“I have made you uncomfortable.”
“I fear there has been some frightful miscommunication.” She swallowed hard as he plucked two grapes from a platter, his eyes never once leaving her face. “If I have led you to believe an attachment has formed between myself and you—”
“You are doing it again.”
“What?”
“Insulting my intelligence.” He tugged her to the other side of the table, offered her a sliced pear. “We already discussed the particulars of our relationship. I am as determined against attachment as you are.”
“Then how could you spy upon—”
“Believe it or not, Miss Whitmore, you are not my only interest in Simon Fancourt.” Mr. Oswald glanced to the porch, where the man in question descended the stairs and headed down the drive toward an approaching carriage.
His steps were careful, his movements slow and deliberate, as if something was the matter.
She would have studied him longer, but a light hand touched her elbow.
“Brother, you did not tell me our new friend would be in attendance.”
“I took care of that invitation myself.” Mr. Oswald bowed. “I shall leave you two ladies to discuss the infuriating but tantalizing attributes of us gentlemen while I see to more of my guests. Excuse me.”
Eleanor Oswald stepped closer to the table, one hand already balancing a glass plate of cold meats and apricot ice cream. “He does try so to be amusing, but I fear he fails miserably, do you not think?” When Georgina did not answer, the woman’s brows lifted. “Unless, of course, you are one of the many who becomes susceptible to his charms.” She hovered closer, dress rustling. “Though I do warn you, Alexander is much more dangerous than romantic. He would positively murder me for saying it, but there is more than one young lady lamenting because of his lacking scruples.”
The overwhelming aroma of food, the sun on the back of her neck, the humming noises and chirping birds all spiraled a sense of nausea.
“I daresay, you are appearing most pale again. I do not suppose I shall have to fetch my smelling salts once more, shall I? If fainting is reoccurring, I would think you would carry smelling salts in your own reticule and never go anywhere without them.”
“I do not need smelling salts nor your advice.” The second the words lashed out, she regretted her tone. With a murmured excuse and a half-apologetic look, Georgina marched to another table, poured a glass of lemonade, and went in search of Agnes.
On a quilt where two older women chattered and Agnes was already entertaining herself with a book, Georgina opened her parasol and promised herself she would not search for Simon Fancourt the remainder of the day.
But her eyes would not listen.
They scanned the length of the yard until she discovered him at a nearby blanket, helping his mother to a seat while his tiny daughter clung to his trousers. The little boy was sitting cross-legged, already pulling off his shoes, but glimpsed up long enough to see Georgina staring. He said something to his father and pointed, and Simon Fancourt met her eyes.
Georgina hurried her face away and pretended interest in whatever the two elderly women were discussing. But even as she answered their question on the best military shop, or sipped the tangy lemonade, or forced a laugh when they laughed, her heart stammered with discomfort.
Perhaps even pain.
Because no matter where she went or what she did, whether in reality or only in her mind, Simon Fancourt was present to torture her.
If she wanted anything in the world, it was to be untethered from him.
And if she was not strong enough to do it by herself, she would have no qualms in borrowing Alexander Oswald’s help.
Sweat dampened the back of Simon’s neck, whether from the afternoon sun or a breaking fever, he could not be certain. He re-situated himself on the diamond-patterned quilt. Pain seared like an arrow being plunged in and out of his flesh.
“Maybe me can have one more?” Mercy presented her empty plate to Simon, yellow pudding and cake crumbs on her cheeks. She burped.
“Heavens, did that dreadful sound come from this child?” Mother gasped, though the tone was still gentle. “My dear girl, you simply cannot do such things. It is not proper.”
“John does. Blayney does too.”
“Who on earth is Blayney?”
Simon eased himself to his feet, careful not to wince. “Never mind, Mother. Come on, Mercy.”
“I’ll go too.” John spoke around a mouthful of his own dessert, bringing his plate with him.
