The Kiss (25 page)

Quinn interrupted. "Anthony and Georgiana were married by Special License, which would render your argument useless."

"No," Georgiana said quietly, all eyes on her. "We were married by Common License."

"As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," Lady Ellesmere continued, "Lord Hardwicke's Act requires that at least
one
of the parties live' in the parish for at least four weeks immediately before the granting of the license. There is to be not one single interruption of residency. Mr. Wilde and his daughter attended an
agricultural"
—she said the word with great disdain—"fair in Devon." She turned to Georgiana and tilted her nose in an arrogant manner. "Did you, or did you not attend this event for six days during the month prior to securing the license and the purported union? And remember, missy, that I have witnesses to the fact that you were there." She paused and hissed, "You were looking over the
pigs,
I understand."

Quinn felt the chill of fear rise along his spine. He couldn't move and he damned the feeling of inadequacy that was forever to torment his soul at the most important moments. "Georgiana, you are not to answer," he said.

"Why ever not?" she replied. "I have nothing to hide. Nothing to fear."

Ata clasped her hand with her good one, gaining her attention. "Everyone has something to hide, my dear. You wouldn't be interesting unless you had something to hide."

That broke the tension for a moment.

"And your son?" Luc said slowly. "Was he not here during those four weeks? That would have satisfied the—"

"My Anthony went up to London during the same period the two Wildes were in Devon." She handed the thick sheaf of legal documents to Quinn with a flourish.

He quickly scanned a few of the pages until his eyes came to rest on a paragraph. "It does say in Canon One hundred two that one of the parties must live in the diocese for four weeks prior. But really madam, the word 'live' is open to interpretation, as I see it. One could easily argue that to live in a parish means to reside, or to maintain lodging, not necessarily to be present there for every moment of the four weeks."

The old lady tilted her head in an odd angle. "That's not how the Archbishop of Canterbury's assistant, Lord Thornley, saw it when he condescended to grant me an audience last Thursday Perhaps you would like to discuss it with him."

An awful silence wended around the occupants of the room before Georgiana broke it. "How many times must I say it? I've never had any use for the title."

"You might be able to fool everyone else with your noble performance, but not me. Of course you want the title. Everyone wants to better themselves. And if you don't want it, then why did you stay here?"

The color in Georgiana's face drained away.

Luc leaned toward Quinn and quietly drawled, "Ahem, now would be an excellent time to unshackle yourself from that namby-pamby diplomacy of yours and unleash some good old-fashioned shouting."

Quinn maintained an iron grip on his control—refraining from the intense desire to throttle someone: Helston, Gwendolyn, or his own blasted inability to protect the one person he knew deserved his protection—had earned his protection—but did not want it or him.

Ata's eyes narrowed, glaring at him in expectation. He turned and saw expectation in Grace's eyes as well. In Georgiana's eyes, there was no expectation—only blankness, and it chilled him to the core, nearly blinding him with a desire to take her in his arms and shield her from everything.

"Madam," he said finally into the stillness, a surge of something forcing him to say the unutterable. "There is a certain brand of ugly selfishness and questionable morals that abides in the hearts of many. Most are capable of suppressing their true natures. Unfortunately, you, and
your son
were incapable of doing so."

Georgiana inhaled sharply. "This has absolutely nothing to do with Anthony. I'm certain he had no idea about the laws pertaining to—"

"Wait, Georgiana," Ata interrupted.
"I,
for one, want to hear what he has to say."

"I will not allow you to say one single word against Anthony. He was everything you are not," Gwendolyn Fortesque shrieked. "He was the best of sons, the best of men. He—"

"—is not under discussion," Quinn finished. "But, then, neither is Georgiana. I will not allow you to discuss your daughter-in-law or your odd notions regarding the legality of her marriage to anyone beyond this circle. If you dare breathe a word of this ridiculous theory to anyone, I will transfer every last unentailed farthing to Georgiana in my will. Have I made myself perfectly clear, madam?"

"Bravo," Ata said softly.

Georgiana cleared her throat. "You know, all of this is really unnecessary. Lady Ellesmere," she said, "my family and I had already decided to remove from here, now that my father is no longer steward of Penrose. There is no need for—"

Quinn interrupted her with sadness. "You do not have to answer to anyone, Georgiana. You may choose to live wherever your heart desires."

"Well, I never—" began Gwendolyn Fortesque.

"—know when to stop," interrupted Ata.

His aunt's instincts were clearly at war within her. On one side was the obvious desire to humiliate Georgiana and on the other the need to impress the woman who outranked her: the tiny yet powerful Dowager Duchess of Helston. The latter won out.

"Your Grace," Gwendolyn said, "I do beg your pardon for having to witness this sad business. I have always been a great admirer of yours, and have always hoped a friendship would bloom between us. I was much honored to learn from our housekeeper that you and your friends are staying with us. Do allow me to escort you to see the rest of the activities tonight. The harvest festival here is the most famed in all of Cornwall. But I'm sure you know that, Your Grace."

Quinn had not taken his eyes off of Georgiana for a moment. She wore a mask, yet he knew with all his heart that she would not be able to take another moment of this insanity. "I've decided to end the festival early," he said. "I'm going outside to make an announcement. I'll have the vicar offer up the final prayer immediately. There will be no further festivities."

Georgiana looked at him. "That's not the way of it, Quinn. Everyone will be so disappointed. Please don't. Don't do this. I, for one, will be disappointed."

Georgiana Wilde—no,
Fortesque
—damnation—was the greatest liar he'd ever encountered. He was a fool to have never known it before now. He'd always thought her as transparent as the water in Loe Pool. But then, hadn't he proven to be the poorest judge of character the world had ever known?

Chapter 13

Georgiana twirled a single fragrant stem of dog rose between her fingers while she reviewed the stack of ledgers Mr. Brown had left for her. The last two weeks, someone, probably Miles, had ridden by Little Roses and mysteriously left on the doorstep each morning a different bloom—always a rose—for her, sans note. Georgiana supposed it was because, at heart, he was a gentleman, and felt it his duty to supply an admitted wallflower with posies. It had been so silly to mention that she'd never received any bouquets. It was just unfortunate she wasn't as well versed in the language of flowers as Rosamunde and her kindhearted brother.

Most mornings she had carried the bloom up the short hill to the great house, forcing herself to pretend everything was fine and normal while she visited with all the ladies within Penrose's hallowed halls. And every day, a footman had interrupted her visit after five or ten minutes to inform her that her presence was kindly requested by Mr. Brown. And again, every morning, she had gratefully escaped to the steward's chambers, which had slowly but surely become Mr. Brown's. Even his soothing bay rum scent had seeped into the walls.

She wasn't a fool. She knew Mr. Brown was trying to divert her, spare her as much as possible from the indignities she endured when forced to spend time with Gwendolyn Fortesque.

Oh, it was awful. Ata had no idea how much her constant defense, and that of the rest of the widows, pained her.

"My dear Georgiana," the tiny dowager duchess said to her this morning, "since you, Rosamunde, Grace, and I are the four highest-ranking ladies in Cornwall, I think we should have our likenesses taken, don't you? Grace knows a wonderful portraitist in London." She continued without waiting for Grace's support. "Oh, do let's have a painting commissioned. Sarah and Elizabeth must be part of it too, of course."

And Gwendolyn Fortesque had spent the next fifteen minutes attempting to insinuate herself. "Perhaps Your Grace might consider including my daughters? Henrietta and Margaret are visiting my sister, but I could send a letter to them. They would make a lovely addition ... or even I might . . ." She lost her nerve after encountering Ata's sour expression.

Gwendolyn's newest tactic toward Georgiana was to ignore her completely, going so far as to stare at a point on the floor when forced to converse with her. Never meeting her eye, yet never, ever daring to insult her.

And Georgiana's misery had been complete, when Ata sent the marchioness on some ridiculous errand to afford the rest of them some privacy. "My dear Georgiana, there are only two reasons I endure her. I'm resolved not to remove to Amberley until you are settled away from that horrid woman. And I'll stay here until then to make sure she behaves toward you in the proper manner."

"No matter what she says," Grace had added, "all of us know you were properly married to her son. You are a marchioness and all of us will stand by you."

Elizabeth and Sarah had touched her hands and murmured their support. And Georgiana had felt as little like a marchioness as ever.

"And," Ata had added, with a smile toward Grace, "I shall wager my black pearls that there will be another lady among us who will share the title with you before the year is out. Then the two of you will be almost sisters in truth—and you'll have no need for any of the rest of us."