George inhaled deeply.
“He requested that I chaperone Lady Cecelia for the Season.”
Walter's eyes grew wide at that. “That's absurd!”
“That was exactly my thought,” George said.
Even before he could finish speaking, Walter uttered the words, “You ought to court her yourself.”
George's mouth dropped open for only a second before he managed to recompose himself. “I am much too busy for anything like that.”
“Georgie, you and I both know that you are never too busy for anything you wish to do,” Walter said. His scowl was deep and disapproving.
In a hurry to try and change the subject, George said, “What about you? Are you courting?”
For a second, George was fearful his friend would not take the bait.
“Actually, there was a young lady in Italy,” Walter said, his cheeks reddening.
George leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Do tell.”
Walter looked away, a shrug in his shoulders.
“There is nothing to tell. She rejected my proposal.”
George was flabbergasted all over again. “She rejected you?”
Walter huffed with mocking laughter. “It was likely for the best, anyway. Returning to England made me realize how foolish it was. Italy and England are worlds apart in so many ways.”
“And you and I both know another has always had your eye,” George said. He nudged his friend playfully.
“Just as the same can be said for you, dear Georgie,” Walter said, looking deep into his eyes. “Why would you not try when you have ample opportunity now to do something about it?”
The memory of that day in the garden came flooding back once more. The sound of mocking laughter, the angry and disapproving look on Lady Cecelia's face as she had named him a cheater and a coward.
“Just as Italy and England are worlds apart, she and I are.”
Walter's face fell. “I highly doubt that. I cannot imagine Lady Cecelia has changed so much.”
“Perhaps she is not the one who is changed,” George sighed. “A lot has happened. The war, the dukedom, everything.”
“Yes, I suppose it has. I was sad to hear of your father's passing.”
George glanced away. Such a thing ought to have struck him with grief, yet in a way, he felt relieved.
“At least now he is not on my back, pushing me always to be better, to be him.”
“He may not be, but it seems you and he are more alike than ever,” Walter countered, and at that, George's gaze rose.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He was never likely to admit his feelings either,” Walter pointed out, and George resented him for it.
“There is nothing to admit,” he insisted though even as he spoke the words, his stomach twisted into knots.
“If that is true, then you absolutely should not even consider the earl's request,” Walter said, and George breathed a sigh of relief.
“I have already told the dowager countess my decision.”
