliterating any chance they might have had at making rational, precise moves. Then with every word out of his mouth, he’d made things progressively worse.
Georgiana had feared this visit would end in disaster, butthis—it was worse than she’d imagined. The duchess had buried her face in her hands, her slender shoulders shaking, and Lord Haslemere was pacing from one end of the enormous drawing room to the other, eying his sister much as he had Lady Wylde, right before he set about squeezing her until drops of information trickled from her lips like rain from a gray winter sky.
That dark, intense gaze wasn’t even directed ather, but it sent a shiver up Georgiana’s spine nonetheless. No one who looked at Lord Haslemere right now could possibly think he was nothing more than acharming rake.
His lean body was rigid, his lips pressed into a tight line, and his eyes were glittering with anger and worry, and…something else, something forged in fire, and edged in ice.
Determination.
None of them spoke, and the silence stretched until it swelled into every corner of the cavernous room. Georgiana’s gaze moved over the fine furnishings, the enormous blue silk settee the duchess had been seated on when they first came in, so large and overstuffed it looked as if it might swallow her whole. For all her wealth and her exalted title and the magnificence that surrounded her, the duchess seemed oddly lost here in this grand house.
Or perhaps it was because of the magnificence, rather than in spite of it. It emphasized how small the duchess was, how slight. The massive marble fireplace, the extravagant gold pier glasses, the glittering chandeliers and oceans of blue silk—it overwhelmed her. She put Georgiana in mind of a tiny, fragile bird, its wings fluttering nervously, as if it were on the vergeof flying away.
“Come here, Jane.” Lord Haslemere’s face softened as his sister struggled to regain her composure, and he reached for her and gathered herinto his arms.
Georgiana stared at him, a strange flutter in her chest. She never would have imagined Lord Haslemere could wear such an expression as that. His handsome face was tight with pain, his dark eyes bleak.
This wasn’t the same man who’d strolled into Lady Wylde’s drawing room and ruthlessly manipulated her as if he were a virtuoso strumming an instrument, nor was he the arrogant earl who’d caught Georgiana’s chin in his hard fingers and demanded answers.
This man held his sister tenderly, a fond brother who, like so many fond brothers before him, was rendered helpless by the sight of her tears. Anyone could see he was desperate to protect her, and Jane clung to his coat until her hitching breaths calmed, as if he’d soothed her in just this way dozens of times before.
When Lord Haslemere released her at last, Jane’s face was pale but composed. “I’ll summon Freddynow, shall I?”
He nodded, and made an attempt at a smile. “Yes. I’ve missed him. The remainder of the winter dragged without the two of you at Haslemere House.”
The duchess crossed the room to pull the bell, and a few moments later a maidservant entered the drawing room. “Fetch Freddy, won’t you, Betsy? His uncle is here, and wishes to see him. He’s in the library with Mr. Chilcote, I believe.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Betsy went off to do the duchess’s bidding, and a little while later quick, light footsteps echoed in the hallway. They got closer and closer until at last a small boy of about five with a shock of wild, dark red curls raninto the room.
“Uncle Benedict!” The boy’s face lit up with a sweet, guileless smile as he hurried across the room. He was carrying a flat wooden puzzle, which he pushed into Lord Haslemere’s hands. “See, Uncle?”
“A new dissected puzzle, Freddy?” Lord Haslemere turned the puzzle right side up and balanced it on his lap. “‘Europe Divided into Its Kingdoms.’ That’s a very good one. But before you show it to me you must make your bow to Miss Harley.” He turned Freddy toward Georgiana with his hands on the boy’s shoulders.
The boy’s cheeks flushed as he gave Georgiana an awkward bow. “How do you do?”
Georgiana smiled. The boy had very pretty dark eyes, and an expressive, endearing face. She liked him right away. “Is that one of Madame Beaumont’s dissected maps, or one of John Spilsbury’s?”
The boy flushed again, this time with pleasure. “Mr. Spilsbury’s, ma’am.”
“I always wanted a dissected map when I was a girl, particularly Madame Beaumont’s dissected map of Europe.” She’d never gotten one, of course, or even seen one before. They were very dear, some of them as muchas two guineas.
“Here, Freddy. Take the map to Miss Harley, so she may see it.” Lord Haslemere handed the wooden frame back to Freddy. “Mind you don’t jostle the pieces, or we’ll see how familiar Miss Harley is with the borders of the European Kingdoms.”
Freddy approached Georgiana somewhat bashfully, but like most children he could tell the difference between an adult who was simply humoring him and one who was sincerely interested, and Georgiana truly was fascinated with the map. “I like the British Isles best. See?” Freddy plucked the piece up and offered it to Georgiana.
Georgiana turned it in her hand, admiring it. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The British Isles is the best, of course, but I’ve always been fond of Italy, because of its curious shape.” Well, that and because so many of her favorite Gothic romances were set there. “See this bit here?” She traced a finger around the southern edge of Italy. “It looks like a pointing finger, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” Freddy darted a look at her from under his eyelashes, his plump cheeks once again blooming with color. “I thought girls didn’t like things like geography and maps.”
Lord Haslemere chuckled. Georgiana darted a glance at him, half-expecting him to claim most ladiesdidn’tlike such things, and that it was just as well because they didn’t have the analytical brains to appreciate them, but all he said was, “Who gave you that idea, Freddy? Not Mr. Chilcote, I hope.”
Freddy shook his curly red head. “No, Uncle Benedict. It was Father who said so.”
A brief, awkward silence fell before Georgiana broke it. “I daresaysomeladies don’t like maps and such things, but many do, and many other things not considered strictly ladylike besides.”
Freddy’s dark eyes, which were very much like his uncle’s, sharpened with interest.“What things?”
