Page 54 of Prince of Scandal

“Gigi,” Rupert said, his tone turning icy. “If you think I’ll permit such missish nonsense, you are quite mistaken. My wife will do whatever I want, whenever I want, or there will be serious consequences. In the army, I ordered disobedient prisoners or unruly ensigns shackled in irons and denied food until they behaved properly. A woman is no different. I will break you.”

Georgiana stared at him, both shocked and chilled to the bone. How had she not seen this dark side of Rupert?

Probably because you always gave him what he wanted.

Damn it. She needed to offer an olive branch to keep up this charade until there was a solid plan in place. No, not a branch. A leaf. She could manage a leaf.

“I understand, Rupert,” she replied contritely as she rose to her feet, forcing herself to saunter over and press the briefest of kisses to his cold, smooth cheek. Ugh. “Perhaps I just need some fresh air. Would you stroll with me around Hanover Square? I’d certainly enjoy showing off my distinguished betrothed. How dashing you look in your uniform.”

“I suppose we could do that,” he replied grudgingly. “The sooner everyone knows we are engaged, the better. In reference to my travelling to France…you’ll naturally explain to anyone noteworthy that I was urgently called there for a military meeting. And now we are happily reunited. Won’t you?”

Bloody damned coward.

Georgiana gritted her teeth and nodded. “Of course.”

“Then let us stroll.”

Leaving the stifling confines of Kingsford House usually made her feel better; distance from both her grandmother’s malevolent machinations and the loathsome Tudor-style décor of dark wood, shadowed alcoves, narrow hallways, and small, diamond-paned windows. But everything felt wrong walking next to Rupert. They were out of step completely as they paused for a town carriage to pass by then crossed the road to the enclosed grass area. The way he gripped her hand on his sleeve! It didn’t feel affectionate or protective. More like an anchor ready to drag her down until she drowned.

She shuddered at the bleak thought, but Rupert’s comments about shackling and starving prisoners and ensigns had been unnerving enough, let alone the threat to break her. Back in Brundall, even Ashton’s harshest spanking had been accompanied by caring concern. He administered discipline for an act of foolishness, but also to free her from suppressed emotional pain so her spirit might soar. Not to mold her into a quiet, proper, lump of clay or frighten her.

What had really happened to Rupert’s first three wives?

Any woman might feel a trifle uneasy at being a fourth wife, especially when the previous three marriages had occurred so long ago. For God’s sake, she’d only been eight years old when Rupert first wed. But after glimpsing this darkness in him, a real cold viciousness, suddenly she wanted to know a lot more about those three women and exactly how they’d passed. Had they discovered a monster under the gentleman mask?

The thought was more than a little alarming.

“Good day, madam. Sir. Have you accepted God Almighty as your Lord and Savior, or will you be perishing in the fiery pits of Hell?”

Both she and Rupert came to an abrupt halt, staring in shock at the gray-haired couple barring their way. The man and woman were dressed entirely in black, and each carried a hand-painted sign with the word REPENT on it. Yet there was something familiar about the pair, despite their old-fashioned powdered faces, straw hats, and mannerisms straight out of a Radcliffe novel. Something very familiar indeed.

Georgiana cleared her throat, trying not to let loose a sound of horrified mirth that would see her escorted directly to Bedlam. “I have, ma’am…but perhaps you would pray with me? I’m sure my betrothed would appreciate a man of God easing his soul as well.”

The old woman nodded severely. “Come here, girl. I shall lay hands on you to see the truth in your heart and cleanse it of sin.”

Soon, Georgiana was dragged several feet one way, and Rupert the other.

“Uh, Phoebe,” she whispered, her lips twitching madly. “What on earth are you and Sir Alan up to?”

“The perfect caper,” her friend whispered back, winking. “But we don’t have much time. I’m here to tell you there are three of us in London. Me, Sir Alan…and Mr. Latimer.”

Georgiana nearly swooned, her vision blurring. “He’s truly here?”

Phoebe nodded. “The man was dithering, but for an actual good reason, so I didn’t hurl my reticule at his head with too much force…REPENT, MY CHILD.”

A swift glance to her right reassured Georgiana that her betrothed was neatly trapped as Sir Alan bellowed and gestured. He and Phoebe both belonged on the stage. “I DO…you hurt Ashton? Really, Phoebe. Is he well? Will he…will he visit?”

“No,” said her friend. “He might be recognized so is remaining indoors, and do not ask me to explain, that is something for him to tell you. Let’s just say, you weren’t the only Brundall resident keeping secrets about their identity. YES, CHILD. GOOD. FEEL THAT SIN FLOW AWAY…we’ve secured accommodation in Wigmore Street. Next to that large store. Uh, Clark something?”

“Clark and Debenhams?” said Georgiana excitedly. “I know it. I can say I’m shopping for my trousseau. Tell Ashton I’ll call tomorrow. And I’ve missed him terribly. And that I’m so very happy he is here. THANK YOU, MA’AM. Phoebe, you are playing this role so well it is uncanny.”

Phoebe smiled smugly. “I saw a couple do this in Norwich, once. They were actually old, though. Gah, this face powder feels revolting on my skin. I want to claw it off. But Franz really wanted to practice his skills, and he bribed us with strudel…”

Georgiana took her hand. “I understand. That strudel is divine. But you know you are the perfect friend? That I’ll never be able to repay this service?”

“Yes,” said Phoebe, grinning. “However, Mr. Latimer promised me a wedding gown from a Mayfair modiste that will turn India pea-green, so I am quite content. I shall see you tomorrow…AMEN.”

Georgiana beamed. “AMEN indeed.”