Page 48 of Prince of Scandal

Rupert tugged at his cravat. “Er…certainly. Yes. St. George’s is far more suitable for a wedding of our rank. The sooner we leave the backwaters of Norfolk, the better.”

“One can only agree with that particular sentiment,” said Lady Kingsford, glancing about the cozy parlor and shuddering delicately. “Very well. We shall return to London in the morning. Georgiana, have that girl pack your belongings. You shall travel with me.”

So great was Georgiana’s joy at the three-week respite, not even the promise of two days trapped with a dragon could dim it. In London, all things were possible, especially if she had the support of her sisters and their husbands. There had to be a way out of this mess. A way to outwit her grandmother, discard Rupert forever, and return to Brundall as who she really was: Lady Georgiana Nash, a woman wanting nothing more than to be the wife of Ashton Latimer, Prussian-born country gentleman.

It would be impossible to get a message to Ashton directly; she didn’t want to drag him further into this. But no one would question a note to Phoebe. They wouldn’t suspect a vicar’s daughter to be involved in any plots.

Georgiana smiled grimly as her roiling stomach finally began to calm. Yes, she could do this. Take on every obstacle and clear it, especially if Ashton was the prize at the finishing line. Her only prayer was that she would have the opportunity to explain everything personally. Before he heard exaggerated or incorrect details from malicious sources.

“As you wish, Grandmother. To London. Tomorrow.”

* * *

Would it be better to ride or walk?

Pulling his greatcoat closer against the early morning chill, Ashton paused then continued past the stable buildings toward the meadow separating his estate from Rose Cottage.

Definitely walk. He needed time to clear his head after a sleepless night wrestling with the warring emotions of anger and need. Christ, it was complicated. When Georgiana wasn’t with him, he missed her terribly, yet she’d told so many lies. An experienced widow and a young ton lady were two entirely different situations, even in London. Not to mention he was thirty-four and had always rolled his eyes at those who chose significantly younger brides. Yet somehow he’d managed to fall for a woman just nineteen.

Ashton shook his head. He’d actually been correct their first meeting next to the dwelling, thinking Georgiana barely out of the schoolroom. But instead, he had set aside his misgivings as she seemed so perfect for him in many other ways. In saying all that, though, under no circumstances could he fail to warn her about Osbourne coming to Norfolk. No woman deserved that.

Now he just had to decide what to say to Georgiana. Obviously they couldn’t meet this afternoon as planned; he didn’t trust himself to just talk in a private location, not when his mind was in turmoil and she was so beautiful and eager. It would be far too easy to delay or suppress the important, difficult conversation when their bodies came together so exquisitely.

Also the fact that you haven’t been honest about your identity either…

Ashton scowled at the not-so-subtle and entirely accurate jab from his conscience. In some ways he was far worse. Georgiana had concealed her true self for a few weeks. He’d been deceiving the people of Brundall for over ten years.

Don’t think about that now. Just do your duty, get to Rose Cottage and tell Georgiana what you know.

Marching forward to the fence line, he climbed over the sturdy wooden stile. The dewy, muddy ground was treacherous and threatened an ungracious tumble at any moment; Franz would certainly purse his lips at the state of these boots. But Ashton continued on, keeping to the trees so he didn’t startle anyone inside the cottage by walking past a window.

The sound of a man barking orders in the front courtyard made him frown; the tone was entirely too rude for a butler or steward, yet there were no other men in a senior position at the property. And it was very early for such urgency.

Cautiously, Ashton left the trees and approached the stable wall to peer around it. Hmmm. Several footmen were hauling luggage onto the roofs of two fine carriages. Crested carriages. The arms of the Kingsford earldom might have been smudged in his copy of Debrett’s Peerage, but that certainly looked like three birds and a sword engraved on the carriage door.

Hell and damnation. He was too late.

“You there! Get back to work! Damned lazy country scum. You’d be dismissed instantly in London.”

Ashton froze, the back of his neck prickling. He knew that peevish tone. Then an older man in full military dress uniform came around the side of the carriage and strode toward the spot where Ashton stood.

His fists clenched.

Major Lord Rupert Osbourne.

“I repeat,” the major snapped, “why are you skulking over here when you should be working?”

Ashton stared at his longtime enemy, his belly churning with rage and loathing. It would forever be a mystery why so many women had fallen prey to this cretin; surely a British military uniform didn’t hold that much sway? Such a garish crimson! Besides, he wasn’t a Wellington or an Inglis or a Jordan-Ives. Had Osbourne even been on a battlefield? Or had his father merely purchased the highest commission possible, followed by a few promotions? It was certainly easier to imagine the major in the safety of a tent, sipping a brandy and demanding others be brave, than charging over a rise with a weapon. Osbourne was a coward. An arrogant, ill-tempered coward.

“I am not employed here,” Ashton replied coldly.

Osbourne’s silver-flecked eyebrows flew up his forehead. “A trespasser? I should have you shot. How dare you use such a tone in my presence. Don’t you know who I am?”

Ashton laughed. The man hadn’t changed a whit in ten years, still thinking himself far above anyone he met. “I know exactly who you are, Osbourne. One might ask, though, how you came to be in Norfolk, escorted by young Northam.”

Something flashed in the major’s eyes, for a moment he looked thoroughly rattled. However, he quickly recovered and peered closer. “You speak as though we are acquainted. But I’m a baron. A military hero. The son of a marquess. Naturally, I do not associate with mere country gentry…wait. Good God. That frightful red hair and abnormal height…surely not the lost Prussian prince? No wonder you couldn’t be found, hiding in such a backwater for all these years. Does the village know your secret, Wilhelm?”

“You may address me as Your Highness.”