Page 27 of Prince of Scandal

“It is my eternal hope that Bonaparte is suffering on Saint Helena,” said Ashton. “By the accounts that sometimes appear in the Norwich Post, he is not enjoying his island prison. But speaking of Norwich, you’d best get back to shaving me, or you’ll be late for church.”

Franz nodded, and swiftly completed the task. While his manservant constantly grumbled at having two scheduled afternoons off—claiming everything went to chaos without him—he did spend all day Sunday in Norwich. First, Franz attended the cathedral service as he much preferred the pomp and ceremony, then the rest of the day with his sweetheart. The two men loved the theater, and if not rehearsing plays with friends, they drank copious amounts of ghastly English tea and shopped for costumes, accessories, or stage make up.

Gah. Even the word sweetheart made Ashton think of Georgiana. Their interlude at the riverside dwelling had been sublime; he’d never been so satisfied sexually in his life. And yet it had been far more than lust. The way she’d curled up on his lap. Their banter. Him bathing and dressing her before serving her a plate of food. It had felt…right. Comfortable, like they were master and submissive. Something he could imagine doing again and again and never growing tired of it. In truth, staying away from Georgiana the past three days to avoid any suspicion or gossip had been far more difficult than he’d thought.

Damnation. It was times like these he wished he’d been born a peasant and could be with whomever he pleased. As he’d witnessed firsthand with his parents, wealth and position were cold comforts in an arranged duty union. Perhaps if he’d had brothers or sisters, it might have been different? But they’d had no other children, so his plummet from grace had cut deeply.

“How is that, Your Highness? Is there anything else you require?”

Ashton ran his fingers along his jaw. Smooth as silk, as per usual. “Most admirable. And no. Get on your way, Franz. Just don’t forget to purchase a bouquet, or you’ll be in trouble.”

His manservant’s ears went bright red. “I neglected to do so once. Once! Because I thought Tommy might be tired of posies after a few years. But no. Apparently that is the only permissible way to show him my tender regard. Ridiculous man. In any event, I shall be home in time to oversee supper.”

Ashton shook his head as Franz clicked his heels, bowed, then bustled away. But there were other things to think about, like how to make it through a church service without revealing by glance or touch exactly how much his relationship with Georgiana had changed since the fundraising fete. Not for the world would he damage her reputation. Yet it would be nigh-on impossible to not behave in a proprietary manner toward her. There might be countless secrets between them, certainly on his side, but she belonged to him now, he knew that much.

An hour later, he’d eaten and was safely ensconced in his carriage. A part of him wished to direct it to Rose Cottage, to collect Georgiana so they might travel to church together. But he gritted his teeth and traveled alone to St. Laurence’s.

As always, arriving at the church was like stepping back in time. The building was long and narrow, constructed of stone with just a handful of small arched windows that didn’t allow in much light. Outside the side entrance was a large expanse of lawn, dotted with headstones, but once people walked through the heavy wooden door, they were engulfed in history. The lead font depicting the crucifixion. The wrought-iron chandelier providing much needed light. The short, carved wooden pews either side of the narrow aisle. At the front of the church the altar sat covered in a white cloth embroidered with a golden cross, and behind that a stained-glass window cast red, green, and blue diamonds of light. To each side of the altar were two tiny wooden pews, where Mrs. March, Miss March, Sir Alan, Miss Dunmore, and any distinguished visitors to the area sat. Where he would be if anyone knew he was Prince Wilhelm Heinrich Ashton von Hagan.

Thankfully they didn’t.

After nodding to the March ladies and Sir Alan, and grudgingly acknowledging Miss Dunmore, Ashton looked around for a place to sit. Already the church was filling rapidly; as it was so small, everyone knew to arrive early if they wished to be seated rather than stand at the back.

“Good morning, Mr. Latimer.”

At that familiar husky, mischievous voice, he glanced down, and somehow refrained from cupping her cheek. Georgiana looked delectable in a pale blue gown and simple straw bonnet that made her eyes seem even greener, and her ruthlessly tamed curls even more golden. “Mrs. King. Looking lovely.”

She blushed, but naturally proceeded to lick her lips, reminding him just how agile and talented that pink tongue was. Wicked minx. “How gallant, sir. Will you escort me to a pew?”

Ashton almost groaned. It was far too much to ask, sitting next to Georgiana for an entire church service, unable to do anything but inhale the citrusy scent of her hair. Yet he found himself nodding. “Of course. Right this way. Reverend March will begin the service shortly.”

They had each brought a cushion, and sat down at the far end of the second pew. Yet already he could feel the eyes of the congregation upon them. Damnation. He should have guided Georgiana to sit with Miss March.

Another mistake to add to his impossibly long list.

* * *

Reverend March might appear on her short list of decent men, but his sermon about loving thy neighbor was not helping her craving for Ashton at all.

Georgiana gripped a hymn book, simply to prevent her fingers from doing something foolish like hold her lover’s hand or stroke his arm. She positively ached to touch him, to curl up on his lap once again and be petted and cossetted. Three days apart after such intense pleasure was like glimpsing the sun then being returned underground. Nothing had improved her mood, not even a visit from Phoebe. When Ashton wasn’t around it felt like a part of her was missing, which was terribly disconcerting. She had trotted about after Rupert because of his promise to wed her and remove her from the oppressive nightmare of Kingsford House. But Ashton, she wanted to be with solely because he was Ashton. Even if he did have secrets.

Ha. She could cast no stones in that arena. How many times had she wanted to blurt the truth about herself, yet halted at the very last moment? She couldn’t do it. No one would understand or forgive such deception; especially the possibility that she might be carrying another man’s child. A scoundrel’s child. If too much time went by and she didn’t bleed, Mary would certainly have questions. All the women at Rose Cottage would.

Georgiana sighed, wishing to be anywhere other than a church. There was something altogether wrong about attending a service while actively breaking several commandments.

“May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace. Amen.”

She brightened as the vicar concluded the service, and the parishioners slowly left their seats, laughing and talking as they made their way out of the tiny church. She turned to Ashton. “Are you well?”

He stared at her for a long moment, his gray eyes glittering hungrily, and she almost whipped out her fan to cool her suddenly overheated skin. One look and she was ready to go up in flames!

“Very well, thank you,” Ashton said eventually. “I thought—”

“Mr. Latimer!” called Reverend March, as he strolled toward them. “I do hope you’ll join us in the hall for some fellowship. Good morning, Mrs. King. The ladies adjourn to the parsonage for tea and embroidery; I know Phoebe and Mrs. March would love for you to accompany them.”

ARGH.

Georgiana pasted a smile on her face, even though there was nothing in the world she would rather do less. Embroidery was a torturous task for someone who grew restless sitting still indoors. It didn’t calm her mind, not like a hectic gallop across a meadow did. And why did the vicar keep coming between her and Ashton? They were just talking in a church pew, for heaven’s sake. Not kissing in some shadowed alcove. “Ah…that sounds lovely, vicar. I am a trifle parched.”