“It’s too much.” A too gruff reply that stung like a saber to the gut.
“I’ve done an excellent job here.” Josiah clawed his fingernails into the plush carpet, seeking the blunt press, the pain of the hard wood beneath.
“I know. You’re the best damn manager Father has.”
“Not that he notices.”
“He notices little but his mistress these days. I’m married and will likely soon provide an heir. Our sister is married well. He’s done his duty and is determined to live for pleasure now.”
Had their mother known pleasure before her death? Her eyes were always tired in his memory, her face lined with greater age than her years.
“I do though, Josiah,” Xavier said. “I notice how well you’ve done. I do not always say it, but I’m quite”—he tugged at his cravat and studied the ceiling—“proud of you.” Mumbled words.
But Josiah heard them. Felt them.
“Anyway.” Xavier rushed forward, wading with fast feet out of the murky waters of emotion. “You should focus on only one estate. And you should make a life for yourself here. You have the steward’s cottage. It’s recently renovated and large enough for a family, and Lady Georgiana—”
“Is a lover of London and not meant for a cottage in the woods. She is going to help me avoid Lisibeth’s little sister. Then she is going to return to Town. And that is it.” He couldn’t imagine her in the cottage, wearing her red velvet gown, looking like a queen as she strode through small rooms with much comfort but little fashion. An heiress like her with an earl’s son who reveled in work as earls’ sons were not supposed to do. A farce, that.
Xavier grunted. Beatrice crawled off his chest, headed straight toward Josiah, who scooped her up in his arms, cradled her on his chest, and rocked them back and forth until her laughter shook his entire body.
When Josiah caught Xavier’s eye, expecting to share a laugh, he saw only the seriousness of steel. “What?” Josiah laughed.
“I dare you to kiss her.”
Josiah stopped rocking. “Pardon?”
“Kiss her. See if she’ll suit. In that way. If she doesn’t… quickest way to figure it out. Why not kiss her?”
“She’s an innocent. And weren’t you recently warning me off kissing her?”
“She’s an heiress who knows her own mind and appears to be as averse to marriage as you are. Why not kiss her?”
Why not strangle Xavier was the better question. He fisted his hands and suppressed the impulse.
“It might ruin our friendship,” Josiah said. And he felt peculiarly protective of that.
“Or you might make it better. Come here, darling.” He reached a hand out to Bea, who burrowed deeper into Josiah’s chest. “Traitor. Jos, kiss her. I dare you.”
Once upon a time, his brother had been known as the Dare King, a man who completed dangerous tasks for a lark. He didn’t dare now, didn’t risk his neck or his family’s reputation. That he was using that old phrase now—I dare you—told Josiah one thing: His brother was serious. His brother, for one reason or another, wanted Josiah to kiss Lady Georgiana Hunt.
Josiah rolled his eyes and rocked the baby again, letting the tinkling bell of her laugh heal the unhappy places inside him.
Kiss Georgiana? He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. A silly dare. A dangerous one because he liked her and kissing for a dare seemed rather… caddish. It might prove Georgie’s notion, earned from her aunt, that men were pigs. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like that she’d known more pigs than princes. Didn’t want her to think him a pig despite all his teasing.
He wouldn’t oink. Not this time.
ChapterThree
December 23
“The only good husband is a dead one.” –from The Masculine Inconvenience: Memoirs of a Superior Lady
The sunniest room in the house, with its wide windows and vines curling outside the glass, was the best place to rifle through Aunt Prudence’s mind and the pages of her memoir. Georgiana dragged a desk before the windows and sat, spine straight, determination in place. With the exception of the surprisingly graphic descriptions of her affairs, every page was like an echo in Georgiana’s mind. The same words she’d heard since she arrived, alone, on her aunt’s doorstep one Christmas morning.
She chewed her lip. Was the only good husband a dead one? Once, she would not have questioned her aunt. But now…
Sarah would certainly not agree with the sentiment. Many of her friends would lose their hearts with their husbands. But Aunt Prudence had hated her husband, had railed against him often, and with good reason. He’d slung fists as well as words at her, only stopping when it became apparent she’d never have a child. Poor woman. Thank goodness Uncle Angus had died quite early, leaving Aunt Prudence almost four decades of life without him to enjoy the beds of other men.
