Pretty Persuasion (29 page)

He released her hand slowly, his lips set in a grim line. She refused to feel guilt for the pain she saw in his pale blue eyes, refused to fully believe that she was hurting his heart more than the size of his pockets.

"I suppose it's settled, then," her father said, and Georgie thought she detected a hint of relief in his voice.

"Yes," Phillip said roughly. "Indeed, it is. Your grace." After a short nod in her father's direction, he let his gaze linger a while longer on her. He absently patted his coat pocket, opening his mouth as if to speak but shutting it again without a sound emerging. And then he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

A chair scraped the floor. Facing the desk, Georgie found her father settling in, his attention on what appeared to be a half-written letter. As she watched, he picked up his quill pen, dipped it in the ink bottle, and began to write.

Incredible. He expected her to leave, as if nothing of consequence had happened. Her head swimming with confusion, she looked at the silver streaks at the temples of hair the same color as her own, at the deep blue coat that had made his pale gray eyes appear all the stonier. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she realized the desk's ball-and-claw feet had used to seem much larger, uglier, and more frightening when she had fought not to let his scolding reduce her to tears.

Had she imagined it, or had he been pleased when she turned Phillip down? And was it possible that a small part of her still desired her father's approval? She thought she had stopped caring long ago, convinced that it was a pointless battle, that she could do no right in his eyes. But apparently his esteem still mattered, even though she desperately wished it didn't.

The scribbling stopped, and he looked momentarily surprised as his gaze climbed to hers again. "You are excused, Georgiana."

"Why did you give him your blessing?" she asked, needing to know his reasons and hang the consequences.

He put the pen down. "He is a well-mannered and eloquent young man. He stated his case with honesty, and he did not hesitate to accept my conditions. In light of your decision against marrying Sheffield, I saw no reason to refuse Lord Rossemore."

"What conditions?"

"I hardly think that concerns you."

Though she burned to contradict that asininely arrogant statement, she restrained herself, asking instead, "Did you offer a dowry?"

Her father paused, then leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms—an unusually defensive pose. "Ten thousand pounds, in addition to the income of Astley Park."

Only ten thousand? Surely the handsome, well-mannered, and "eloquent" Phillip could do better elsewhere. "And what were your conditions?"

This time, he hesitated even longer before replying. "That he take his seat in the House."

His revelation swirled in Georgie's mind, motivations and possible gains blending with each other until it seemed the whole situation had tied itself into a knot. And then, the pieces of the puzzle came together with startling clarity. "You were buying yourself a puppet!" she blurted. "A well-spoken, obedient, and grateful puppet. Oh! He would be the perfect speaker, wouldn't he? He'd enthrall his audience with the passion of
your
convictions."

A muscle in her father's jaw flexed. "I do not see why marrying you off to a man of his background ought not have its advantages."

"Its advantages—for you." Georgie gripped the top of the chair until its wooden edge dug painfully into her hands. "Did you also tell him he would take me upon the condition that I was no longer a maiden?"

"That is quite enough," her father snapped, his face darkening.

"It is not nearly enough!" she cried, feeling as if all her life, every encounter with her father had hurled her towards this moment. The moment when, despite still longing for his esteem, she refused to let her fear of his anger cow her any longer. "Did you expect me to accept him?"

"Since you were foolish enough to elope with him in the first place, I could not assume you would have enough sense not to take him back. Your refusal to marry Sheffield also made me suspect that your attachment to Lord Rossemore was still intact."

"Oh!" She ground out a growl of frustration. "I cannot believe you would give so little credit to my good judgment."

Her father's eyes flashed. "If I had ever witnessed you exercising good judgment, perhaps you would not find me doubting it!"

"How can you criticize my judgment when you are the one who would have your daughter marry a man of whom you do not truly approve simply because you want to use him as a political pawn?"

"Enough!" Pushing back the chair, her father got to his feet and braced his hands on the desk. "You have a shrewish tongue, Georgiana, and it is well past time you learned to curb it. It is a trait unbecoming of a young lady."

Georgie scoffed. "It is unbecoming regardless of sex and age, and you are certainly no stranger to its use."

"Are you quite finished?" he asked frostily.

The glower he leveled her way finally penetrated her shield of heedlessness, and a quiver went through her. "Yes," she said, then couldn't resist adding acerbically, "I am deeply sorry that I thwarted your ambitions, Father."

He straightened. "Do not trouble yourself. In point of fact, your decision saved me from an uncomfortable situation. I promised Sheffield to let you stay in town until the end of the season, that he may attempt to persuade you to a change of mind. I suspect he would find it a difficult task if you were betrothed to Lord Rossemore."

He had done
what?
Oh, it was insufferable! Was she nothing but a chess piece in everyone else's game? Struggling to keep her voice steady, she said, "I thought Mamma had convinced you to let me stay. Because of the child."

A pall fell over her father's countenance, and as he resumed his seat, he transformed before her eyes until he seemed nearly human—old and weary. "My reasons hardly signify."

Oh, but they did. They signified a great deal. And she would not be so easily dismissed. "Answer one thing truthfully, Father, and I shall leave: Did you only accept him for your own political gain?"

Staring at a point behind her, he appeared to consider the question. And when he answered, he met her gaze. "While she thinks you unhappy, your mother will never be easy. And so it seemed best to allow you to make your own choices."

He spoke the words with such careful directness that Georgie couldn't help but sense their double meaning, couldn't help but acknowledge what they implied—his care for her mother, and by extension, her. She felt as if a hand had wrapped around her heart. Tears pressed behind her eyes, and she swallowed against the knot in her throat.

Perhaps he had not meant it as a peace offering, but she could not deny herself the relief of accepting it as one. Clearing her throat of suppressed tears, she managed to say quietly, "Thank you. For allowing me to choose. It means more to me than you can imagine."

Her father gave a quick nod, then drew himself up and lowered his gaze to the paper before him. He was the Duke of Southwell again.

Georgie waited a second or two before she picked up her drawing things from the desk and turned from him. As her feet carried her toward the door, she realized that, for the first time, she did not feel as if she were running from this room. And the threat of tears that had not yet quite waned was, for once, not brought on by anger or shame.

Her father's voice stopped her as she had one hand on the door handle. "I would beg a favor of you, Georgiana."

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"I should be grateful if you would not mention this matter to your mother. If she found out I gave Lord Rossemore my blessing, I fear she would never speak to me again."

Georgie blinked, taken aback. Then a burst of laughter rose in her throat, and as tears finally sprang forth, she found herself giggling and crying concurrently.

Her father's eyebrows knitted, and yet, she could have sworn that his displeasure was not in earnest. "I would have you know that it was not a jest."

"Oh, I know," she said, somehow managing to sniffle and laugh in the same breath as she pulled the handle and opened the door. "And I give you my word that I will not tell her."

Her father gave another short nod, then bent to his work again, and Georgie stepped out of the study, still smiling—and weeping—as she closed the door behind her.

IN HER URGENCY, Elizabeth forgot about her reluctance to unnecessarily displease her husband as she burst into his study without knocking. His head jerked up, and his brows furrowed into an unmerciful scowl at being so rudely interrupted.

It stopped her cold, that look on his face. Not because it frightened her. No, rather, it simply froze her in place and made her momentarily forget what she was about.

"Yes?" he snapped when the seconds ticked on and she had not managed to utter a single word.

His clipped voice shook her out of her trance. "There was a caller," she said breathlessly. "For Georgie? Was it Sheffield?"

Charles's scowl disappeared and was replaced by a more vague expression, almost cautious. "No."

She gave him a hard stare. "No, what? No, it was not Sheffield? Or no, the caller was not for Georgie?"

Her husband put down his pen and sighed, his mouth twisting with distaste. "It was Lord Rossemore. He came to see me, first and foremost, but a conversation did take place between him and Georgiana."

Oh, no. Her stomach clenched. She felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, but rather than let it show, she backed up and pushed on the door until it shut with a soft click. And there she remained with a hand on the door knob, not daring to move.

She had waited for weeks now for Sheffield to show up and do what she knew he desperately wanted, namely persuade her daughter to a change of mind. And she knew Georgie was as miserable as he, despite her carefree appearance. It was far beyond time for the matter to be settled, and Elizabeth had been nearly beside herself with excitement when her lady's maid told her of the gentleman who had called.

But it had been Rossemore. Oh, Lord. "What happened?" she choked out.

"She listened to his renewed offer of marriage," Charles replied, "and then refused him."

"Oh, thank goodness," Elizabeth breathed. She closed her eyes, put a hand on her chest, and let the wave of relief wash over her. Georgie had learned from her mistakes, after all. The affirmation of it comforted her beyond words.

"What is the matter?" her husband asked sharply.

She began shaking her head as his chair scraped on the floor, but when she opened her eyes again, he had reached her side and was gently grasping her elbow.

"You ought to be resting," he said in a low voice.

"No, no, I am perfectly all right," she protested. And it was true, for she no longer felt faint—only strangely satisfied. It was wrong of her to find his concern so gratifying. Wrong but unavoidable.

"The devil you are!" he growled, startling her, for he only cursed in her presence when he was having difficulty controlling himself.

He took a deep breath, as if drawing his composure back inside. "I conceive that it might be difficult for you to accept, my dear, but you are no longer twenty years old. You have been warned by three different physicians not to exhaust yourself. What disaster must befall before you will heed them?"

Oh, silly man. "I know you are worried, but I wish you wouldn't. When I am fatigued, I rest, but most of the time—"

"Lizzy—" A frustrated sound tore from her husband's throat, and still it made her smile. He rarely called her Lizzy outside the bedroom, the only place where he was
her
Charles—not the stiff-backed man he showed the world.

And if this child could bring that Charles out of the bedroom, no matter the reasons, then it was a blessing, indeed.

She pulled herself up, took his hand off her elbow and put it in her own. Satisfaction notwithstanding, his misery pained her as well. Looking up into his silver-gray eyes, so darkened with concern, she broadened her smile and cupped his cheek. "What must I do to convince you that I am in perfect health?"

He frowned and said nothing, only blinked once, twice.

"You don't know?" she suggested. "Then I suppose I must try and find out for myself."

She kept her gaze on him, gauging his reaction, as she reached behind her, found the key in the door's lock, and turned it. It took but a moment before comprehension lit his eyes.

"Lizzy," he said again, more firmly this time, and she felt him stiffen, withdrawing. "Lizzy, the doctors—"

"Oh, never mind the doctors!" she interrupted. "Have they carried and given birth to two children, pray?"

It was the wrong thing to say, because it brought to mind the ones they had lost. His thoughts mirrored hers; she saw it in his eyes, the tight set of his lips.

Softening her voice, she said, "We never abstained the first times, Charles. Remember?"

Her husband sighed and shook his head, but what exactly he was denying, she could not tell. Very well. Enough entreaties and pleasantries. "Well, then," she said, letting her hand drop from his, "perhaps instead you can inform me what you told Lord Rossemore when he asked for Georgie's hand in marriage?"

He looked taken aback first. Then his eyes narrowed and she arched her eyebrows in response. He knew her too well, knew it was a game—knew that at the moment, she cared not a whit how he had received Rossemore. But would he play along?

At last, the tight lines at the corners of his mouth vanished. "Will you ever cease to be a danger to my peace of mind, Elizabeth?"

"No," she replied with a grin. "But you knew that when you married me."

"And I always blamed it on temporary insanity."

"Ha!" she huffed, and then she could say no more, because he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to his chest, and kissed her as if his very last breath depended on it.

"I AM CONSIDERING a career in the army."

Halting the process of tying his cravat, Robert arched his eyebrows at the mirror image of Cameron. His friend lounged easily in the chair by the dressing room door while Robert prepared for the Duchess of Southwell's ball—hosted, informally, in honor of his homecoming.