First Comes Scandal

“Because I wanted to know about them!”

“Enough!” Nicholas put his hand on Benedict’s shoulder, but the little boy yanked himself away.

And Georgie’s faith in the universe was restored. Nicholas wasn’t having any success at managing them, either.

Benedict stamped his foot. “Anthony Bridgerton, I hate you the most.” And then he drew back his fist.

Georgie leapt forward. “Do not hit your brother!”

But Benedict had no intention of hitting his brother. Instead, his little hand swung through the air, releasing a heretofore unnoticed patty of pure lakefront mud.

It would have hit Anthony in the face if Georgie had not tried to intervene.

Anthony gasped with pure schadenfreude as it slopped down on Georgie’s shoulder. “Oh, Benedict,” he breathed. “You are going to be in so much trouble.”

“Benedict!” Nicholas said sternly.

“I didn’t mean to!” Benedict cried. “I was aiming for Anthony.”

Nicholas took him by the upper arm, pulling him a step back for a scolding. “That does not make it any better.”

And then Georgie—honestly, she could not say what came over her. She would never know what mad devil plucked her hand from her side. It was like she’d been attacked by malevolent marionette strings.

She scooped the mud from her shoulder and let fly.

Right into Nicholas’s neck.

“I was aiming for Benedict,” she said sweetly.

Then she made the mistake of looking at the boys. They were staring at her with identical expressions—eyes wide, mouths wider—and then Benedict said in almost reverent tones, “Aunt Georgie, you are going to be in so much trouble.”

Nicholas—damn him—swooped in to save the day. “Boys,” he said with deceptive calm, “I think your aunt isn’t feeling well.”

Georgie would have snapped, “I’m fine,” except that she wasn’t fine, and she wanted this to be over more than she wanted to prove him wrong.

“Run along home,” Nicholas said to the boys. “We will be right behind you.”

“Is Benedict in trouble?” Anthony asked hopefully.

“No one is in trouble.”

“Is Aunt Georgie in trouble?”

“Home,” Nicholas said sharply.

They took one look at his face and started to run.

Georgie grit her teeth. “I’m sorry about the mud.”

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

His brows rose. “That was a refreshingly quick capitulation.”

“I’m not a good liar.”

“Neither am I,” he said with a shrug.

“Yes, I know.”

Then his mouth started to twitch, and by God, that was the final straw.

“Don’t laugh,” she practically growled.

“I’m not.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Nicholas looked like he might throw his hands in the air. “I’m not! Believe me, I find no humor here.”

“I think you should—”

“Although I am flattered that Edmund has granted me uncle status.”

He wanted to laugh. She was sure of it.

“Stop looking so self-righteous,” Nicholas said testily. “We’re both covered in mud.”

She gave him one long stare and then marched away.

“Georgie, stop!” He caught up instantly. “We are not finished.”

“I am,” she ground out. She was done. “You can tell your father,” she said, each syllable more clipped than the last, “that you have done your duty and asked me to marry you. And then you can tell him that I said no.”

“You’re not thinking.”

“Don’t you dare.” She stepped forward, jabbing her finger toward him. She poked it through the air, and then she poked him right in the chest. “Don’t you ever tell me I don’t know my own mind. Do you hear me?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Again! Do you hear yourself? If you have to say ‘that’s not what I meant’ three times in a single conversation, perhaps you should consider the in-clarity of your words.”

“Inclarity?” he repeated.

Now he was correcting her grammar? Georgie wanted to scream. “I think you should go,” she said, trying for a hushed tone. The boys weren’t that far ahead of them on the path.

“At least let me—”

She thrust one of her arms out, vaguely in the direction of Crake. “Go!”

Nicholas crossed his arms and looked her hard and square in the eye. “No.”

She drew back. “What?”

“No,” he said again. “I’m not going to go. Not until I am convinced that you have actually heard what I’ve had to say.”

“Will. You. Marry. Me,” she said, ticking the words off on her fingers. “I heard you quite clearly.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Georgiana. It does not become you.”

She stepped forward. “When did you become so condescending?”

He stepped forward. “When did you become so short-sighted and full of pride?”

At this point they were nearly nose to nose, and Georgie was seething. “A gentleman would accept a lady’s refusal with grace.”

He countered with, “A lady would consider the proposal before rejecting it out of hand.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“I am not asking you to marry me because I pity you,” he said in a furiously tight voice. “I am asking because I have known you for as long as I have known my own memory. I like you, Georgiana. You are a good person, and you do not deserve to spend the rest of your life in isolation because of the misguided actions of a jackass.”

Her comeback died in her throat. Because now she felt like a jackass.

A jackass who had no idea what to say.

She swallowed, hating that the lump in her throat tasted like tears. Hating that he didn’t understand why she was so angry. And hating that he was actually a good person and he still didn’t understand.

But most of all, she hated that she’d fallen into this awful position where someone could make a kind gesture, born of nothing but care and good intentions, and all she wanted to do was scream.

“Thank you, Nicholas,” she said, picking through her words with careful cadence. “It was very thoughtful of you to ask.”

“Thoughtful,” he repeated, and she got the feeling that he was startled by the milkish, nondescript word.

“The answer is still no,” she said. “You don’t need to save me.”

He bristled. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?”

He stared at her for a moment before capitulating. “Yes, fine, I suppose it is, but it’s you, Georgie.”

“Me?”

“You must know I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”

Her heart pricked. She wanted to cry. She wanted to cry so hard and she didn’t know why. Or maybe it was that there were simply too many reasons and the prospect of sifting through them made her want to cry the hardest of all.

She shook her head. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life feeling grateful?”