Page 9 of Prince of Scandal

Georgiana shifted uncomfortably on her chair. Back in the Kingsford House library, the widow tale had been easy to concoct, the smallest white lie to conceal her misdeeds. But this kindly vicar’s wife probably often consoled people on their losses. Real losses. Perhaps a grand passion or true love of many years. “Not at all, Mrs. March. I greatly enjoy hearing of love matches. My own situation…it wasn’t a happy one. It did not end well. I am not devastated by Rupert’s absence from my life.”

“I see,” said Phoebe gravely, as she selected a small raisin bun from the tea tray and took a nibble. “We shall have to find you a new beau, then. Someone who’ll put a blush in your cheeks and a spring in your step.”

“Phoebe!” said Mrs. March, sending her daughter an exasperated look.

“What?”

“I’m not offended,” said Georgiana quickly, snatching up what sounded like a gilt-edged invitation to learn all about Mr. Latimer. “Are there possibilities about? Perhaps your Sir Alan has some charming chums? Or maybe there are handsome gentleman farmers in Brundall desperately needing a woman’s genial company?”

Mrs. March’s eyebrows flew upward. “Genial company?”

She flushed at her loose tongue. One did not discuss such things with the local vicar’s wife. “I meant a spouse, of course.”

The older woman relaxed. “Ah, yes. Hmmm, let me think.”

As Mrs. March stirred her tea and took a sip, Georgiana practically sat on her hands so she didn’t fling the cup away to hurry the woman along. Robust information had to be coaxed out slowly and carefully.

“Unfortunately, all Sir Alan’s friends are married already. He was the holdout,” said Phoebe with a merry grin. “The man swore he wasn’t looking for a wife, and thoroughly enjoyed being a bachelor about town. Certainly not someone you would expect to wed a vicar’s daughter. But I convinced him otherwise.”

“Reformed rakes do make excellent husbands,” added Mrs. March. “The reverend and I were against the match to begin with, but Sir Alan dotes on our girl. Quite sweet, really.”

Georgiana sat forward. They might not be speaking of Mr. Latimer, but could well have some sound advice all the same. “You are my hero, Phoebe. How on earth did you convince him you were exactly the right woman when he didn’t see it at first?”

“Sheer persistence,” laughed the other girl. “I, of course, knew from the moment we met that Sir Alan was the one for me. He had some maggot in his head—”

“Phoebe Anne March! Do not use that terrible expression,” chided her mother.

Phoebe exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Georgiana. “Sir Alan thought we wouldn’t suit. Because we were too different. And the fact he is twenty years older. But I kept showing him we were perfect for one another until he finally realized we were meant to be. And now we are marrying in June…oh, will you still be here in Brundall, then? You must come if you are! Papa will conduct the service at St. Laurence’s, of course.”

“That sounds lovely,” Georgiana murmured, but her mind whirled in excitement. Phoebe March could well become an ally here, and the tale of how she’d won Sir Alan had struck a definite chord.

Bold women did not wait around for a gentleman to notice them. They acted. She had to show Mr. Latimer that they should become close companions. Perhaps then, she might finally learn what all the fuss was about when it came to pleasure. Why Lilian and Pippa smiled with a certain smugness when they glanced at their husbands.

“Gigi?”

She blinked. “Do excuse me. I am…still quite tired after the travel here. And getting used to a new bed.”

Phoebe nodded. “We understand. It is a long, long way from London. I can’t believe you live there. I’ve never left Norfolk! I fear our entertainments might be too dull for you.”

“I’m sure they won’t be,” Georgiana lied.

“Excellent! Then you must come to our special church fundraising fete tomorrow. We usually hold fetes in summer, but the roof has a leak. There will be dancing and games and the most delicious food. Everyone in Brundall attends.”

“Everyone?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. March with a warm smile. “It is quite the event on our social calendar.”

Georgiana beamed. “Then I should be delighted.”

* * *

Carts were an instrument of the devil, and he would never set foot in one again.

Ashton sighed in acute relief as he passed a familiar tree stump and hedgerow combination; less than a mile to St. Laurence’s church, and the parsonage where Reverend March lived with his wife and daughter. At the present time, after hours perched atop this wooden contraption, his backside was numb and his bones and teeth so chronically rattled they might all abandon his flesh in protest.

Fetching the timber himself had been a foolish idea and had not cleared his head at all. Yes, the men at the timberyard had been most obliging, neatly stacking the planks in the cart and offering helpful tips on the best angle to saw and sturdiest nails to use, and yes, that pie shop next door did indeed serve quality pasties. The humbling truth was, though, he’d thought of Mrs. King the whole way to Norwich and the whole way back. At one point he’d seen a woman with blond hair strolling and pointing at various sawn planks, and experienced a strange fluttering in his chest. Almost a sense of anticipation. Then, such bitter disappointment when of course it wasn’t her!

Utterly ridiculous.