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As Angus stood to pour some of the wine leftover from yesterday’s Christmas celebration, Mary tentatively raised her hand.

“Excuse me, m-m-milord. I ken where Auntie keeps her records, and I’d be happy to work on the arrangements to s-s-open the townhouse.”

Demon studied the mousy little maid, who’d never seemed interested in taking the lead before. “Ye can do that?”

Her nod was immediate. “I think, if ye bring us all along, we can help in the interim. And I can write and hire whoever else ye might need, even temporarily.”

She sounded very certain of her abilities. Well, she would know better than anyone else. Demon decided to believe her. He didn’t have much of a choice.

He jerked his chin once, definite and certain. “Well, aright then. Ye set that all up, Mary, and I’ll make ye my London housekeeper, aye?”

Mary fainted.

“Shite,” he hissed, swinging his gaze to Bruno, who’d begun to laugh. “Are ye going to faint? Angus, more wine.”

“Nay milord,” cackled the elderly footman. “Just imagining what effect ye’re going to have in London, if ye’re already causing the ladies to pass out!”

Ye step into the ballroom and all eyes swing to ye. As one, every lady there gasps and collapses to the floor.

Demon’s scowl turned to a snarl. “Those pernicious cabbagepatches in London can keep their noses in the air and their sticks up their arses. Their opinion of me doesnae matter.”

He was surprised to feel Georgia’s hand on his forearm. When he glanced at her, her smile was soft. Pitying, almost.

“Demon, you do not understand. You are a duke. It will not matter to these people that the title lacks lands or money; a duke is a leader in Society. You will be able to champion causes in Parliament, you will be invited to every event, you will become their darling.”

“While they laugh at me behind their backs.” He kept his voice low, daring her to say he was wrong. “I dinnae want to see the revulsion in their expressions as they curtsey prettily.”

She shrugged. “Then do not look them in the eyes. They will lie to you, they will tell you how pleased they are to see you, and yes, behind their hands and fans they will be whispering about you.”

The thought turned his stomach, but he held her gaze. “And ye?”

She was an Earl’s daughter. She was one of them.

“They’ve already whispered about me.” Georgia’s hand slid down his forearm to grasp his. “I promised you I would be with you as long as you need me,” she whispered. “I will defend you. I will stand beside you.”

Her promise didn’t make everything better, but it helped.

Eventually, they roused Mrs. Kettel and a grateful Mary. The pair of them set to work preparing Endymion to be closed up for a few weeks and sending off notices to London. Bruno was absolutely no help whatsoever, but Mrs. Kettel insisted on bringing him along.

Angus made it clear he would be staying here to care for the horses, and would look after the property as well as he could. Someone had to open and close doors behind Rajah, after all; the poor animal wouldn’t stand being brought to a new house.

Georgia helped Demon pack, pulling clothes from his closet and armoires he hadn’t worn in years. She teased, cajoled, and made him curse out loud when she explained he’d have to wear shoes the whole time he was in London, lest the new servants begin to gossip about him.

And she made him smile when she kissed him.

Fook, how she made him smile!

By December 31st, they were ready to depart. Mrs. Kettel had filled an entire portmanteau with onions “to keep away the bad influences, milord,” although Demon suspected everyone would keep away from the smell. He realized he didn’t hate the idea, and even offered to keep the bag with him in the private compartment he’d hired for him and Georgia, away from prying eyes.

Georgia vetoed the onion suggestion.

She did, however, hold his hand for the first two hours of the trip, not seeming to mind he couldn’t manage to soften his grip. He hated himself for this show of fear, but Christ, he was afraid! And she sensed it.

So she sat beside him in their quiet train compartment, holding his hand and quietly reading the edition of Frankenstein he’d purchased for her. Every once in a while he caught her smiling or gasping at something in the book, and he loved to watch her face as she read.

It was a hell of a lot better than imagining what was coming.

Finally, Georgia placed a scrap of paper between the pages—she’d made him a bookmark, but didn’t have one for herself, and he tamped down the urge to vow to buy her a dozen—and placed the book beside her on the bench.