In silence, the carriage took them from the town house toward Sowerby House, the quiet London air tasting of new growth and spring.
Georgina picked at a loose thread on her glove.
Agnes read a book they both knew she was uninterested in. When the carriage wheels crunched the pea gravel of Sowerby House drive, Agnes finally glanced up. She smacked the book shut with force. “You should not have come here tonight, dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“All day, I have watched you. I know that you think of him still.”
“Other guests shall be in attendance. It is not as if I have any intention of succumbing to him.”
“Simon Fancourt is not who you think.” Again, it flashed. The stranger inside of Agnes that Georgina did not know. The same look from the bedchamber, when her cousin had vomited and clutched the window curtains and fallen to her knees.
“I know you do not wish my heart to be injured further.” Georgina glanced out the window with a frown. They had arrived. “But like you, I must be allowed to make my own choices.”
“Yes.” Agnes’ head fell and her voice weakened. “We both must do what we have to do.”
He’d rather plant corn seeds until the skin blistered on the back of his neck than do this.
Simon stood near the window, having already opened the pane to allow in a fresh breeze. Curtains fluttered. Mother scolded that it was primitive behavior to leave it open, while Sir Walter nursed a pipe from one of the ornately carved chairs.
Then the drawing-room doors parted. A servant announced Lord and Lady Gilchrist, who strode into the room with squared shoulders and patronizing expressions, as if they were bestowing Simon mercy by attending.
Truth was, it was the last thing he wanted.
Were it not for Sir Walter, he would have told them as much.
“Good evening, my lord.” Sir Walter bowed, remarked on the pleasant weather, then approached to kiss Lady Gilchrist’s hand.
While she giggled and moved to sit with Mother on the settee, Lord Gilchrist waddled closer.
“Young Fancourt, you have quite a lot to learn, I fear, about the genteel life you were raised in. But”—he held up a quick hand, as if in sudden fear Simon might seize his cravat—“though I may be a hot-tempered man, by all accounts, I am not entirely without a considerate nature. I have decided to overlook your ghastly behavior and start anew.”
Before Simon could respond with something he’d regret, the drawing-room doors opened a second time.
Miss Whitmore entered, her movements all grace, smooth cheeks already suffused with pink. Did she blush on demand? A coy, maidenly charm meant to lure in unsuspecting gentlemen? Or was it in earnest? A true sense of shyness?
Whatever the case, she glanced everywhere but at his face.
Unlike her cousin.
Still in the shadows of the doorway, the girl called Agnes Simpson stared at him—her eyes wide, her jaw tight, her lips pressed together with such vigor that a flood of red came over her own cheeks.
A sense of foreboding struck Simon. What in the name of good sense was wrong with the girl?
More importantly, why did it seem to involve him?
Something was not right.
Georgina dipped her spoon into the frothy soup, the hot steam moistening her face. The table was too quiet. Her chair was too close to Simon Fancourt—close enough that she could detect the faint sound of his breathing, smell the scent she despised, feel the tablecloth ripple beneath her fingertips when his elbow caused a wrinkle.
But it was more than that.
Tension swirled in her gut, making it more and more difficult to swallow down soup she could no longer taste.
Sir Walter laughed over the peculiarities of a recent case.
Lord and Lady Gilchrist nodded and smiled in turn without any sign of true interest.
