The Kiss (32 page)

In the distance, the
cree-cree-cree
of a peregrine falcon sounded, and Quinn looked up into the sky and changed his course to find the source.

Luc leaned in and whispered, "And you're not . . . although you fool just about everybody with that corpselike air that decorates your face."

Bloody dukes. Always had to get the last word.

Georgiana had hoped Quinn's second sudden trip to London a fortnight ago would have at least afforded her some peace at heart. But as she looked down at Fairleigh's small blonde form surrounded by all the members of Ata's Widows Club sitting on the hill in front of Loe Pool, Georgiana realized his absence actually made everything much worse.

"Georgiana?" Fairleigh whispered. "How much longer is Monsieur Latoque going to make us stay in this position?"

Georgiana glanced at the diminutive Gallic portraitist, half hidden by his massive canvas. "If you don't ask me that question again, I'll go riding with you tomorrow."

The little girl bit her lip. "Georgiana?"

"Yes?" she returned.

"At what time?"

Georgiana hid her smile. "Dawn?"

There were five seconds of blessed silence.

"Which horse?"

"Don't you mean which
pony?"

Fairleigh sighed and Georgiana almost laughed as it was an exact imitation of her own exasperated sound.

"Oh, all right." Georgiana relented. "You may ride Lady, the small gray mare in the last stall. But only if you stop talking. Monsieur Latoque might paint a mustache like his own on both of us if you don't."

"It's ever so much more fun to do the painting instead of the sitting."

Sarah Winters leaned in. "But all those who gaze upon the painting will be very grateful that you made the effort to sit still, dearest. Look."

Sarah handed Fairleigh a locket and the little girl worked the latch to open it. Georgiana glanced over her shoulder to see a likeness of a gentleman in a military uniform. Of all the widows, Sarah was the one who had mourned the most faithfully a beloved husband lost in the war against the French.

"Was this your husband?" Fairleigh asked.

"Yes." Sarah stroked her hand through Fair-leigh's hair and Georgiana noticed how beautifully fragile Sarah's hands were. "And I am forever grateful to him for having made the effort to sit for this. If he had not, I would have nothing to remember him by, other than my memories."

"Oh," Fairleigh interjected, "have you seen the eye Georgiana painted of her husband?"

Sarah glanced at the edge of Georgiana's shawl and nodded.

They were all silent for a moment before she heard a sniff from Fairleigh's direction.

"What is it, dearest?"

"I don't want to have my likeness taken. It could be bad luck."

"And why is that?" Sarah asked gently.

"Because everyone seems to
die
after it's done," Fairleigh wailed.

"Et alors?"
Monsieur Latoque waved his paintbrush in the air. "This is impossible. I cannot create
un chef d'oeuvre
unless you remain in position. You must make mademoiselle sit still."

"Monsieur," Georgiana said, standing to stretch her stiff joints. "I'm so sorry, but I do believe the light is fading and mademoiselle has been very good the last hour and a half. I think we should recommence tomorrow. Don't you agree?"

Ata murmured her accord. But Gwendolyn Fortesque, who had stayed on at Penrose despite the obvious wave of dislike from all the other ladies, disagreed. She'd arrived on the hill a few minutes ago with an expression more sour than the lemonade a beleaguered-looking footman bore in his hands.

"You
would allow a child to dictate to everyone?" Gwendolyn snorted in disgust. "She needs better guidance. You are not fit to oversee her. She's coddled and spoiled to the core—without a shred of feminine talent or proper education."

Georgiana had never dared to stand up to the marchioness. But the thought of anyone saying something hurtful about Fairleigh made her lash out. "What did you say?" Georgiana walked over to Gwendolyn Fortesque. "Take it back."

Gwendolyn sputtered, "I beg your pardon?" She lowered her voice. "I do not answer to the daughter of a
steward."

"You will take it all back or I shall—"

"You shall what?" Gwendolyn's arched smile held all the satisfaction of a woman who had been a marchioness for four decades. "Throw me off my own estate?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Georgiana saw Ata marching toward them. She put up a staying hand. "No, Ata. I thank you, but I shall not allow you to fight my battles any longer."

Ata stopped and motioned to the other widows to stand beside her.

Georgiana turned back to Gwendolyn. "Take it back or I shall make your life a misery."

Gwendolyn laughed. "I fail to see how it could get any worse. My life is wretched anytime I'm forced to endure your presence."

There was the shocked intake of breath from the widows nearby. And Ata's visage was purple.

"I don't care what you think of me but I won't allow you to utter a word against Fairleigh. Do you really consider yourself a model for bringing up children after the way you stood by and did nothing to curb Anthony's sad way of life in town?"

"You put him in the grave, not I," the dowager replied. It was clear Gwendolyn had completely given up every hope of becoming part of Ata's circle of influential friends in town.

A blast of coldness invaded her lungs. Georgiana had never been any good at putting people in their places. Had never been any good at the quick rejoinder. And she had only been able to get laborers and servants on the estate to do her bidding because they were embarrassed to see her trying to do the work herself.

She felt a slim hand grasp hers and looked up to see Grace's petite form beside her.

"Lady Ellesmere?" Grace said. "I for one will not let you forget you are here because Georgiana allows it. No, let me state it more clearly, for I fear you misunderstand. None of us cares about your inquiry or your meeting with the archbishop's assistant. And furthermore, none of the Dowager Duchess of Helston's friends, or
my
friends in town will care about it either. So you have a choice before you. You may either show Georgiana the respect she is due here and now or you shall face social ruin in London."

"Well, the very idea—" Gwendolyn sputtered.

"It's your choice, of course. And really, all of us"—she indicated the rest of the ladies—"are unfortunately not as civilized as we ought to be. I suppose it is due to the combined influence of living with the Devil of Helston and, lately, living under the roof of the
daughter of a steward
—a woman who has more grace in her calloused hands than you do in your rather"—Grace lifted her nose and surveyed every inch of Lady Ellesmere—
"inelegant
form."

It was the ultimate insult to a lady who prided herself on her dress and deportment. It was the only reason for her existence, Georgiana thought. But while she was extraordinarily grateful to Grace for standing up to Gwendolyn in such a superior fashion, at the same time it reinforced how very much she was out of her element.

She simply wished the entire encounter had never occurred. She was so close to leaving Penrose anyway—and would never have to see Gwendolyn Fortesque again. Suddenly the scene was just too much.

"Gwendolyn," she whispered, addressing her mother-in-law by her Christian name for the first time. "I know why you hate me. I remind you of where you came from. But you see, I don't care what you think of me. I've never cared. But if you ever say another unkind word about Fairleigh I shall—"

"Go running to Quinn?" Lady Ellesmere interrupted. "I don't doubt it. You always did run to him—or to my darling Anthony."

Georgiana closed her eyes tightly then reopened them. "No, I won't look to others to solve my own problems. If you don't apologize I shall come to London and haunt your every step, much as I loathe town. I shall accept Ata's invitation and go to every entertainment, every soiree, every fete or dinner, every musical, every ball and you shall be forced to endure my presence. And if you push me too far, I might even secretly arrange for a particular sow to be delivered to your chambers."

There was the sound of a forced cough. Georgiana turned to see Quinn leaning against a tree behind all her friends, half hidden by the foliage. Lord knew how long he had been standing there.

"Quinn!" Gwendolyn Fortesque said. "When did you arrive?"

He pushed off of the tree and crossed toward them. "Georgiana and Grace neglected to inform you of one additional point, madam. Before you take your leave
tonight"
—he was extracting something from a leather portfolio—"you should know that if Georgiana does decide to visit Grace or Ata in town she will be properly introduced as the true Marchioness of Ellesmere—or," he said, looking toward Grace, "the newest dowager marchioness, for I have a document in hand which states as much."

"That's impossible. Lord Thornley, the archbishop's assistant said—" Gwendolyn interjected.

"Perhaps. But the Archbishop of Canterbury saw it differently when I met him last week.
Very differently.
Georgiana's marriage to Anthony is valid and always shall be." He placed several sheets of heavy vellum in Georgiana's hand.

"You did not..." Gwendolyn said faintly.

"Indeed, I did, madam. And by the by, while I was in town I took the liberty of arranging for your daughters and all of your affairs to be removed to Ellesmere Abbey in Cheshire. You shall join them, as I shall arrange a carriage for you tonight. You will all be very comfortable there."

Georgiana heard Ata whisper, "Oh, but that's not nearly far enough away ..."

Georgiana glanced at Quinn and his eyes met hers just as Grace grasped his shoulder and leaned up to whisper something in his ear. He shifted his gaze to the countess and smiled.

Quinn held a tiny rosebud in his hand and Grace grasped it and twirled it in her elegant fingers.

Chapter 17