First Comes Scandal

“She’ll be a good mother.”

“She probably will,” Nicholas replied. For some other man’s children. Not his.

She’d said no.

No.

That was all there was to it. He could go back to Scotland tomorrow. Or at least as soon as he told his father that Georgie had rejected his proposal.

But first, a bath. “If that is all, sir—”

“My man is back from London with the special license,” his father said.

Nicholas nearly groaned. “How expedient.”

“The archbishop owed me a favor.”

“The archbishop owes you a favor,” Nicholas repeated. It was not often one heard those words said in that order.

“Owed,” his father corrected. “We are even now.”

Nicholas could not imagine a series of events that had led to the Archbishop of Canterbury owing his father a favor. “I hope you have not wasted your indulgence.”

His father gave him a look. “You yourself told me you need to get back to Edinburgh. Do you really want to wait for three weeks of banns?”

Nicholas took a breath. “Has it occurred to you that she might not accept?”

“Don’t be daft. Georgiana is a sensible girl. She knows how the world works.”

“I thought I knew how the world worked,” Nicholas muttered.

“What was that?”

Nicholas shook his head. “Nothing.”

And then to himself: “Absolutely nothing at all.”

IT TOOK GEORGIE precisely one hour to realize that she was being an idiot.

Two hours after that, she decided she had to do something about it.

She was sitting in the drawing room with her mother, as was her habit most afternoons. Her mother was working on her embroidery. Georgie was doing the same, which was not her habit most afternoons. She always had her basket at her side; she had to give the impression that she was at least thinking of attacking the embroidery, but she usually ended up staring out the window or reading a book.

Today, however, she’d been inspired to work on her stitches. Needle up, needle down. Needle up, needle down.

Nothing fancy or floral, just a neat, straight line of stitches. Needle up, needle down. She felt almost mechanical. It was oddly satisfying.

Her conversation with Nicholas at dinner the night before had reminded her how impressed she’d been by the doctor’s work on Anthony’s hand. The stitches had been as even and tidy as any she’d ever seen in an embroidery hoop. And on a howling, squirming child to boot.

She wondered how much training it took to reach that level of proficiency.

Needle up, needle down.

Georgie frowned. Would her work be good enough to stitch a wound? Probably not. Her line was straight and even, but fabric was not skin. If she were stitching an actual wound, she wouldn’t be able to reach underneath, as she could with muslin stretched across an embroidery hoop.

“My goodness, Georgiana,” her mother said. “I have never seen you so focused on your embroidery. What are you working on?”

Georgie had no choice but to show her the row of stitches, neat and tidy and forming nothing more interesting than a straight line.

Her mother looked perplexed, but Georgie did not think she was feigning interest when she asked, “Er, what is that meant to be?”

“Nothing,” Georgie admitted. “I thought I would challenge myself to see how many identical stitches I could do in a row.”

“Oh. Well, that seems an admirable goal. One must master the basics before moving on to the more creative aspects of needlework.”

Georgie tried to peer over at her mother’s hoop. “What are you working on?”

“Just a few flowers.” Lady Bridgerton held her work up. Just a few flowers indeed. It was nothing short of a masterpiece. Pink peonies, purple irises, delicate white somethings—all interwoven with leaves of every possible shade of green.

It was clear where Benedict got his artistic talent.

“That is gorgeous,” Georgie said.

Her mother flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, dear. I spent several days designing it on paper before working on the fabric. I used to try to be more spontaneous, but I’ve realized I must plan things out.”

“You get a lot of joy out of your needlework, don’t you?”

“I do. I really do.”

Something in her mother’s tone piqued Georgie’s curiosity. “You sound almost surprised.”

“Not surprised …” Lady Bridgerton’s brow furrowed and a faraway look settled onto her face, the sort one got when one was deep in one’s own mind. “I suppose I never really thought about it,” she said, “but there is great satisfaction to be had in creation.”

“Creation?”

“And completion. And the knowledge that one is responsible for both.”

Georgie looked down at the neat row of stitches marching across her embroidery hoop. She’d used blue thread, for no reason other than the fact that it was in her basket near the top of the pile, but now she found she liked it. It was soothing.

And endless. Blue was the ocean, the sky. And the thread that, if she loosened the fabric from the hoop, could go on forever.

All she had to do was remove the boundaries.

She loved Aubrey Hall. She really did. And she loved her family, too. But the walls here had been closing in on her for years, so slowly she had not even realized it.

Nicholas had offered her a choice. Maybe it wasn’t the right choice; but she had been foolish to dismiss his offer out of hand. She’d chosen pride over reason, and she hadn’t even given him a chance to explain himself.

Yes, it stung that the only reason he’d proposed was that his father had called him down from Scotland to do so, but maybe …

Maybe …

Maybe there was more?

Or maybe not, but maybe there could be?

And even if there wasn’t, even if she wasn’t destined to find love and passion and hearts and flowers and whatever else it was that cupids and cherubs sang of on high …

Maybe it would still be worth it.

So how did one go about un-rejecting a marriage proposal?

Georgie stood up. “I’m going to Crake.”

Her mother regarded her with palpable surprise. “Now?”

“Yes.” Now that she’d made her decision Georgie was determined to be on her way. “I’m going to take a cart.”

“Really? A cart?”

“It’s faster than walking.”

“Are you in a rush?”

“No.”

Yes. What if Nicholas left for Scotland this afternoon? Highly unlikely, all things considered, but possible. And wouldn’t she feel like a fool?

Her mother turned to the window and frowned. “It looks like rain, dear. I don’t think you should go.”

What she really meant was—You shouldn’t go out in the rain because you could catch a chill, stop breathing, and die.

Georgie gave her mother a reassuring smile. “It has been over a year since I had an episode, Mama. I really do think I’ve grown out of them.”

Her mother did not reply, and Georgie half-expected her to order a steaming bowl of over-steeped tea for Georgie to hover over with a heavy linen over her head. It had been a common ritual in Georgie’s youth—one her mother no doubt was sure had saved her life many times over.