Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (23 page)

“Yes. Three pints of it.”
 

He smiled indulgently, unaware that she knew he wasn’t attending. Which must be why Lady Fairchild had warned her he was a writer.
 

And what would you say, Mr. Gordon-Page, if I told you to undress me now, at the table? ‘Really?’
 

He probably would. Anna speared a flabby piece of macaroni and chewed it with unnecessary force. Even if she wanted to, catching this man’s fancy was impossible. She’d never be as attractive as a blank sheet of paper. Swallowing mechanically (she hated pasta), she reflected that it was useless trying to please herself, in spite of Alistair’s advice not to settle. She had to think of Henry. If her choice was between a good husband and a good father, she’d take the latter. Anna sat through the evening’s musical entertainment with pursed lips, revising her goals.
 

This approach didn’t prove any easier. Gentlemen only seemed put off when she tested the waters by speaking warmly about her son—much more warmly than his current behavior deserved.
 

“You must stop going on about Henry,” Lady Fairchild chided after another evening. “You can’t expect gentlemen to be interested in children—even their own. Besides, wouldn’t you prefer your husband to stay out of it and leave you a free hand?”
 

Not really. She wasn’t managing well at all. They both knew that. If Lady Fairchild would simply allow her to replace the breakfast room wallpaper, Anna wouldn’t need to shrivel every time she thought about it.

Evenings were dreadful, but the shopping was nice. She and Lady Fairchild might disagree on everything else, but they both loved clothes.
 

“These are the ones,” Lady Fairchild said, holding up a pair of silver mesh stockings. They’d been up and down Bond Street all afternoon, trying to match Anna’s new beaded slippers.
 

“Worth the search,” Anna said, as the shop assistant made up the parcel.
 

“Absolutely,” said Lady Fairchild. She didn’t frown until they were on their way out, the bell on the door ringing behind them. “What will you do with the others?”
 

“Wear them. Eventually.” Anna knew her mother would disapprove, but it was comforting to be needlessly extravagant.
 

Lady Fairchild was perfect company to talk over the shape of a bonnet or the width of a sash. She knew the words for every color, lace pattern, and mode of dress ever invented. It took some coaxing to persuade her into a charcoal pelisse with gold frogging and a china silk dressing gown with blue and green medallions, but, “If you can’t be bold, who can?” Anna asked.
 

Anna could have happily devoted herself to renewing both their wardrobes, if she weren’t failing as a mother and faced with the wretched work of finding a husband. The more she thought about it, the sicker she felt. She didn’t want any of them. They were too bald, too sleek, too broad, or laughed too much at their own jokes. No one had Alistair’s white, even teeth, dangerous sense of humor, or his chivalry. None of the gentlemen who complimented her looks, or carried her fan, or called at the house to make conversation in the drawing room would ever offer her so much in exchange for so little.
 

In her private thoughts she admitted the truth. Alistair Beaumaris was the husband she wanted, but he was not the one she was going to get. She must be reasonable. She’d be lucky to find someone to take her part, someone who’d do right by Henry. Yes, it would be nice to find someone who loved her, or at least someone she wouldn’t mind going to bed with, but she’d be content if she could find an amiable man. A courteous one. Perhaps she should have tried harder with the writer, Mr. Geoffrey Gordon—was it Clay?—she couldn’t remember.
 

Every morning in front of her mirror, Anna gave herself a lecture, reminding herself that all she expected—all she deserved—was a friendly husband. It shouldn’t be hard to find one, but it was. Lady Fairchild, noticing the fretful lines on Anna’s forehead, assured her with ill-concealed impatience that in a few months more gentlemen would return to London. Henrietta, more perceptive, if less well informed, saw the same marks of worry and responded with a crushing hug.
 

“He’ll be fine,” she said, leading Anna to her untidy sitting room and patting her hand. Since it suited the part, Anna allowed herself the luxury of a few sniffles and accepted a cup of sweet milky tea. She couldn’t resist Henrietta’s sympathy, or her comfortable cushions, and ended up laughing more than she had in weeks.
 

It wouldn’t do Alistair’s reputation any good at all, Anna realized, if she broke their engagement too quickly. So she needn’t feel guilty if she avoided Lady Fairchild’s drawing room to visit Henrietta and her boys.
 

“Tomorrow we’ll see Laurie and William again,” Anna said that evening, as she tucked the bedcovers around Henry’s defensively hunched shoulders.
 

“Fine,” he snapped, in exactly the same tones as Lady Fairchild.
 

Lord Fairchild knew better than to hope to see his wife outside her rooms before noon, let alone appear at the breakfast table. As far as he could recollect, she had never done so. If he wanted to speak with her he’d have to force his way in. So he breakfasted with Mrs. Morris, waved her and the boy off to Henrietta’s, and waited until Georgiana’s maid, Dawson, appeared in the corridor.
 

“I’ll take that,” he said, stealing the breakfast tray from her hands.
 

“My lord—”
 

“You may take the day off,” he said.
 

Dawson curtsied and left, leaving him to struggle alone through the door, the china clinking alarmingly as he balanced the tray with one arm. The door clicked open and he shouldered it wide, sloshing chocolate onto the napkin. He winced. Georgiana would want a fresh one. Never mind. She could endure it for one day. Then he saw her severe look and almost changed his mind.
 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, drawing the bedcovers up to her chin. William held out the tray. Georgiana diverted her frown to it only momentarily, convinced this was a hostile invasion.
 

“I have a surprise for you. Be quick about your breakfast, will you?” William said, more easily than he felt.
 

“I’m paying calls with Anna today.”
 

“I’m afraid not. She’s gone to Henrietta’s. The boy too.”
 

She lifted an eyebrow, but accepted the tray, overlooking the splash on the napkin. She rattled the spoon through her chocolate and took a cautious sip. With her neat nightcap and plaited hair, she could have looked fragile, but for the frown. Her eyes were practically pinning him to the wall.
 

“I don’t hurry,” she informed him, setting aside the spoon.
 

“I know,” he said, taking his life in his hands and perching on the edge of her bed. Before she could protest, he picked up the knife and began spreading butter on a corner of toast. “We needn’t tell anyone. Eat.” He thrust the buttered triangle—barely browned, the way she liked it—in front of her, but she didn’t take it.

“I can’t eat with you shoving food at my mouth,” she said.
 

“Give it me then,” he said, biting off half of the toast, licking away the drip of butter that ran down his fingers. He shouldn’t feel hungry, though he had risen earlier than usual for his customary ride, knowing a good gallop was the best way to stiffen resolve. He crammed the rest of the toast into his mouth and wiped his fingers on the sheets.
 

“You’re disgusting,” she said, turning her eyes to the wall.
 

“Quite. Come on, eat up. No reason not to. I can’t see anything under that nightgown you’re wearing, not in this light.”
 

Scowling even deeper, she reached for the toast. She ate it slowly, nibbling around the edge, sipping her chocolate, watching him. Her toes wiggled beneath the covers.
 

“Where’s Dawson?” she asked.
 

“Gave her the day off.”
 

“Who’s going to help me dress?” she asked, annoyed. “Betty? The way she brushes, she’ll tug out half my hair.”
 

“I can do it,” he said.
 

 
She snorted, dabbing plum preserve on the last wedge of toast. Once it was evenly distributed (maintaining a clear border of crust to protect her fingers), she looked up at him again.
 

“I can,” he insisted.
 

Her eyes narrowed. William waited, hoping she’d take up the challenge—just how well did he know the ins and outs of a lady’s clothes? Truthfully, he was long out of practice, but telling her that wouldn’t help. He was trying to win her back, not bring up old grievances.
 

Curiosity won over dislike. “Very well. Fetch the pomona green walking dress and a white point lace petticoat. You can remove the tray first.”
 

What the devil kind of color was pomona green?
It took seven trips to the dressing room to find it, and even then he still had the wrong petticoat. A pile of rejected gowns rested on the foot of the bed, a tangle of skirts and sleeves and flounces.
 

“I suppose that petticoat will do, though I hadn’t planned for pink,” Georgiana said.
 

“You’re most accommodating,” he murmured.

“I could be here till nightfall if I don’t settle for this one,” she said. “Put it over the chair.” He did, turning to her, a smile growing on his face as he waited. She’d had her fun. Time for his. Her fingers twitched, bravado leaking away.
 

“I’ve changed my mind. Get Betty,” she said.
 

“You aren’t getting rid of me now, not after I fetched all those dresses.”
 

“It’s not my fault you can’t follow instructions.”
 

“Come on. We’ll be all day at this rate.”
 

“Fine.” Setting her mouth, she rose from the bed, stripping off her nightgown herself, daring him to comment. He knew better, holding his tongue as he handed her towels and soap while she splashed herself from the can of hot water. “Just where are we going?” she demanded, her eyes fixed on the wallpaper. It was different from the paper that had decorated the walls, years ago, when he’d been used to visiting her room. Everything was. He didn’t think a stick of the old furniture remained. Her bed was smaller now, too small to accommodate a couple with any degree of comfort.
 

“Well?” she prodded.
 

William backtracked, trying to remember her question. “It’s a surprise,” he said. She toweled herself dry, keeping her arms tucked against her chest like the wings of a baby bird.
 

“Chemises and stockings are in the top drawer,” she said, nodding in the direction of the tallboy. “Take one from the pile on the right.”
 

He pulled one off the top. “It will be warm today,” he said, examining the thick material doubtfully.
 

“It’s fine. Just give it to me,” she snapped.
 

“Losing your courage?”
 

She grabbed the chemise and yanked it over her head.
 

“I like this pink one better,” he said. It was a fine lawn, edged with lace and ribbons.
 

“Of course you do—oh, just get out. Send that useless Betty to me.” She pushed past him and yanked a light corset from another drawer, groping around for a lace.
 

“The only thing I hear from you about Betty is how stupid she is,” William said. “Let me.”
 

“You aren’t any better! You didn’t even recognize pomona green!”
 

“We could pension off Dawson and you could teach me,” he said, plucking the corset from her hands and wrapping it around her. “Pass me that lace.”
 

“I want a blue one,” she insisted.
 

“I know blue,” he said, holding the corset with one hand and drawing out a ribbon of the correct color with the other. “Right?” he asked, pausing for her approval.
 

“That is cerulean,” she said.
 

“But also blue.”
 

He was proficient enough with her laces, hooks and pins, earning himself a sour glance through the mirror. Knowing she wouldn’t believe excuses—finding your way through a woman’s clothes was not a skill a man forgot—he tried for humility, offering an apologetic smile. Except for that, he avoided her eyes. There were better things to look upon: pink toes, legs that could have belonged to a ballet dancer, long white arms.
 

“You need to eat more,” he said, rubbing his knuckle down her back. “I could almost play a tune on your ribs.” She leapt away from his touch, so he pulled her back, frowning as he tightened the laces. “Don’t know why you bother with this. You’re skin and bones.”
 

“Ladies my age don’t disdain a little help,” she said, shifting the corset around her bosom.
 

“If you say so. Comfortable? Sitting right?” he asked, sliding a quick hand over her breast before she slapped him away.
 

“Perfectly,” she said, her eyes warning him to keep his distance. She glanced at his hands, then at the array of combs spread over the dressing table. “I’ll do my hair myself, since I’m not in the mood to be pawed.”
 

“I’ll be very careful,” he promised.
 

“And you’d look at me that way the whole time! I’d be better off with one—or both—of the footmen. They know to keep the line.”
 

They better.
“Spare your breath, Georgy. I’ve just seen you in your skin, and even though I’m not going to be able to think of anything else, I’ll keep the thoughts to myself. You’ll have to endure the looks. Call me whatever names you like. I’m not attending.”