“I am not. Only of enjoying gentlemen’s company to the point of fault.” Georgina stood again, running her hands down her dress, her own weakness rushing through her with painful vividness. “Perhaps I am inflicted with the same fault. Perhaps that is why I have worshiped and lamented over Simon Fancourt, why I have desired him so much—because he was the one gentleman I know who has not been affected by my attentions.”
“You are too severe on yourself.”
“Perhaps not severe enough.” Georgina sighed, reached over, and grasped Agnes’ hand. “What would I do without you? You are good enough to tell me things I do not wish to hear. Mother and friend and sister and angel all embodied in one soul.”
The praise cast a stricken look on Agnes’ face. Her eyes shifted. “I wish you would not say such nonsense.”
“It is not nonsense. You are the only person in my entire life that I need never fear will abandon me.” Georgina smiled, kissed her cousin’s cheek, and looped their arms. “Now come. We must return and answer the letters we received this morning. Believe it or not, I am rather anticipating the picnic Mr. Oswald will host at Hollyvale Estate.” As they slung the graveyard gate closed behind them, the iron groan mingled with their footfalls on the smooth cobbles. “Perhaps he shall distract me from the last thoughts of Simon Fancourt. Indeed, now that I realize the errors of my heart, I shall never think of him again. You must believe me.”
“Your chance to prove yourself may be closer than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look.” Several yards from their town house, Agnes paused. She lifted a finger to where a tall gentleman rapped on their door.
Georgina’s heart missed a beat.
Simon.
What was he doing here?
The parlor had not changed. The same tasseled yellow curtains made orange by the streaming sunlight. The same books he used to peruse out of boredom. The same globe on its wooden tripod stand, which he used to spin with an idle finger.
And the cream-velvet settee, where the two of them sat.
Courting.
He nearly coughed at the memory and wiped both sweating hands on his pantaloons. Strange, how coming here brought everything back. He had forgotten much.
Indeed, he had forgottenher.When was the last time young Georgina Whitmore had crossed his mind before seeing her on Sowerby’s steps?
With familiar whining hinges, the parlor door came open.
Simon stood as she entered. He had expected her to appear with her cousin, perhaps with her mother—but she strode into the room by herself, her movements elegant, her eyes as demure and hard to decipher as they had ever been before.
“Mr. Fancourt.” She dipped her chin, a faint smile upturning her lips. A blush settled on her cheeks. Perhaps that would have meant something had she not blushed at every other gentleman too.
He remembered well.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I was out on a stroll when you first arrived.” She took a seat across from him, offered tea, then watched him without expression when he declined.
He cleared his throat. “You have been well?”
“Most well. And you?”
“The same.”
“These past years have been kind to you.” She seemed to study his face, then his hands, then his eyes—all with that same impassive look. “I imagine your mother is rejoicing greatly to have you returned.”
More like distressing greatly, but he reined back the frustration and nodded instead. “How fares your mother?”
“She is in Bath, enjoying the mineral waters.”
“I am certain you miss her.”
“Yes.”
“And your father?”
