Page 41 of Prince of Scandal

“Mrs. King…” said the maid hesitantly.

Georgiana glanced up, the back of her neck tingling in warning. “That sounds ominous. Is something wrong?”

“I know it is none of my business, and personally I do not mind who someone visits. But you need to know, some of the maids have been gossiping. About you and, um, Mr. Latimer.”

A flash of anger burned through her. Why couldn’t people just mind their own bloody business and leave her alone? Here in Brundall she was a widow, for God’s sake, and they still prattled like a flock of geese. Gah. “Have they indeed?”

Mary nodded miserably. “I think mainly because Mrs. March stopped by earlier to visit and you weren’t here, and the stableboy said you’d ridden away wearing breeches and a shirt.”

Hell and damnation. She’d forgotten all about the vicar’s wife in her urgent need to see Ashton. This was only becoming messier and messier.

Georgiana took a deep breath. “I prefer to wear shirt and breeches when I’m riding in the country. Yes, I know it is rather shocking, but I keep a better seat. I went to visit Mr. Latimer to discuss the fence repairs he is undertaking, and I completely forgot about poor Mrs. March. I shall send her a note of apology. But no Phoebe today?”

“No,” said Mary, as she continued her sponging. “Miss March was out and about with Sir Alan.”

No doubt having an excellent orgasmic time, without all and sundry spying on her and telling tales.

“Of course,” said Georgiana irritably.

“Mrs. King, I—”

A knock at the bedchamber door interrupted Mary, and she set down the washcloth and soap, and hurried over to answer it. A minute later, she returned holding a letter.

“This just arrived for you. It’s marked urgent. From a…hmmm, it has a crest stamped in the wax. A knight? Pine-something?”

Dread closed around Georgiana like a sodden cloak, and she wanted to duck under the water and stay there. But no. She had to face whatever news Pippa had.

Swallowing hard, she dried her hands on a towel. “It’s from my sister.”

Helpfully, Mary slid her thumb under the wax and unfolded the missive before handing it over, and Georgiana’s gaze flew from line to line as she read Pippa’s careful, neat handwriting.

Dearest Gigi,

I had hoped to send word of a certain cretin’s painful demise, but you must brace yourself for bad news. Xavier dragged him back to London, and now Grandmother is insisting the cretin make things right. By wedding you. The three of them, and Father, are on their way to Norfolk right now. Finn and I will assist you in any way you wish, and I know Lilian and Gabriel will, too. But you must NOT let Grandmother win. Do NOT marry that awful man.

Love always,

Pippa and Finn

NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

Somehow, the banshee wail of pure horror remained in her throat, instead releasing as a kind of choked gurgle.

“Mrs. King? Mrs. King! Should I fetch the smelling salts? You’ve gone dead pale,” said Mary, dropping to her knees beside the tub.

Georgiana closed her eyes briefly. “I am quite well,” she lied.

In truth, she might never be well again. Grandmother, Xav, Papa, and bloody damned Rupert were on their way to Brundall. Pippa had marked the letter urgent, but there was no telling how long it had taken to get here. The carriages of doom could arrive at any time, and then she would have to face down the grande dame dragon who wanted an end to this, no matter how unpalatable. And that end was marriage. Then the dowager could once again slither about London, even more spiteful and condescending than usual, not as an embarrassed grandmother but the society empress who had all three girls successfully wed.

NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

She would never marry Major Lord Rupert Osbourne, even if by some terrible twist of fate she carried his child. Not now, not ever. Not when she had finally met a splendid gentleman—the right gentleman—in Mr. Latimer.

Georgiana gritted her teeth. They thought they had her cornered.

But she had not yet begun to fight.

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