Page 11 of Prince of Scandal

A church fete with a minx like Georgiana King?

God have mercy on them all.

CHAPTER 3

What on earth did a young widow wear to a Brundall church fete?

Georgiana chewed her lip as she perused her extensive armoire. Then looked longingly at the freshly laundered breeches and shirt hanging from an iron hook in the corner. No. Not even she would dare to do that. Especially when she actually liked Phoebe March and her mother. Not for the world would she turn attention away from the purpose of the afternoon: to raise money for the church buildings.

“Have you decided which color, Mrs. K?” asked her no-nonsense temporary lady’s maid, Mary. The dark-haired local girl might be even younger than herself, but worked miracles with laundry on account of having six younger siblings, and was a fast learner with hair and dressing.

“Hmmm,” said Georgiana, swiftly flicking through the selection. She needed something reasonably plain and modest rather than her favored jewel tones; wearing them here she would stand out like a parrot. Gah. Why hadn’t she listened to Lilian when her sister suggested adding several extra calico gowns to her trunks? Something peach or primrose striped, even a soft brown or bronze would have been eminently suitable.

Wait. Did she still have that plain white gown from a few Seasons ago? If she tucked something into the neckline, it might almost be respectable…

A-ha!

Almost crowing in triumph, she snatched up the gown and smilingly handed it to Mary.

The maid smiled. “I’ll give it a quick press; the iron will still be warm.”

Georgiana nodded and strolled over to sit at her dressing table. Then she picked up her hairbrush, and with a pained grimace, began tugging it through the ends of her curls. Poor Mary’s job would be a lot easier—and there would be a lot less wailing—if she got started on the task now. Ugh. Why was her hair so annoying? Lilian and Pippa both had beautiful, perfectly straight hair like their father. Apparently, the curls, much like her “high spirits” had come directly from her mother.

She sighed gloomily. It was always very difficult when the family recalled tales of Mandy Nash, Countess of Kingsford. They could all remember her clearly, and spoke in such loving terms. But she never knew what to say, because how could she admit that her own memories were so fuzzy? She’d been just eight when Mother passed of that dreadful fever, and Grandmother had descended on Kingsford Park like a black cloud directly from the bowels of hell. Everything had happened so fast. She’d been so confused, so desperate for someone to explain how healthy mothers just up and died, that she’d started misbehaving just so someone would scold her then take her onto their lap for a cuddle. Like beforehand. But no one had. They’d merely said, “Not now, Gigi” and walked away. And she’d never quite learned to behave properly for attention, much to her own bloody detriment.

Then again, if not for the humiliating scandal with Rupert, she never would have escaped here to Brundall. Or met Mr. Latimer. And he would hardly be impressed with a woman looking like she’d been dragged backward through a hedgerow.

Gritting her teeth, Georgiana stared at the hairbrush. “You are strong and mighty and can do this. I promise.”

“Do what, Mrs. K?”

She shook her head and smiled ruefully at Mary. “I’m just offering encouragement to the hairbrush for the terrible task ahead.”

The maid snorted. “Don’t you worry, ma’am, I’ll tame that mane. But let’s get you into this gown first.”

Soon they were both staring at her reflection in the full-length looking glass; Georgiana trying desperately not to giggle at the unconcealed alarm on Mary’s face. To be fair, though, the gown was an absolute contradiction in terms: a confection of snow-white innocence, with lace decorating the hem and a satin sash below her breasts that tied in a bow at the back…yet on her, positively indecent. Clearly, she was far more rounded than the last time she’d worn this gown, for never had she displayed so much bosom. Right now, she looked like the naughty milkmaid appearing in a lewd London play to entice the hero from his path of virtue.

Ha. Considering her half-thought-out plans, not entirely inaccurate. And she wasn’t at all dismayed by that.

“Must I fetch the hartshorn, Mary?” she asked mischievously.

The maid gulped. “Ah, Mrs. K…you know what would look lovely? A muslin fichu.”

Georgiana burst out laughing. “You have a future in the diplomatic services—that was an entirely perfect answer. Yes, I am well aware this seemingly innocent gown is utterly outrageous.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” said Mary, her eyes actually glinting. “I daresay even in London that neckline might be forbidden.”

“Unless I was performing in a Covent Garden or Vauxhall entertainment. Do you have a fichu I could borrow? I don’t really wear them and, ah…don’t wish to start ano…a scandal.”

“I believe a few trunks belonging to the previous owner remain here. One moment.”

In no time at all, Georgiana was ready to depart; her hair in a loose chignon and secured with some pearl-studded clips, a short, fine white muslin shawl tucked under her gown at the back and into her bodice at the front, and comfortable heeled shoes on her feet.

St. Laurence’s was only a short distance away, barely over a mile, and she took the opportunity to study the countryside out the carriage window as they sped along the bumpy road. It was so tranquil here. The air so fresh, one could take deep breaths and not choke or cast up their accounts. No one would believe it, but she actually preferred the country to the city, especially on pleasantly mild days with some sunshine peeking through the clouds overhead.

When the church came into view, her stomach fluttered. The March ladies had said everyone attended the fete, but Mr. Latimer seemed a bit of a recluse. Perhaps he avoided social occasions altogether and only ventured out if someone trespassed onto his estate.

After waiting in the carriage line for a few minutes, Georgiana alighted onto the paved church path, then followed a hand-painted sign instructing everyone to proceed to the church hall.