She owed it to herself.
Hurt burned through her, as the song dipped lower with rippling, dramatic notes. The reality that Simon had left her here—alone—without so much as appearing in three days to see how she fared, brought more distress than her throbbing arm.
She had asked servants about him more than a hundred times a day.
She had watched the drive from her chamber window.
Did she mean so little to him? Or did he fathom his absence a strange sort of protection—that she would be in little danger if he was not close?
“Have you so little interest in travel, Miss Whitmore?” Eleanor swept next to Georgina on the chaise lounge, the glint in her eyes more condescending than curious.
“Forgive me.” Georgina cradled her linen sling closer. “I fear I am not myself these past days.”
“A consequence my brother afflicts on all feminine guests.”
“I did not mean—”
“Just look at them.” Eleanor leaned close enough that her whisper was only loud enough for Georgina’s ear. “Every lady in the room—I daresay, even Miss Crayford there at the pianoforte, who is betrothed to the gentleman playing next to her—keeps stealing glances at my seducing brother.”
“You misjudge me greatly, Miss Oswald.”
“No, you misjudge him.” Eleanor’s features hardened. “He has a cunning way of entrapping his prey before they even know they have been snared.”
“You speak very severely of your own brother.”
“As he does of me.”
Georgina glanced at Mr. Oswald across the room, as he grinned at his card opponent with smug assurance. “Are you so very ill with each other?”
“Yes.” Ice chilled the words. “He ruined my life.”
Before Georgina could respond, the drawing room door opened and Simon entered.
A hush fell over the room as quickly as her heart tripped.
He met her eyes and immediate relief seemed to relax his features, as if seeing her well and unharmed reassured him. He could have been relieved three days past.
He would have been if he had cared.
But he didn’t. She knew that well enough by now.
“Well, this is a surprise.” When no one else in the room acknowledged his presence, Miss Eleanor stood with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Mr. Fancourt, we are glad you could join us, though I fear you missed both dinner and the most interesting tales of my journey abroad.”
He settled into a chair near the hearth, and though his body and expression were calm, Georgina noted the tension of his tight fingers around the chair arm.
“But I daresay, enough of such droll pleasures. I demand everyone stop what they are doing at once.” She swept a hand to the pianoforte. “Miss Crayford, a country dance medley. We must move the furniture immediately and dance.”
Someone called for the servants, the chairs and lounges were all scooted to the edge of the walls, and as soon as every guest besides Georgina had been urged into the circle, Miss Crayford broke into a lively rendition of “Earl Breadalbain’s Reel.”
From her seat along the wall, in the shadows, Georgina tried not to watch him. They paired in threes, took each other’s hands, then Simon ducked under two upheld arms. He promenaded with Miss Oswald around the room.
Twice, Georgina almost rose and left.
She needed to leave this room, this house.
Now.
But she remained, like a moth singeing her wings, until the medley was over and Simon glanced at her again. He acted as if there was something he needed to say. Or did she only wish it were so?
