Divine (2 page)

Why was he doing this to himself? Dancing was only going to make everything worse. He twirled her once, twice.

Georgiana stared off into the mid-distance, lost in thought.

“Still an expert at wool-gathering, I take it,” he said, suppressing a smile.

Georgiana started slightly and gave him a rueful grin.

“Please tell me your thoughts, at minimum, involved a dank castle and dastardly rogue?” He arched an eyebrow.

She laughed, quicksilver and bright.

Really, it shouldn’t be legal—a laugh like that. It wreaked havoc with a man’s good sense.

“Remember, Sebastian, you are to pretend
not
to notice my daydreaming? But no—no dastardly rogues this time. I was thinking about that year. It was such a difficult time for me, with my father’s sudden death, my mother a little crazy with grief, and James trying to hold us all together.”

As if Sebastian could forget that year. As if every minute he had spent with her wasn’t emblazoned in his memory. Hiding underneath the drooping branches of that huge white willow as she spun fantastical stories about kidnapped maidens and heroic knights, her giggling laughter as he taught her to catch frogs and skip rocks, sitting in the vicarage kitchen making biscuits with his sisters, gossiping and teasing.

Yes, he remembered
everything
with vivid clarity. Too vivid.

He gave her a game smile. “Not to mention all the quilling your governess obliged you to do.”

Georgiana gave an elegant shudder. “Tis most ungentlemanly of you to remind me, Seb. Poor Miss Smith was exceptionally fond of paper filigree. Quilling is so incredibly tedious, endlessly twirling and gluing and molding all those tiny strips of paper. Do you remember that work basket she forced me to complete?”

“The one with the puffy, little lambs?”

“Precisely. It was hideous.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I would call it
hideous
. There is a certain elegance to lambs prancing through roses.”

Georgiana froze slightly, her eyes hesitantly searching his for any hint of mockery. Sebastian tried to keep his look innocuous, but it was no use. His lips twitched upward.

“The rainbow arching over the entire scene was a nice touch,” he said innocently and then ruined the entire effect by laughing.

At least he told himself it was a laugh. Not a guffaw.

“Seb, you are truly terrible!” Georgiana pursed her mouth and attempted a quelling stare. However, her dancing gaze betrayed her.

“Well, I do try. Having so many older sisters has given me a certain amount of practice.”

Georgiana chuckled appreciatively and locked her playful eyes with his. Those impossibly huge blue eyes, pools of morning sky. Eyes which transported back to that year.

When they had been Seb and Georgie. Georgie and Seb.

Living in each other’s pockets, finishing each other’s sentences. When he had surrendered himself to her, heart and soul.

He had thought—wished, even, in his darker moments—that the connection he felt to her would fade over time.

But, no, Fate would not be so kind to him.

As they danced and laughed together, the past became present, and he allowed himself to hope. Maybe he could woo her, win her. Claim a small share of happiness for himself.

Hope
. Such a foolish, futile emotion.

He twirled her again, drinking in her glorious eyes.

Maybe . . . just maybe, this time she would finally
see
him . . .

“Despite your teasing, you were so generous to befriend an awkward, chatterbox of a girl.” She smiled up at him, fondly. “You made the grief of that year more bearable. I felt so blessed to have your friendship. It was like God had sent me another brother. I will always appreciate your kindness.”

Sebastian felt his smile freeze.

Brother.
Ouch
.

The pain was swift, slicing deep.

She thought of him as a brother. Warm, uncomplicated filial feelings. While his for her were decidedly . . .
not
.

Well, his feelings were
warm
too. But they were about as far from filial . . .

He swallowed. He needed to change the topic.
Now
.

“Tell me of the latest on-dit.” It was a question born of old habit.

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“Tell me a scandal,” he’d say. “Something shocking.”

“Why should I know anything scandalous, Seb?”

“Please. You love gossip like you love to breathe.” He nudged her shoulder. “Probably more.”

“Well . . .” She tapped her lips. Thinking. “I did overhear Grandmama talking with the housekeeper this morning about the new blacksmith . . .”

“What makes you think I still read the broadsheets, Sebastian?” she asked archly.

“The sun still rises in the east, so I am quite sure the world as I know it has not entirely collapsed. And of all people, Georgie, you would remain the same. Here, I will even give you the topic—Lord Harward and his recent marriage.” Sebastian nodded his head toward the gentleman dancing across the room with his new bride.

“Oh, that has been delicious, has it not?” Georgiana grinned. Her face lit with mischief. “How wicked of Lord Stratton! Requiring his heir to marry before his twenty-seventh birthday or risk losing his entire fortune.”

“And to gooseberries, no less.”

“That
is
the best part of the story. I understand Lord Stratton found the whole situation entirely diverting.”

“And Harward decidedly did not appreciate his father’s ridiculous meddling.” Sebastian gave a rueful smile.

His decidedly eccentric relation, John Carew, Earl of Stratton, had determined several months ago that his wayward son and heir, Viscount Harward, needed to marry. Being the president of the West Midlands Heritage Gooseberry Society and a decided enthusiast, Lord Stratton had altered his will. The new will stipulated that if Lord Harward did not marry before his twenty-seventh birthday, the absurdly large sum of sixty thousands pounds would be divided between three gooseberry societies: one being Stratton’s own gooseberry society—the other two belonging to his longtime friends, Sir Henry Stylles and Lord Blackwell.

Good friends, all three men had spent the last twenty-five years indulging in a shared passion for the small fruit. Fierce gooseberry devotees, Sir Henry and Lord Blackwell had reportedly been giddy over the prospect of potentially receiving twenty thousand pounds each to devote to their gooseberry cultivars.

Given young Lord Harward’s distaste for gooseberries and love of money, it had proved an ingenious motivation. Harward had courted and married within eight weeks. Sebastian looked over at the silver-haired Lord Stratton, standing and chatting with two widows, regal and yet sparkling with energy and mischief. The elderly earl was an unmitigated rogue.

“I heard tell that women were endlessly inventive in their attempts to woo Lord Harward. It is said that Lady Margaret Simon hid in Harward’s dressing room intending to trap him into marriage.”

“Have you still not learned that it is not proper for a lady to gossip?” Sebastian shook his head in mock censure, spinning her again. The strains of the waltz drifted around them.

She laughed and made a dismissive gesture with her head, easily brushing away any prick of conscience.

“Please! You asked me about the scandal first.” She shot him an amused eyebrow.

He chuckled. “Indeed. My apologies.”

“Besides, without gossip, what is a lady to do?” Georgiana said, matter-of-fact. “How else should we occupy our time? As ladies, we are obligated to merely pretend not to like it, that is all. Gossip is what makes the world turn round, I daresay. Secrets are far too much fun. It is the only way to be involved, to feel truly connected, don’t you think?”

Ah, Georgiana. Always so utterly herself without apology.

Sebastian nodded in agreement, grinning at her. They twirled again, her body light and graceful, flowing easily with him.

“We are off in a week to London for the Season. I am somewhat fearful, as it will be my first. Will I see you there?” Georgiana asked.

He hated the hope in her eyes. As if a man such as himself had the money to spend any time in London. As if any London hostess would let one such as him through their door.

“That will be unlikely. Lord Stratton has taken pity on a poor relation and has generously purchased an officer’s commission for me in the Eleventh Light Dragoons. I join my regiment in just a few days and will most likely be shipped off to Spain within the year.”

“Heavens!” She missed a step as she twirled.

“Do I detect a note of concern?”

“Though I understand our men are needed there to aid the Spanish in their rebellion against the French, I should be most sorry if Napoleon’s men were to turn you into a hunting target.”

“Not as sorry as I should be, I assure you.” He gave a game chuckle, trying for a devil-may-care attitude.

“This is no laughing matter, Sebastian. You could be killed.” Georgiana’s wide eyes searched his. Not amused.

“Yes, that is generally the risk a soldier runs.” Sebastian shrugged.

Her eyes flared wider. Her concern more gratifying than he cared to admit. His heart hummed with it.

Pathetic
. He was pathetic.

“But . . . why? Why turn to a soldier’s life? Why not the Law or the Church?”

“Why not?” he countered, hating that he had to explain himself. To justify his limited life choices to her. “I should like to think I am an affable fellow, able to rub along well with others. I am not suitably serious for the Church and hardly studious enough for the Law. I am strong and not afraid of hardship and wish to do my part for King and Country. What else am I to do with my life?”

“Well . . . I mean . . .” she floundered. She regarded him for a careful moment. Stared but not really seeing.

She never
saw
him. That had always been the problem.

“Please be careful, my old friend. I should be sad if anything were to happen to you.” Words spoken softly.

“Yes, I am like a brother to you, after all.” Sebastian managed a crooked, sardonic smile.

“Precisely,” she instantly agreed, completely missing the irony in his voice. “I could not imagine losing any of my brothers.”

They twirled, the air between them suddenly weighty.

“You must promise me you will return,” she said, catching and holding his eye. “I could not bear it if you did not. Please. Promise.”

The memory of her face in that moment would cling to him for years afterward—concern, worry . . .
emotion . . .
all for him.

His heart hung in his throat, tangling his tongue. An odd mixture of intense elation and devastating sadness.

She
did
care for him, he reminded himself.

Just not in
that
way.

He spun her again, memorizing the lilting stretch of her neck, the warmth of her back under his gloved hand, the rustle of her skirts brushing his legs. Her subtle scent—roses and silk.

Memories that he stored for a future bereft of her. A future of guns and cannon blasts and the moans of the dying. A future filled with relentless, mind-numbing boredom and brief moments of ghastly terror. Perhaps even death.

“I promise,” he said, helpless to resist anything that she asked of him. “I will return.”

To you
, he added silently.
I will return to you
.

Not that it mattered. Even if he did return whole and sound. Even if she did not marry in the interim. Even if his prospects improved enough for him to honorably offer for her.

Even if . . . even if . . .

Even if he were crowned king, could he ever
be
enough to capture her heart? Would she ever see
him
?

The waltz came to a close and, reluctantly, Sebastian delivered Miss Georgiana Elizabeth Augusta Knight back into the care of her brother, knowing the next time he saw her—
if
he saw her—she would most likely be the wife of some unworthy man.

Sebastian didn’t know whom
he
would be. But he knew the man would be unworthy.

Unworthy of her bright spirit. The sunlight of her soul.

For months afterward, he could still hear Georgiana’s laughter across the room, could still see her backlit, the burning candles turning her golden hair into a crown.

But Sebastian knew she didn’t need light behind her to be illuminated. It came from within. Radiant. Miss Georgiana Knight would take sunshine wherever she went. Bestowing her cheerful, unspoiled nature on any and every person who crossed her path.

And Sebastian also knew, with despairing surety, that person would
not
be him.

Jersey, Channel Islands

Officer’s billet

December 14, 1812

Nearly five years later

Captain Sebastian Carew sat alone in his room, staring at the two letters the post had just delivered.

They could not have looked more different. One was a thin, tattered missive from his eldest sister, most likely written with the lines crossed and then crossed again to conserve paper.