Page 29 of Prince of Scandal

India laughed, the sound entirely without humor, and Georgiana repressed a shiver.

Careful, girl.

The ebony-haired woman sashayed forward until she stood less than a foot away. “I know who you really are, Mrs. King. Or should I say…Lady Georgiana. Goodness me, haven’t you told a bundle of lies?”

Georgiana went icy cold. How could India know anything about London society? Brundall might be two days’ travel from London, but it was an entire world away. No. She was bluffing. Surely. “Beg pardon?”

“Do not attempt that wide-eyed innocence with me,” India hissed. “I am the sister of a baronet. I have a friend whose grandmother was a viscountess. Each year they take a house in Piccadilly for a whole month. So I wrote to her, asking about a Mrs. Georgiana King with blond curly hair, green eyes, and a figure that could certainly do with less cake. My friend wrote back, saying she didn’t know of any such person, but that my description sounded very much like Lady Georgiana Nash, the Earl of Kingsford’s daughter who had recently fled the city because of a terrible scandal with a man.”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Bile rose in Georgiana’s throat, and she swallowed hard. Then halted. India had the information; if she merely wanted to ruin the newcomer, she could have ridden around Brundall and told all and sundry as soon as she received her friend’s letter. But she hadn’t.

Her gaze narrowed. “What is it you want, India? State your blackmail terms.”

“Stay away from Mr. Latimer, he was always meant for me. Then we may be perfect friends,” said India coldly. “Now, let us return to the sewing circle.”

The weight of the world suddenly resting on her shoulders, Georgiana trudged after her foe.

What on earth was she supposed to do now?

* * *

After the cozy warmth of the church, they were fish in a barrel in the hall, empty apart from some wooden chairs for the elderly parishioners and a well-stocked tea trolley. As there were no candles lit and it was so gray outside, it was altogether gloomy.

Not helped at all by the current topic of conversation.

“Mark my words, there’ll be no summer this year. Just months of cloud and rain.”

Ashton grimaced at the farmer’s prediction, but these grizzled old men had a nasty habit of being right when it came to predicting the weather. They’d all been correct about the horrific winter of 1813, when it seemed like the snow and ice that buried a lot of the country would never relinquish its grip. And now they were saying that warmth and sunshine might be hard to find? Gah. Franz would not be impressed, especially after waxing lyrical this morning about those idyllic Berlin summers beside the lake. Literally the only thing that had carried the two of them through the sheer dreariness of an English spring was the promise of summer. But beyond time for leisurely pursuits, there were the crops to think about: persistently waterlogged soils would only rot anything trying to grow, meaning grim tidings for farmers. Plus all the others down the commerce path like bakers needing wheat and barley, and merchants selling fruit and vegetables at the markets.

Damnation.

“Sufficiently glum yet, my friend?”

Ashton exchanged a rueful smile with Sir Alan as the other man stopped beside him and leaned down to select a wedge of hearty fruitcake from the tea trolley. “That depends. Are you the bearer of further bad news that might crush my remaining will to live? I didn’t think things were so terrible after an uplifting sermon about loving thy neighbor. But no summer?”

“I know. We are supposed to receive at least one month of sunshine and warm temperatures for picnics, evening curricle rides, fishing and what have you, just long enough that we forget the rest of the year is bloody dreadful. This is unacceptable. Almost un-British. Phoebe will be devastated if it rains on our wedding day.”

“How does that saying go? Happy is the bride the rain falls upon?”

Sir Alan snorted. “No bride has ever believed such claptrap. Not with their best gowns and bonnets and slippers to think about.”

“Are you…” Ashton hesitated, unsure how to broach the topic and yet suddenly wanting to discuss it with another gentleman more than anything. “Are you looking forward to marriage after being a bachelor so long?”

His friend stared at him for a long moment as he took a bite of cake. Then he nodded slowly. “I think you’re asking a serious question, so I shall give a serious answer. Yes, I am. But only because I’m marrying Phoebe. I could not imagine wedding any other woman, even though I took more than a little convincing to court her, and the reverend and his wife were not at all enamored of me to begin with.”

“But how did you know Miss March was the right woman?”

Sir Alan glanced around the hall, but the other men were still deeply involved in their conversation about the weather. Even better, the vicar was on the other side of the room gently scolding some young lads for running among the headstones outside the church, so wouldn’t interrupt a possibly delicate conversation about his own daughter.

“Well,” said the baronet, rubbing his chin, “this might sound strange, but I felt it in my bones. I thought about her all the time, even when I didn’t want to. And she…well, she challenges me. Not some meek miss, but someone who’ll stand toe to toe and tell me when I’m being a nincompoop. We can talk about anything and we have such fun together. Like that damned hoop race. Oh, and I know this is terribly crass—I will knock you to the floor if you ever repeat a word—but my Blossom is a passionate girl. And that bodes well, I think.”

Ashton nodded. “It does.”

“Is this a general Sunday conversation, Latimer, or do you have something…someone…on your mind? A certain green-eyed blond, perhaps?”

His cheeks heated to a similar hue as his damned hair. “I’m not entirely sure how it happened; Mrs. King can be thoroughly outrageous, but I find myself having…er…feelings. Feelings I have not dared consider in a very long time.”