First Comes Scandal

“All five of us? Will we fit?”

“The innkeeper says he can send up extra bedding.”

“But what about you?”

“I shall sleep in the stables, along with the rest of the men.”

“But it’s our—”

Wedding Night.

The words hung unspoken.

“We shall make do,” Georgie said firmly. Maybe it was for the best. Did she really wish to spend her wedding night in a coaching inn called The Brazen Bull?

“We could keep going,” Nicholas said, “but it sounds like the other nearby inns are also full, and—”

“It’s fine, Nicholas.”

“The horses are spent,” he said, “and I suspect we’re all exhausted.”

“Nicholas,” she said again. “We will be fine. I promise.”

He stopped talking finally, and just blinked up at her. “Thank you,” he said.

“There is nothing to thank me for.”

“You could be very ill-tempered about it all.”

“I could.” She smiled. “I still can.” She held up Cat-Head. “Want a cat?”

“God, no.” He held out his hand. “Let me help you down. We should make some haste. It’s late, but I’m told we can still get supper. I’ve made arrangements for a private dining room.”

The cats were handed off to the maids, the foot-men saw to the luggage, and Georgie and Nicholas made their way across the courtyard.

The inn was at a busy crossroads, and after so long in the carriage, Georgie was unprepared for the sheer volume of humanity sharing the scene. Nicholas, however, seemed perfectly at ease. He strode forward with purpose, threading between strangers as he made his way to the front steps of the old Tudor building that now housed The Brazen Bull Inn. Georgie was thankful for him, or to put a finer point on it, for the crook in his elbow in which her hand was tightly tucked. She could have done without his legs being quite so long; she had to scurry like a mouse just to keep up.

But then he stopped suddenly a few feet from the entrance—Georgie had no idea why; she hadn’t been paying attention—and she smashed right into him. Her arms flew around his midsection as she tried to keep hold of her balance. It was muddy, and the ground was hard—a fall would have been messy, embarrassing, and probably painful.

It was over in an instant, but the moment lengthened the way a blink can last forever. She felt her fingers spread against his firm belly as she regained her balance, instinctively pulling herself against him for stability. She felt her cheek press against his soft wool coat. She felt her breath catch.

“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked, and she felt him start to twist in her arms.

“I’m fine, I—” She stopped, realizing that she was hugging him. Her face was pressed into his strong back, cradled in a curve she hadn’t even known was there.

“I’m fine,” she said again, reluctantly loosening her grip. He finished turning, and they were face-to-face. How were his eyes so luminously blue, even now when the night air stole the color from the sky?

Was it just because she knew what he looked like? She’d grown up around the Rokesbys; they all possessed those marvelous azure eyes.

But this felt different. She felt different.

“Are you sure?” he asked. And she realized his hand had covered hers. It felt …

Intimate.

She looked down at their hands, then back up at his face. She had known him forever, but suddenly the whole world was strange and new. He was holding her hand, and she was suddenly full of emotion and confusion and something she couldn’t quite define.

“Georgie?” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

She smoothed out her breathing, and said, “Yes.”

Then the moment was over.

But something inside her had changed.

IT TURNED OUT that The Brazen Bull’s private dining room was private only insofar as it was separated from the main dining room by a wall with a doorway in it.

But just a doorway. If a door had once resided there, it was long gone, and while the inn’s other patrons respected the boundary with their bodies, the same could not be said for their words and conversation, which poured loud and bawdy through the air.

It made conversation a challenge, and Nicholas almost wished they’d pressed for their meal to be had up in the room with the maids, but then he remembered that the maids had the cats, and at least one of those cats was probably howling, and frankly, he wanted nothing to do with it.

Uncharitable of him, perhaps, but it was the truth. Even the raucous singing wafting in through the doorway wasn’t bothering him. Not that it normally would, but Georgiana was a lady and if he was hearing correctly, someone was extolling—in rhyming couplets, no less—the tongue-related talents of an unnamed, yet highly industrious, female.

He should get up and say something. But he was damned hungry, and the beef stew was surprisingly good.

Oh my sweet Martine, something, something quite unclean.

Nicholas grinned in spite of himself. Martine. She was probably French.

And hopefully imaginary, poor woman, if the lyrics were anything to go by.

He stole a glance at Georgie, hoping she wasn’t too bothered by the coarse language. She had her back to the doorway, so at least she couldn’t see the men dancing along in their clumsy jigs.

Georgie’s brow was fixed into a frown. Nothing distressing, just that faraway look people got when their mind was somewhere else.

Nicholas cleared his throat.

She seemed not to hear him.

Nicholas reached forward and waved his hand in front of her eyes. “Georgiana,” he said, his voice a little bit singsong. “Georgiana Bridgerton.”

Rokesby, he realized with a start. Georgiana Rokesby.

He didn’t think she noticed his mistake; instead, she seemed to be embarrassed that he’d caught her woolgathering.

She blushed. Blushed! And she looked … beautiful.

“Pardon,” she murmured, looking down. “I was thinking on a dozen different things. This noise makes it hard to concentrate.”

“Yes,” he said, but what he was really thinking was that looking at her made it hard to concentrate . She was pretty, of course, she’d always been pretty with her strawberry blond hair and intelligent blue eyes. She was his wife now, he thought, and when he looked at her, it felt different.

And strangely, he wasn’t so sure it was only because they were married. He had the oddest feeling that even if they had not stood before the priest that morning and said their vows, he would see something new every time his gaze touched her face.

She had become a discovery, and he had always had an endlessly curious mind.

She took a sip of her wine, then dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. Her eyes flicked over her shoulder at a particularly loud burst of laughter from the men in the other room.

“Are coaching inns always so noisy?” she asked.

“Not always,” he replied. “But I find this quite soothing after the cat.”

She let out a little snort of laughter. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was not well done of me.”

“Who do you fear offending? The cat?”

“He tried his best,” she said.

“He is a demon.”