Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (31 page)

“Georgy . . . . ” William moved closer, frowning and seeking out her eyes, which she promptly hid, searching the top of the dressing table for another pot of rouge in her favorite naked pink. She would give it to Anna. “Will you ever trust me?” he asked.
 

“I want to,” she said, blinking twice. “It’s difficult.”
 

“Does it make you feel better, believing the worst?”
 

“I don’t know.” She hated confronting her own bitterness, but she couldn’t ignore it either; it was a heavy fetter drawing her up short every time she thought herself free. She looked up, capturing William’s eyes. “When I see—” She caught her breath. Started over. “I can only do this if I have all of you. I’d rather go back to nothing at all than discover I’m sharing you. And if I ever do, I swear I will cut you up and go after the woman with a fork.”
 

“I believe you would,” William said, sliding his hand over her bare shoulder, drawing her in to lean against him. Georgiana pressed her lips together to still their trembling. Threats were unlike her, but she meant this one.
 

“You care that much?” William asked. His hand was stroking her back, calming her in a way she could grow to depend on, if she wasn’t halfway there already. She’d forgotten how it felt to have worries smoothed away, vanishing like they’d never existed at all.
 

“Yes,” she said thickly, knowing the word was unnecessary. She scowled at his jacket buttons—she’d admitted a hopeless disadvantage, and for what? But then William exhaled a tension she’d never noticed, his hands tightening on her shoulder in a quick, impulsive hold.
 

“I thought I could persuade you to care just a little. I hoped, but didn’t think I could expect any more,” he finally said. “Someday you’ll trust me. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy your jealousy.” He lifted one hand, laid it gently over her carefully sculpted curls, scarcely touching. “It’ll do no good to my vanity, though.”
 

She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. “I haven’t forgotten how to trim you down to size.”
 

A laugh rumbled through him. “I wouldn’t think so. There isn’t a woman alive who can do it with your flair. Believe me, Georgy, I know you well enough not to be careless. You worry about my loyalty, but I know perfectly well the next time we quarrel you’ll eat me alive. I’d much rather we kept it small. Perhaps something to do with the children.”
 

Georgiana thinned her lips—rolling her eyes would be ungenteel. “There’s plenty to be annoyed with there. Henrietta says she’ll not join us for Christmas and Jasper is infuriating. He won’t show me Sophy’s letters.”
 

“Me neither,” William said, turning quiet.
 

“What if he’s the wrong sort? I mean, he is of course, but what if it turns out worse than that? We don’t know a thing about Bagshot, and she’s absurdly in love. He’ll break her heart.”
 

“Anna Morris speaks well of him,” William said.
 

“How tremendously reassuring,” Georgiana said, more skeptical than ever. She reached for a new pair of gloves laid out and ready on the table. “She’s just too good at—at snaring men. I shouldn’t have let her walk out in that red pelisse. You should have seen the heads turn. I don’t know how she does it—her husband—”
 

“Not such a prize after all,” William interjected.
 

“Naturally. I never set much store by that family,” Georgiana said. “And then Alistair. Jasper would probably ogle her too, if he wasn’t afraid of her.”
 

“No!” William laughed.
 

“Could be suspicion or his own wariness, but you must have noticed how he avoids her. And she’s enslaved Mr. Phillips, not that she shows a particle of interest—” He’d sent flowers after the Sutton ball, poor man.
 

“She didn’t have luck with Tom Bagshot, though,” William said.
 

True. Which might be a point in the man’s favor. “I really can’t be easy in my mind about him,” Georgiana said. “Not with the little I’ve seen of him.” It was grossly uncomfortable having Sophy in a stranger’s keeping.
 

“Maybe we should go home for a spell,” William said. Cordell Hall, in Suffolk, was always home to him. Before she could finish shaking her head, he continued. “We could write first. We needn’t call.”
 

“He might not let us through the door,” Georgiana said.
 

“I could ask my tenants if they’ve seen Sophy. Taking rides in the neighborhood, that kind of thing.”
 

She answered with a chilling lift of her eyebrows that usually made her family scrabble for excuses—any excuses—to explain their stupidity, but she only provoked a smile.
 

“You can’t be serious,” she said. “Sophy’s marriage is undoubtably the talk of the county. If we set spies on Bagshot it will only make it worse. Besides, there’s Mrs. Morris. I promised Alistair.”
 

“You should call her Anna.”
 

“I will, at Lady Wincholme’s. Maybe even ‘dear Anna.’ It sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
 

“Yes, and Lady Wincholme will doubtless be taken in. Anna isn’t.”
 

Lady Fairchild’s shrug was more a suggestion than an actual movement. “I agreed to help her, not fall in love with her.” Alistair had done that already. She hadn’t been too worried at first. Once he was removed from London, his feelings would naturally lessen, but to date, there were no signs of that. His letters to her arrived almost as regularly as the grocer’s bills. Alistair! Who wrote his own mother perhaps twice a year! It had been more than two weeks since his last, though. Perhaps she could begin to hope. “She’s not good for Alistair. I worry. She’d have offers by now, if she’d take the trouble to cultivate the interest gentlemen are so quick to bestow on her.”
 

“You don’t want to rush her.”
 

“Yes I do. The quicker she’s tied up with someone else, the better. Don’t tell me you enjoy all of that,” Georgiana said, tilting her eyes up to the ceiling. It was quiet just now, but the bumps and whoops as she’d been dressing . . . .
 

“I’m pleased to see the two of them happier,” he said. “Her attention is on her son. No wonder she has none to spare for the gentlemen you are trying to foist on her.”
 

“I’m not trying,” Georgiana muttered, reaching for her fan. “They’re eager enough on their own.”
 

“She has good reason to be cautious,” William said, sliding it to her across the dressing table. “You should be able to understand that.”
 

“I do,” Georgiana said coolly, adjusting her neckline. “No secret that Morris made a dreadful husband. Henry doesn’t look a thing like him.” She smiled at her husband in the mirror.
 

“Doesn’t mean anything. Look at our children.” Jasper and Henrietta took all their looks from her side of the family. Sophy was the only one of William’s children who’d borrowed any of his features.
 

“Yes, but I am not the same as Anna Morris,” Georgiana said. “We handle adversity differently.” She wasn’t sure and she would never ask. But when Henry got older, some people would remember Anthony Morris and they would wonder too. Anna’s preference for crimson rouge didn’t help.
 

William was thoughtful for a moment. “I hope you still intend to help her.”
 

“I gave my word,” Georgiana said. She’d always had a particular fondness for Alistair, and right now the best thing she could do for him was untangle him from Mrs. Morris.
 

“I warn you that I intend to dance with her this evening,” William said. “Remember, it doesn’t mean I’m pursuing a love affair—I’m only interested in one with you.”
 

Maybe that was why they never danced. William was the best secret she’d had in years. “I suppose you may dance with whomever you please,” Georgiana said as indifferently as she dared. “So long as you know where to come at the end of the evening.” Her eyes met his in the mirror.
 

*****

“Goodnight Henry.”
 

He was wearing his nightshirt, his toes bare and pink as prawns. His hair was still damp from his bath.
 

“You smell nice,” he mumbled, tracing the gauze of her gown with a careful finger—permissible, now that he was clean. By midmorning, he’d probably need another scrub. Anna had promised to take him and his toy sailboat to the park again.
 

“Should we ask Grandpapa to come with us tomorrow? He’d love to see your boat. When I was small, he took me and Grandmama across the sea.”
 

“To Spain?” Henry asked, perking up a little.
 

“America.” Anna didn’t bother explaining the difference. Her transatlantic voyages would never compete with the adventures of a Captain of Hussars. “Sleep well.” Anna kissed him on the top of the head and propelled him into bed. He climbed under the sheets, hauling them up to his chin.
 

“I’ll stay with him until he’s asleep,” Lucy whispered as Anna backed out of the room.
 

Whisking downstairs, Anna reached up to check her hair—no serious damage. Good. Her maid wasn’t very quick with fancy coiffures, so there was no time to do this one over. Anna didn’t mind if her hair wasn’t perfect, but Lady Fairchild would. Tonight was an important party.
 

“Much nicer than the Burlington’s last week,” Lady Fairchild had said. They’d attended that musicale only for her sake, Anna was sure.
 

She hadn’t disgraced Lady Fairchild—yet—and it was mainly agreeable, spending time with her. Unlike Anthony’s mother, Lady Fairchild kept Anna close, preventing her from making noticeable mistakes in company, though Anna felt so much pressure not to embarrass herself people probably thought she was made out of wood. The women at least. Men were easier to entertain: just give them something to look at and choose the right smiles. Tonight’s gown was sufficiently lovely to make up for any shortcomings with her hair. It was new.
 

Flush with money, Anna was spending joyfully: lemon yellow gloves, this gown of plum-colored silk, and a day dress in gauzy white muslin, embroidered with red flowers growing up from the hem. Today she’d purchased a bonnet adorned with cherries, and yesterday she’d bought Henry a toy boat. Alistair, she knew, would laugh at the bonnet before moving in to murmur inappropriate things in her ear. She’d thought of him the moment she’d seen it, because once he’d said her lips were the same color—and every bit as delicious. But she was biting the bottom one now, embarrassed to find Lord and Lady Fairchild waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
 

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” she said. “I was just with Henry.”
 

“Did he like the boat?” Lord Fairchild asked.
 

“He loves it,” she said. “We’ll take it out every day, so long as the weather holds. It should make the mornings quieter.”
 

Lady Fairchild smiled politely at that, which only increased Anna’s chagrin.
 

“You look lovely. Remind me to have my maid show yours a trick she has with hair,” Lady Fairchild said, pressing down one of Anna’s loose pins. She reached into her reticule. “I bought this for you. A dewy pink. Your vibrant cheeks are just the thing to make the color come alive.” She pressed an enameled box into Anna’s gloved hand. “There’s time if you want to try it now.”
 

“I’ll wait until after supper,” Anna said, glancing at the hall clock. She had lingered far too long in the nursery. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
 

Lady Fairchild said nothing. Lord Fairchild chuckled. “You must spend more time with Henrietta. I doubt you could turn her into a punctual creature, but her family would be glad if she acquired your habit of apology at least.”
 

There were hot bricks on the floor of the carriage, but they did little to counter the insidious chill that crept under Anna’s cloak. Her ears were cold, but Lady Fairchild hadn’t drawn up her hood, so neither would she.
 

The iciness was gone by the time they reached Lady Wincholme’s—from the air at least. The hostess bestowed warm greetings on Lord and Lady Fairchild, but welcomed Anna with a voice that would have left frost on a window. “So delighted. I’ve been longing to meet Captain Beaumaris’s fiancée,” she said. Anna smiled back bravely, convinced of Lady Wincholme’s curiosity and the threat it implied; the protestations of delight were a transparent lie. Anna fumbled for a reply, proving her stupidity to Lady Wincholme and whoever happened to overhear. Finally granted a chance to escape, Anna sped after Lady Fairchild into the ballroom.
 

Lady Fairchild took pity on her. “Calm yourself. She’s probably jealous,” she said, patting Anna’s arm as they progressed around the perimeter of the brilliantly lit room. The heat from the candles and the miasma of perfume was stifling. Searching for somewhere to rest her eyes, but finding only gilt and mirrors, Anna tightened her grip on her fan, longing for Henry.
 

“This place is fine,” Lady Fairchild said, stopping between two alcoves. “Count to fifty,” she ordered after a minute. “Use your fan.” She was working hers slowly, wafting air over Anna’s shoulders. “For goodness’ sake, get a hold of yourself.”
 

Anna didn’t answer. She was counting as instructed, passing sixty. “Lady Wincholme is nothing,” Lady Fairchild whispered. “She’d have liked Alistair for herself, I’m sure, though after the disaster with Sophy it would have taken considerable adroitness to get her to marry him. She isn’t in a hurry to marry now that Wincholme’s gone.”
 

Anna took in the scale of the room, crusted over with blue and gold flourishes like a hull eaten by barnacles. “Pity. She’d be a good prospect for him.” But Lady Wincholme would have to wait until next year, if Alistair came to London again. Anna licked dry lips, wishing she could totter out of the room and hide in the cool dark outside. Until she and Alistair were finished, she didn’t want to think about ‘eligible situations’ for him to marry.