“Mr. Evans,” Miss Darlington called out. She leaned slightly over the table, pressing the underside of her breasts into its top, pushing them up. Her lashes fluttered. Bold chit.
Georgiana couldn’t help it. She liked the girl. But she’d promised to help Josiah, and it seemed he was about to be under attack. She could lean, too. She did so. Closer to Josiah.
“Yes, Miss Darlington?” Josiah asked.
“You are excellent at cards. I could not read your expressions at all,” the debutante said.
“Were you watching him so closely then?” Georgiana asked.
“Oh, yes. Who cannot watch Mr. Evans closely? Such a very handsome visage. It’s hard to look away.”
Silence descended on the table but for the crackling of the fire.
“Are compliments unwelcome?” Miss Darlington asked, folding her hands together before her in a way that pressed her breasts together.
It was much too cold for such a low bodice. Georgiana would have to teach the girl the art of fashion that allowed for practicalities as well as seduction. When one must cover up to keep warm, one should choose the right fabrics and shapes to accentuate one’s form. No tables or elbows required.
“Not at all,” Josiah assured her.
“Not unwelcome, perhaps,” Georgiana said, “forJosiah.” She lifted a brow and sipped her drink as silence wrapped around her blatant use of his Christian name. Let that detail sink into Miss Darlington’s skin. Then, when the silence became a touch awkward, she turned to Xavier. “Will you deal?”
“Of course.” He shuffled and divided up the cards.
This hand was not as good as her previous one, and she rested one forearm on the table, drumming her fingertips as she considered how to play.
A solid warmth brushed up against her arm, stopping her fingers midbeat. She glanced down. The length of Josiah’snakedforearm pressed against her own arm, encased in green velvet. He’d divested himself of his jacket at some point and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbow. Scandalous and informal. No man in London would be in public in such a way. But Josiah was a man of the fields and woods. No refined Town prince, he. A light dusting of hair swept up the back of his arm, and she felt the crispness of it where the backs of their gloveless hands grazed. She glanced up at him to find him looking at Xavier, daring him with a glance to beat him at this hand.
He did not even appear to notice their touching arms, but at the sight of his fingers wrapped long and strong around his cup, steam curling up from it, steam curled inside her, too.
She downed the rest of her drink to drown her inexplicably wanton thoughts and refocused on her cards. But the feeling of his arm against her did not lessen, and her breaths would not slow, and her heart—she jumped up from her seat, letting her cards flutter to the table and finding the pot of negus to refill her cup.
She drank this one too quickly and kept her arms narrowed in her lap. She did not win this time. Sarah did, and Xavier bussed her forehead.
“Clever as always, Queenie,” he said. That glow in his eyes when he looked at his wife. What was it that made a competitive man like him seem glad his wife had beaten him soundly? Love?
The word curled like steam on her tongue, feeling heavy there.
Lord, she was foxed. Did anyone notice? She looked up, found Josiah grinning at her.
“I’m foxed,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she knew they had a desire to go for a jaunt about the room.
“I see. Well, then, Lady Gee, let’s—”
“What’s all this, then?”
Everyone turned toward the door as the Earl of Westgrove sauntered through. His long, once-dark hair was mostly gray now, though some strands of black still flickered through like glimpses of a midnight sky through curtains, and his blue eyes, so much like Josiah’s, sparked.
“A party?” he said. “And I was not invited? No matter. I’ve a meeting with a lady in the village later.” He winked.
“Father.” Xavier stood, his voice calm but his form rigid. “Please do consider the company when choosing conversational topics.”
“I suppose that’s the gentlemanly thing to do, eh?” He chuckled, but then his eyes locked on Georgiana. “You. I’ve seen you about. The heiress?”
“Heiress no longer. I am an independently wealthy woman.” She stood, pulling herself up tall, tipping her chin up, too, then she sank into her best bow. And her best bow was better than everyone else’s with the exception, perhaps, of the Queen. Even when foxed.
“This is Lady Georgiana Hunt, Father,” Josiah said. “You’ve been introduced before.”
“Yes, well, I can’t be bothered to remember every chit’s name now, can I?” The clock ticked off seconds as Lord Westgrove scrutinized Josiah. “Going to marry her?”
