Divine (5 page)

Georgiana just barely managed to keep a frozen grin on her face. Would she have to
pretend
to be a Regency lady if she returned to the nineteenth century? How much had spending a year in the twenty-first century changed her?

Not that poor Shatner knew—she hadn’t told him about her ‘history.’

“Of course, you look adorable in those old dresses. It almost makes it worthwhile to suffer through a meeting.
Almost
.” He winked at her.

Shatner had attended one Bosom Companion meeting where he had cracked heads with Mrs. Withering while attempting an awkward bow, spilled tea on his ill-tied cravat and then loudly questioned Miss Cartwright’s choice of embroidery design. He had not been well-received.

Afterward, he had emphatically declared that he would not attend another meeting. It was the closest they had ever come to a quarrel. Though he sweetly supported her involvement.

Or, at least, tolerated her attendance.

But how could she explain to him the importance of those Bosom Companion meetings? That small connection to her past life.

Dressing up like a lady once a month, taking tea and gossiping. Feeling like
herself
for just a couple hours.

She even had an entire wardrobe—day dresses, ball gowns, spencers, pelisses, fetching bonnets and the like—all made from wonderful twenty-first century fabrics. She had worked for months with a costume designer from Cosprop in London.

Though Georgiana had sworn off traditional undergarments. Anyone who thought a whalebone corset was romantic
obviously
had never spent a day tightly laced into one. And whoever had invented spandex deserved a knighthood.

“I’m not sure about you coming with me on these trips,” Shatner was continuing, cutting into his filet mignon. As usual, his tone sounded non-committal. “The places we visit are so dangerous, not to mention barely sanitary. Can you imagine living without running water and electricity for weeks on end?”

Well . . . yes, now that he mentioned it . . .

“Shatner, I think I can tolerate a little unpleasantness. My personal comfort is nothing compared to the needs of others.”

He gave another of his wry smiles. “Dearest, Georgiana, always so no-nonsense. It’s like you are practical to your core.” He saluted her with his wineglass.

Did he truly mean that? Did he see things in her others did not?

It must be all that focused staring. He saw through to her soul.

Maybe she
was
practical. Or, at least, with him she could become practical. It would be a good trait for working in orphanages in Africa.

Visions of half-clothed children crowded in.

A crumbling school room surrounds her, plaster falling off the walls of the room where she teaches. A fellow teacher walks through, dripping praise for her pragmatism, her soberness. Her students’ wide, bright smiles look up at her, to her. She releases them from their schoolwork and watches them leave, running down the dusty road.

Suddenly, from the trees, a lion looms, growling, threatening. The children freeze in terror. Without hesitation, she jumps into the nearest Jeep, racing to put the vehicle between the children and the lion, yelling at them to get back. She fumbles behind herself for a rifle as the lion stalks closer. Finds the gun, lifts and sights along it—

“I can see the gears in your head working. You are dreaming of helping these children, aren’t you?” Shatner held the wineglass loosely in his hands.

Sort of.
Georgiana nodded weakly.

He set the wineglass down, his focused gaze lingering on her. “When will James return home? I have some papers from my solicitor for him to look over regarding his donation.”

“I am not sure precisely, but he is looking forward to being involved with your charity.”

“Exactly! We are excited to have him on board. His money will do some much needed good.”

He smiled and reached for her hand again, eyes intense as usual.

“I so enjoy spending time with you, Georgiana. I know I’m a bit of a romantic, but I would love to see our relationship develop into something more . . . more permanent and lasting.” His eyes were warm and his hands were only the tiniest bit clammy wrapped around her fingers.

Georgiana felt her breath catch. How sweet!

And then . . .
wait—

Was that a marriage proposal? Or . . . what was that? What was he asking her exactly?

And why could men
never
be clear on this point?

She chewed on her lip, pondering. It seemed fairly marriage proposal-ish. What smacked more of marriage than a ‘permanent and lasting’ relationship? She would count this, she decided.

So that made five. Five marriage proposals.

“Georgiana, what do you say?” Shatner had that half-smile on his face. That look which said he was sure of her answer. Whatever the exact question had been, it obviously meant that he wanted to be more serious with her.

Georgiana paused, the words stuck in her throat.

Yesterday, she would have been ecstatic over such a declaration. But, now . . . how
did
she feel?

That enigmatic letter had caught her off-guard, the strong emotions it described. She didn’t know if she felt them for Shatner. She admired his intensity, his focus and passion, the work he did with his life.

But love? That had never been spoken between them.

Shatner noticed her hesitation and froze slightly, giving her a puzzled look.

“We’ve been seeing each other for months, Georgiana. I quite adore you and thought that you were coming to adore me too. Was I wrong?” His eyes pleaded with hers. He was so darling, so sincere.

She felt like a heel.

She stared at their hands, fingers twined together. Too many decisions.

“No . . . I mean . . . It’s just . . . I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “I adore you too, but I think I just need a little time to think it over. It’s a big decision, and there are . . . issues that I need to resolve once and for all.”

“Issues?” He looked at her blankly.

Poor, dear man. How could she ever tell him the full truth?

It’s not the idea of you I’m struggling with. It’s my two hundred year old past that concerns me.

Curse that silly letter with all its doubt-inducing allure. Kind, sweet Shatner deserved better than this.

Georgiana took a deep breath and gave him a trembling smile.

“Just give me a little time, Shatner. I’m sure I will come around.”

The tension in his body eased slightly, and he nodded confidently.

“Yes. Yes, I am sure you will.”

Chapter 2

On the road

Near Oxford

Oxfordshire

August 13, 1813

T
ime was running out.

Becoming an earl was supposed to solve problems, not create more.

Sebastian pondered this as his carriage rolled to a stop along the country lane. Out the window, he could see a hired post chaise teetering in the roadside ditch, its bright yellow paint splattered with mud. The postilion had managed to unhitch the horses and stood appraising the mired carriage.

A flash of pink muslin greeted Sebastian as he stepped down.

“Gracious, Lord Stratton! How fortuitous you have happened along.”

Sebastian watched Lady Ambrosia approach him, clutching a small white dog to her chest, blond curls bouncing under her jaunty hat.

His emotions see-sawed, bouncing back and forth. Irritation at her relentless persistence. Reluctant admiration for her clever maneuvering.

She gave a simpering smile meant to make her seem helpless and in distress. In need of his rescue.

She wasn’t.

“Indeed. What a remarkable coincidence.” Sebastian couldn’t help his ironic tone.

“M’lady,” said Captain Phillips, stepping down behind Sebastian, lips twitching in amusement.

Phillips had proved himself a loyal friend, acting as something of a man-of-business turned paid companion. There really should be a word for it, Sebastian mused. A gent who traveled and assisted another gent, particularly when faced with situations like this one.

Lady Ambrosia shifted the small dog in her arms, ensuring that both men could clearly see her thin pink muslin gown with its plunging neckline. Sebastian was not quite sure in what situation the gown would be considered proper. He was equally sure, however, travel along a quiet country lane was
not
one of them.

Of course, if gossip were to be believed, propriety had never been Lady Ambrosia’s strong suit.

Pretty and vivacious, she had married decidedly up in the world only to find herself recently widowed—Lord Ambrosia’s aged heart not being equal to the challenge of a young, scandalous wife. Widowhood should have had a sobering effect, but Lord Ambrosia’s money had quite rejuvenated her. She looked decidedly ten years younger, more debutante than widow.

“As you can see, we are quite in distress.” She gave a tittering laugh, gesturing toward the mired carriage, looking at Sebastian through her eyelashes. A few blond curls had been strategically dislodged and now tumbled about her shoulders.

Sebastian found himself reluctantly admiring her performance.

Though, really, he had hoped it would take her longer to find him. He and Phillips had left London stealthily enough, heading to Stratton Hall in Warwickshire.

Hoping to leave the chaos that had ensued in London behind them.

“I am so relieved to have a knight show up just in time to rescue me,” she continued, breathlessly. “I know Mr. Snickers is most relieved too. He was quite nearly shivering in his little tunic just before you arrived.”

She emphasized the point by giving the little dog a strangling kiss, allowing Sebastian to see that Mr. Snickers sported a pink knitted shirt the same exact shade as her frock.

“Yes,” Sebastian agreed, even more dryly. “It would be a tragedy of epic proportions if . . . Mr. Snickers were to quiver in his, uhm . . . tunic.”

Phillips covered his crack of laughter with a hasty cough.

Lady Ambrosia smiled brightly. Bending over, she set the dog down, purposefully giving both men a generous eyeful of her bosom in the process.

Subtly was also
not
one of her fortes.

Sebastian gestured to his coachman and footmen to help the postilion get the carriage back on the road. It looked to be sound, definitely more ‘purposefully driven’ into the mud than ‘accidentally fallen.’

“Bless you. I do hope I can find a way to properly express my thanks for your kind help.” Lady Ambrosia gushed as Mr. Snickers, blue tunic and all, toddled over to inspect Sebastian’s polished boots. “As I mentioned in London, I know oh-so-many eligible young ladies. I should dearly love to be your guide during this . . . difficult . . . time.”

Ah, yes. This again. Sebastian pasted on a smile.

“I thank you for your concern, Lady Ambrosia, but as I have said, I do believe I have the matter well in hand.”

He gave her a short bow and then stepped aside to confer with his men about the mired post chaise.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Phillips offering the lady his arm. “Come, my lady. While Stratton assists your men, allow me to regale you with tales of my service in Canada under General Brock.”

For her part, Lady Ambrosia gave Sebastian a longing look and then pasted a vapid smile on her face and took Phillips’ offered arm, obviously unhappy with the arrangement but helpless to do anything. Just as Phillips intended.

It was his assignment, after all. Block any and all ladies from getting too close to Sebastian. Phillips cheerfully referred to himself as Sebastian’s chaperone. Sans matron cap and smelling salts, of course.

They had just harnessed the horses to pull out the stuck chaise, when a jangle indicated the arrival of another carriage along the road. Sebastian turned in time to see a blur of muslin and bonnets approaching them.

He barely suppressed a groan. So much for leaving London surreptitiously. From the heads bobbing out of the carriage window, Sebastian identified Lady Michael Burbank and her brood of four daughters.

Four very well-connected, very silly, very
unwed
daughters.

As the younger son of a duke, Lord Michael Burbank’s family were received everywhere. But everyone knew that with his pockets-to-let and steep gambling debts chasing him at every turn, Lord Michael’s daughters needed to marry well. And fast.

The carriage bore down upon them, a hurricane of lace and ribbon. With a sigh, Sebastian stepped back into the road. Phillips was at his side in an instant, being a most vigilant chaperone. Lady Ambrosia hovered off to the side with her dog.

“Lord Stratton, Captain Phillips. What a delight to see you!” Lady Michael said from out her window. She glanced down at Mr. Snickers and then up at the dog’s owner. “And Lady Ambrosia, naturally.”

The two ladies eyed each other like wary cats, hackles rising.

“Lady Michael.” Lady Ambrosia gave a stiff bow and simpering smile. “How lovely to see you and all your Miss M’s.” The bonneted heads of the Miss Burbanks bobbed inside the carriage.