“The rescue was convenient.”
“Actually, not in the least. I followed you there.”
Simon lifted off the pillow, but the air left his lungs. He placed a hand to his side, the throb of his torn skin matching the beat of his heart. “Why?”
“Curiosity mostly. I am in puzzlement why a man who disappeared to the rugged mountains of America should be so interested in returning now.”
Simon glanced about the room—the hand-painted murals on the walls, the lit hearth, the silver-framed mirrors and paintings. “Where am I?”
“Hollyvale Estate.”
“I need to return to Sowerby—”
“I have already sent a footman to explain the matter to your mother and children.” A grin crooked the thin lips. “Do not worry. I told them you were attending a late dinner party and would enjoy a night of gambling. They shall not expect to see you until they arrive tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“For the picnic here at Hollyvale.”
“I won’t be—”
“Invitations have already been sent. Indeed, I daresay your mother would have forced you into attending anyway.” He drained the last of his port, a small hint of redness rising to his cheeks. “After all, I am certain if your mother can persuade you into matrimony, she can persuade you into most anything.” Returning his empty glass to the bedstand, Mr. Oswald forced one last smile, murmured good night, and left the chamber.
Simon sagged into the bed with his eyes closed. Weakness crept over him, then discomfort, then darkness, but he fought through them all and tried to keep himself awake.
He was not certain Mr. Oswald had spoken truth to him. If he came back to finish what he started, Simon would be awake and ready.
He hoped.
“Would you like to talk of it?”
Still in her wrapper, Georgina draped the third long-sleeve dress across her bed. “It is always so much more difficult to choose dresses for outside picnics. Which one?”
“Not the white one.” Agnes crossed the bedchamber and opened the window. Warm spring air rushed into the room—filled with the faint song of birds chirping and carriage wheels clomping cobblestones on the street below. “Too many chances one might stain the hem with grass.”
“The Pomona dress then?”
Agnes turned from the window, the breeze stirring her curls. “Dear, you must speak to someone about the events of yesterday.”
“There is nothing to discuss.”
“Why did he come? What did he want?”
“Nothing he said was of consequence.” Georgina hugged the apple-green dress to her chest, as if making certain the trim was not too long or the neckline too low.
The truth was she had not the strength to look into her cousin’s face.
Agnes would see everything.
The torments Georgina had slept with last night. All the doubts on whether she had done the right thing. All the taunting imaginations of what a different answer might have warranted her.
But she’d done the only thing she could do. What profit was there in gaining his name but not his heart? She had no wish for cold, passionless matrimony. His indifference would torture her. She had no choice.
“Whenever you wish to speak of it, I shall be waiting.” Agnes spoke the words with softness, as if still attempting to soothe away the hurtful confessions from before. “I had better go and find my own dress if I do not wish for us to be tardy.” She started from the room but paused halfway out the bedchamber doorway. “Oh, and dear?”
“Yes?”
“I forgot to mention it. When Nellie was opening the draperies and dusting the rooms this morning, she found an unexpected display of flowers.”
