Lady Cecelia audibly huffed and handed her bouquet of freshly picked lavender to her maid. “Would you please take these back to the house and have them put in my room?”
Sophia glanced at George, and he knew well what she was thinking.
“We will follow behind,” he assured her, stepping aside for her to leave.
She hesitated, glancing at Lady Cecelia, who nodded before she left with her head bowed, lavender firmly in hand.
“Did you wish to say something?” Lady Cecelia said, her tone hard, her expression grim. And it made his chest ache to remember when last they had spoken, when he had been utterly harsh and terribly cruel in the park.
How he wished he had voiced his apologies before the ball the night before, and yet, he hadn't been able to bring himself to do so for fear of another argument.
Now, however, he could not hold his tongue.
“I bring a warning, My Lady,” he said with all politeness, and yet, he saw the way her hackles started to rise.
“If you have come to tell me of some wrongdoing I have partaken in, I do not wish to hear it,” she said, and she half turned away as if she expected him to simply leave.
“I wish to warn you against giving Lord James Fitzwilliam your attention.”
He noted how she stiffened. She became so hard, so shut off, that he thought if he touched her, she might break.
“Why would you say such a thing?” she asked, though she did not grace him with her gaze.
She instead ran a gloved finger around and around in a circle upon the wall of the fountain, something she had so often been found doing when she was thinking or perhaps even nervous.
George smiled to himself, glad to see that some small things hadn't changed even if he wished others had.
“He has a reputation,” George said, straightening his back. Though she did not look at him, he stared at her, hoping to make her feel the seriousness of his words.
“Every gentleman of thetonhas some reputation or another.”
George cringed.
“He is a scoundrel.”
At that, Lady Cecelia's head whipped around. At that moment, she was a snake; swift, dangerous, and utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.
George's will faltered.
“How can anyone name him a scoundrel? He who has been titled because of his heroics during the war, he who has committed selfless acts in the name of king and country?”
Her words resounded in George's head, and he had to admit that she had a point.
He had heard so many different things about the man, some with evidence, others with only rumour.
Perhaps he had taken some of those things to heart, things that served his own purposes. Was he the one who was in the wrong here?
He couldn't be sure, but seeing the look on her face, he couldn't bring himself to argue further.
Instead, he clasped his hands behind him, lowered his gaze, and accepted her words as he said, “I just wished to give you fair warning. It is my duty as your chaperone to see you know all the facts.”
“You have done your duty,” she said bluntly.
Her tone left little room to say anymore, and so, he dipped his head. “Will you allow me to escort you to the drawing room?”
Lady Cecelia's expression fell, hardened once more, and George found it almost unbearable to look at her.
“I can make my own way.”
