Chapter Eight

George sat at his usual table in White's and watched as his friend Henry Beaumont, Viscount Eynsham, settled into the seat beside him. Recently married, Henry had only just returned to London, a fact that was particularly well timed: George was in the unusual position of needing advice.

"You look well," he said.

Henry smirked. "I hear marriage can do that to a man."

"Only if he is attached to his wife first, I fancy."

"Perhaps." Henry shrugged. "Louisa says she hopes she can meet with you in the next few days as well."

"I hope so too." George hesitated, but while his friend was perhaps not the most experienced, he needed to talk to someone. "I have a question."

"Oh?"

"You recall Lady Augustus Spenser?" At his friend's blank look, he added, "Caroline."

A knowing smile crept onto his friend's face. "Ah yes, I remember."

George recalled the time he had swept the papers from his father's desk so he could lay Caroline down on it, and how just a few hours later, he had consoled Henry's broken heart there. "Yes," he said a little hastily. "Well, the problem is that my father is keen for me to marry. Caroline has said herself that she would not do, and I confess that she would not be the logical choice."

"I see," Henry said.

"But once I marry, she will no longer see me."

Henry's brow quirked. "Very honourable of her."

"Very obstinate." George sighed. "My father is dying, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it. When he does, I will be the Viscount Worthington, and my wife will be a viscountess."

"I understand how these things work," Henry said dryly. "So you are reluctant to choose a wife when it would mean losing Caroline, but you are under obligation to your father."

"Precisely."

"What would you like my advice on?" Henry rested his ankle on his knee, giving George a look of repressed amusement. "How to live with heartbreak?"

"Nothing so tragic. Just—how does one satisfy oneself with choosing a wife when she will not be half the woman you will lose?"

"Why not marry Caroline?"

George's teeth knocked against the glass.

He'd imagined it, of course. Imagined asking her to be his wife, the things she might say. None, at present, seemed especially encouraging. And there was his reputation to think of—Caroline's dealings were well known across the ton . She was not bride material, and she knew it as well as he. Plus, given her age of five-and-thirty, there was a chance she might never produce him an heir, the primary reason his father was requiring him to marry.

Even a few weeks ago, he might have laughed at the idea he would consider an action likely to garner so much disapproval. His ideal wife came from a good family with old money and an ancestral seat that went back generations. She would be demure, pretty, and unobtrusive.

Caroline was none of those things. She was hard-headed, seductive, frequently crude, often radical, and five years his senior. In other words, she was the antithesis of the blushing bride he'd always wanted—and he was alarmingly certain he was falling in love with her.

The worst of it was, he sometimes had a thought that perhaps she might feel the same way. But the frequency with which she brought up his future bride made it certain that she did not expect to be the one he chose.

Quite possibly she did not want to be his wife.

The thought was humbling.

"It goes against the grain to admit," he said to his friend, "but she might be the one unattached woman in London who would not have me."

"Have you asked her?"

"Of course not. Do you take me for a fool?"

Henry appeared to consider this. "On occasion," he said. "Have you tried wooing her?"

Something else George was decidedly not an expert in. "I took her on a picnic yesterday."

"She might require a little more persuading."

"That's not precisely my realm of experience. How did you prevail upon Louisa to accept?"

"I didn't," Henry said. "She made the decision on her own."

"Unhelpful. Caroline is unlikely to do the same." She was entirely too independent to even consider relying on him, and he expected she had received more than one proposal in the throes of passion.

Henry linked his fingers and lay them across his chest. "From what I gather, Caroline has no particular desire to marry again. But if she likes you, and if you would offer her security, why would she refuse you?"

"People would talk."

"Does she care about that sort of thing?"

"Not for her sake," George allowed. "But she's mentioned the negative impact of her society on my reputation more than once. And it would be bordering on scandalous to marry her, especially given she's older than me by five years."

"Well, if you want my advice, speak to Louisa about how best to win her over," Henry said. "She'll know better than anyone."

The prospect of speaking to sharp-tongued Louisa about his interest in her closest friend was a daunting one, but Henry was probably right. Caroline was withholding something from him. Every time he delved too deeply into her past life, she closed herself off. Out of respect, he had not made enquiries into her family name—he could not have cared if she came from a pig farmer—but perhaps it behoved him to look into her, if he was to pursue her.

Then there was the matter of his father. The sooner he informed the Viscount that he would not be choosing a wife from Forbes's list, the better. He would be free to pursue the one unmarried woman in all of the ton whom, he suspected, he had the least chance with.

He was not sure if he had ever wanted anything more.

#

George entered the Pump Room in Bath with somewhat less than his usual good temper. The journey had been long, dusty, and hot, and when he had arrived at his father's lodgings, it was to the information that his father was not home.

Impatient, barely pausing to write his name in the visitor's book, he glanced around the large room. The pump was at one end, the orchestra at the other, and parties moved up and down in crowds, not seeming to mind the crush. George, also, would not have minded the crush if it had not been so damned hot. He didn't see why more windows could not be open, or why anyone would want to while away their time in such a godforsaken place.

A gap in the crowds allowed him to see his father, carefully seated to one side in his chair and being served a glass of mineral water by a woman in a cap. George strode to join them, and was greeted by the lady's welcoming smile and his father's distinctly unwelcoming gaze.

"Well?" his father demanded.

"What a truly horrific place," George remarked. "I can only be glad you never saw fit to bring me here."

"And I didn't bring you here now," his father said sourly, tossing back the water as though it were brandy. He shuddered. "Awful stuff. What ails you?"

"I've come to inform you that I have chosen a wife."

"About damn time." The irritability in his father's voice didn't waver, but there was finally a burst of interest in his eyes as he waved George to the empty chair beside him. "Sit, sit. Is she from one of the families Forbes sent you?"

George distantly recalled consigning that missive to the fire. "Ah," he said. "No."

"Oh? Then is she good stock?"

The same capped lady offered George a glass of water and he shook his head. "As to that," he said, examining the shine in his boots that had been sadly dimmed by the dust, "I am unsure."

"You don't know her name?"

"Not her maiden name."

"She was married?"

"Yes, sir."

His father's gnarled knuckles whitened as his fingers clenched around the blanket on his legs. "Good God, boy, have you forgotten yourself?"

"I trust I have not."

"A widow to be your wife, the future Viscountess Worthington?" He gave an angry laugh. "What, does she bear your child and want your name for it? Stupid chit. I won't have it."

George's nostrils flared as he struggled to keep his temper. "I would recommend you do not speak ill of her. No, she does not bear my child, but if she did, I would most certainly do the honourable thing."

"Then what is it? Who was her husband? Surely you haven't fallen in love with the girl?"

"Not so much a girl, Father. She is five-and-thirty."

"What is this madness?"

George gave a thin smile. "I mean to have her if I can."

"How so? Has she bewitched you?"

That, George thought, was entirely possible.

"She is as yet unaware of my intentions. I came to inform you first, as I felt was your right."

Spittle flecked the corners of his father's mouth. "Who is she?"

"Lady Augustus Spenser." Her full title, her dead husband's name, sat unpleasantly on his mouth, and he understood anew why she had urged everyone with whom she had an acquaintance to use her Christian name. Far better she offer that intimacy and be addressed by the name she owned, rather than the one she had been forced to use.

"Lady Augustus?" His father's face tightened still further. "That—that whore ?"

George sat very still in his chair, seconds away from striking his own father. "You will not refer to her in those terms."

"You can't be serious," his father said, still flushed with anger. "Everyone knows she has fewer morals than a gutter rat, and she might have married the younger brother of a duke, but consequence can't shield her now. If you marry her, you will risk ruining our good name."

"If she consents to marry me, then I will be a lucky man indeed, and you will treat her to the respect she is due."

"If you marry her, I won't receive her. Either of you."

George curled her lip. "A coward's answer."

"I mean it, George. Marry her, and I will write you out of my will. I won't have your bastards inheriting the Worthington title, and you may be certain that she won't break the habit of a lifetime and only warm your bed." He coughed into his handkerchief, thin shoulders shuddering. "I've never known you to be so foolish."

George relaxed back into the chair, flicking a speck of dust from his sleeves. "Is that your final say on the matter?"

"I should think so. Marry her, and you won't see a penny."

"Thank you for making the matter so clear, Father." He rose and bowed. "Forgive me for taking up so much of your time."

"What are you going to do? Answer me, or by God I will call my solicitor."

George ignored him. Let him call his solicitor, if that's what he wanted; let him give his fortune to someone else. He had a reasonable independence that would allow him to live comfortably, and if he must sell himself into marriage to inherit, he did not want the money.

But no matter what, whether she married him or no, he would find a way to keep Caroline Spenser.