“Pish tush, I don’t care about godmothers—though you could do better. What I do object to,” Aunt Agatha said with freezing authority, “is any suggestion that this child might bea girl! You are carrying the Rutherford Heir, my gel, and don’t you forget it.”
For a time they almost forgot their purpose in gathering in the drawing room as thoughts of the imminent baby dominated conversation.
And then the clock in the hall struck twelve.
The last chime faded away. “He’s not coming, is he?”George said. She wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved or insulted. Certainly she was frustrated—all keyed up for a confrontation and then... nothing.
Was she never to get the chance to say no to the duke?
***
“Damn his blasted cheek!” Cal exclaimed at the breakfast table the following morning. He slapped down the newspaper he’d been reading.
“What is it?” Emm asked. “Whose cheek?”
“Everingham. He’s made the blasted announcement without so much as a by-your-blasted-leave.”
George looked up from her kedgeree. “What announcement?” Dread filled her. She knew, she just knew...
“Read it yourself.” Cal passed her the newspaper. “There.” His finger stabbed at a notice surrounded by an elegantly printed border.
As George read it her mouth dried. It was a notice announcing the betrothal of Lady Georgiana Rutherford to the Duke of Everingham. “But he can’t do that!”
“He blasted well has,” Cal said grimly. “You know, I didn’t mind the fellow when he was going to marry Rose. Bit of a cold fish I thought, but no real harm in him. But this”—he jabbed the notice with his finger again—“I’m getting to see a whole new side of him now.”
The butler, Burton, quietly entered bearing a folded note on a silver salver. “This note was just delivered, m’lord,” he murmured. “A footman is outside, waiting for an answer.”
Cal glanced at the seal, broke it open and scanned the note. “Tell him I’ll be waiting for his explanation.” He glanced at the clock. “Eleven o’clock, on the dot—none of his blasted unpunctuality.” He tossed the note aside. Burton glided out.
“The duke?” Emm asked.
Cal grunted. “I’ll see what the fellow has to say. And it had better be good.” He retrieved his newspaper, shook it out and retreated behind it.
“I won’t marry him,” George muttered.
“I believe I’ve noted that, George,” came a rumble from behind the newspaper. “I wasn’t deaf the first time you said it and the following thirty-eight repetitions have been quite unnecessary.”
There was a moment of quiet, broken only by the ticking clock. Then Emm said thoughtfully, “If Cal has seen the notice, Aunt Agatha will have too.” She glanced at the clock. “I give it another fifteen minutes before she arrives.”
“Oh, lord.” Calling Finn to her, George fled.
***
At precisely one minute to eleven Hart rang the Ashendon doorbell. The butler bowed, said his grace was expected and ushered Hart into the library. Cal Rutherford, very much Earl of Ashendon, stood in front of the fireplace, ramrod straight and wearing the famous Rutherford scowl.
It looked better on his niece. Hart gave the earl a curt nod. “Ashendon.”
“Everingham.”
There was a short silence. It became clear that Ashendon wasn’t going to invite him to be seated, but Hart was damned if he would be treated like a naughty schoolboy, so he chose a leather armchair and sank into it with every appearance of casual unconcern.
The Rutherford scowl darkened.
“Stop looking at me like that. You know as well as I do that it had to be done. We were caughtin flagrante,” Hart said after a moment.
“Yes, and how the hell did that happen?” Ashendon growled. “My niece is not that kind of girl.”
Hart, who thought she was very much that kind of girl, shrugged. “No use repining over spilled milk. What’s done is done.”
