Page 17 of Runaway Countess (Those Wild Whitbys #2)

Chapter Seventeen

W hen Jenny returned to the kitchens, they were all abustle with preparations for serving breakfast to the family upstairs. She did her best to keep out of the way, grateful for the ease with which she could avoid Mrs Thomas’s disapproving glare in the crowd. Even in a greenhouse as large as Whitby Manor’s, she had no excuse for taking quite so long over gathering the ingredients for the tisane.

Sebastian had left her at the servants’ entrance, running back around to the front of the house so that he could join his family for breakfast.

She wondered what the servants would think if she should eventually return to the manor as Mrs Sebastian Whitby and take her breakfast upstairs at near noon with the family that would then be hers. Though it was nothing short of scandalous – a very far cry from the sort of marriage young ladies dream of – she permitted herself a wicked little grin of her own at the thought of it, as she waited for the water to boil for Lord Beeston’s tisane.

Her letter would arrive with Helen that very day, laying out clear instructions to take the enclosed missive of polite refusal and post it back immediately to Lord Beeston. The postmark would clearly place Jenny in Shepton Mallet, far from Sebastian, and she knew Helen would never betray her by revealing the truth. Only a few more days, and all would be settled. She would concoct a family emergency for ‘Nurse Hughes’, leave Lord Beeston’s employment, hide away somewhere with some of Sebastian’s friends, and then…

Then, on her twenty-first birthday, the work would begin.

Sebastian had made her no promises in the orangery. She understood why. He was in no position to keep them.

“If there was only another war –” he’d begun, cheeks hot with frustration.

“Don’t ever wish such a thing!”

“Let me explain.” He had taken her hands in his, eyes travelling over her face as he spoke, as serious as she’d ever seen them, and full of unspent fire. “Without a war, there is no guarantee I shall receive another commission. Some men languish on shore for years with nothing more than half-pay to sustain them. The prize money I have won will not last forever. I have so much more to do before I can support anyone but myself.” His jaw tightened, his face wracked with inner pain. “I do not have your imagination, Miss Cartwright. I never pictured a time when my father’s money might disappear. That may well come to be my life’s greatest regret.” He offered her a smile as cold and hard as stone. Jenny let her hands settle into his, feeling the warmth of them heat her skin, filling her with strength and belief and hope.

Sebastian did not yet believe in himself. That did not matter. She could believe enough for both of them.

“I am not afraid of waiting,” she had said. It was the truth.

She felt as though she had spent all her very-nearly-one-and-twenty years simply waiting for Sebastian.

He was here now, her wild lovelorn gentleman with eyes as blue as the sky.

She would never give in to fear again.

She had put her arms around his broad shoulders and paused for a moment as their bodies settled against one another, his firm chest against hers, his hands resting on her waist. “Besides,” she added brightly, “now I can take up nursing to support myself while I wait.”

Sebastian gave a gruff laugh and drew back to look at her, brushing the edge of his rough thumb lightly over her lips. “Has anything ever made you unhappy for longer than a moment?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “but I have never before had so many reasons to be happy.” She ran her fingers lightly along his forearm. “Really, if I cannot manage to be happy now, I never will.”

On arriving at Lord Beeston’s chambers, tea tray in hand, Jenny was surprised to find one of Sebastian’s sisters hovering outside the door. The young lady appeared to be in a state of great distress, caught halfway between knocking on the door and running away.

She was an exceptionally pretty young woman, beautifully dressed in the sort of clothes Aunt Fanny would have cut from the pages of La Beau Monde to show to her seamstress. There were a few traces of Sebastian here and there in the shape of the lady’s eyes – red, as though from a night of weeping – and the sandy colour of her hair. No one could deny that they were siblings, though the lady was rather short, and her shapely figure as different from Sebastian’s tall, strong form as a strawberry bush was from an oak tree.

“Thank goodness,” she said, seeing Jenny, and rushed towards her. For a moment, Jenny had the horrifying impression that the girl either knew who she was or knew what she had been doing with Sebastian in the orangery.

“Miss Whitby?” Jenny managed, steadying the tray as the lady bumped it in her haste to reach Jenny.

“Yes – I’m Miss Georgiana,” she said, introducing herself with a quick, apologetic smile. “What a happy coincidence you came at this precise moment. I was just about to call in on Lord Beeston, but I… Well…” She looked down helplessly at the tea tray. “I am terribly sorry. I hope I haven’t spilled anything.”

“Miss Georgiana,” Jenny began. To her horror, she recognised the particular look of anxiety on Georgiana’s face. It was very similar to the one she had worn the day she was informed of her engagement to the man who was currently sitting in the room behind the door Georgiana was too afraid to open, waiting for his orange leaf tisane.

There was only one reason why the beautiful youngest daughter of a family in a great deal of debt should be required to pay particular attention to a gentleman visitor.

Jenny wished she could say something to Georgiana to show how truly she understood her distress. She nearly blurted out the whole story then and there, rather than have Georgiana go through another moment of lonely anxiety.

Instead, Jenny forced a smile that she hoped was more reassuring than sad. “Lord Beeston is a thoroughly decent gentleman. I will sit close by and see to my mending while you visit with him. If you need anything at all, you have only to ask me.”

Georgiana nodded, lacing her fingers together and clasping her hands firmly as though to stop her fingers from twisting in anxiety. “How kind of you. Tell me, is he – is he suffering a great deal?” Her face was pale. “I have never been any good at visiting with the sick. I do not know the right things to say.”

Jenny put a hand on her arm. “Simply speak to him as you would any other gentleman, Miss Georgiana. He is perfectly well this morning – only a little tired. I’m sure your company will do him good.”

“As I would any other gentleman,” Georgiana repeated to herself, nodding slowly as though it were a lesson she was learning by rote. “Well, I am fairly accomplished at speaking to gentlemen.” A pink flush rose to Georgiana’s rounded cheeks. She gave Jenny a sudden smile of such blinding prettiness that Jenny had no doubt that she charmed every man she met. “Let me hold the door for you,” she said. “It won’t do to start off by spilling his tea.”

Jenny carried in the tea tray, ignoring Mr Plum’s little tsk of disapproval and the way he glanced at the clock, and set it down on the table beside Lord Beeston’s chair. Lord Beeston’s face was rather drawn, a little paler than it had been the previous day, and his eyes more hollow.

“Ah,” he said, eyes following her warily as she poured his tisane. “There you are.”

“You have a visitor, my lord,” said Jenny. “Shall I show her in?”

Lord Beeston lifted the teacup and cupped his hands around it as though he needed the warmth. “Her?” he repeated, cocking a dark brow. “A lady?”

“Miss Georgiana Whitby.”

The corner of his lip twitched, dark amusement fighting to break through his gloom. “She’s braver than her father, then. Unless…” He shot the doorway a look of distaste. “She’s not come to weep and wail at me, has she?”

Jenny shook her head. “In spirit, she seems very similar to Captain Whitby.”

“Good lord. Then I had better fortify myself.” Beeston took a deep gulp of the tea. “Let her in. Why not.”

Mr Plum went to the door ahead of Jenny, glaring back at her as though daring her to supersede him.

“Miss Georgiana Whitby, my lord,” he announced, with imperious formality.

The air in the room changed when Georgiana swept in. She had set aside all her nerves and replaced them with a cheerful smile and a breezy geniality which utterly counteracted the souring effect of Mr Plum. Something about her reminded Jenny of a cherry tree breaking into blossom on the first day of spring. Even Lord Beeston noticed it. He straightened in his chair as she approached, reaching for the cane at his side.

“Lord Beeston! Good morning.” Georgiana bobbed him a brief curtsey and took a seat on the chaise opposite him, offering him a smile that implied intimate familiarity, though they were complete strangers. “I must insist you stay seated, for my mother only agreed to this rather improper visit on the understanding that you were racked with fever and confined to bed. She’d be scandalised to see you up and about.”

Beeston’s dark brows lowered as he set the cane aside. “No doubt it would suit your mother very nicely if I were to take ill and die. Were you sent to smother me with a pillow?”

Georgiana’s eyes widened. She gave a little nod, as of one adversary acknowledging another, and settled back in her seat. “I believe I was sent to soften you up a little before my father attempts to negotiate his terms of repayment. But now that I am here, I do not believe it will do any good. Will it?”

“No.”

Jenny winced to hear the steely lack of concern in Beeston’s voice, but Georgiana seemed barely to register it. “Thank goodness. We need not embarrass one another with false pleasantries, then. Have you everything you need to be comfortable? There are still some books in the library which have not yet been sold. I think I recall from my brother’s letters that you love to read.”

Beeston gave a dry bark of laughter. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe Whitby wrote a single word about me that was not a complaint.”

“You’d be surprised,” Georgiana answered steadily. “I believe his words were, if I could only persuade myself to sit still and study those dull old tomes of naval history, as Captain Graham does, then he would not make me feel such a halfwit . Or something of that kind.”

Jenny covered her mouth to hide the fond smile that was not at all appropriate on a servant’s face. She could well imagine Sebastian writing those words.

Lord Beeston gave a reluctant nod. “I have, at times, endeavoured to make him feel a halfwit.”

Georgiana smiled again in that unabashedly intimate way and leaned closer. “So have I.” To Jenny’s astonishment, Beeston answered her with a quick grin of his own; not one of his customary smirks, but something warm and humorous, that thawed the pallor on his drawn face for a moment. “Will you join the family for dinner tonight?” asked Georgiana.

“Nobody will want me there, I think.”

“ I would like it very much.”

Lord Beeston shook his head, that brief warmth vanishing as swiftly as it came. “Now, Miss Georgiana, I thought we had agreed not to embarrass one another with falsehoods.”

Georgiana’s cheeks flushed, though not with nerves this time. Beeston had done her an injustice, and she did not seem prepared to take it lying down. “This house is not yours yet, my lord. I am still a Whitby of Whitby Manor. I am aware that my family owes you a debt which money can never repay. While you are a guest under this roof, I will see that you are treated with honour.”

Lord Beeston dropped his gaze from hers, the knuckles of one hand digging into the blanket which concealed the stump of his right leg. “What nonsense has Captain Whitby been telling you?” he muttered. “I made him swear to stop spouting that heroic bunkum about jumping in front of bullets.” He spoke the word heroic as though it were a curse.

“Sebastian told me nothing,” said Georgiana. “But, as we just discussed, there is more to be understood between the lines of his letters than in what he actually writes.” She rose to her feet, preventing Lord Beeston from rising with her with a sharp gesture of dismissal. “I will arrange for you to dine in your own rooms. Send down if you change your mind. It has been a pleasure to meet you, my lord.” She bobbed another curtsey but did not wait for his response, and was halfway to the door when Beeston cocked his head and called over his shoulder, without turning around,

“Perhaps you might read to me, Miss Georgiana. After dinner. If you have nothing better to occupy your time.”

She stopped, glancing back at him, and Jenny thought the smile that crossed her face was one of relief.

“If anything better does present itself, my lord, I’m sure I can forgo it this once.”

Lord Beeston was silent for a long while after Georgiana left. The few glances Jenny risked at his face revealed nothing other than that he was deep in thought. His fingers tapped restlessly along the polished wooden handle of his cane.

“Plum,” he said, eventually, “go and make yourself useful elsewhere.”

Jenny rose to go as well, but Lord Beeston held up a finger. She sat back down and took up the pile of mending which Mrs Thomas had left ready – a good nurse, she said, should never have idle hands. After a few moments, Lord Beeston leaned his cane carefully against the side of his chair and took a sip of his tisane.

“I hear Shepton Mallet is a pleasant town. Has your sister lived there long, Miss Cartwright?”

Jenny froze.

She stared down at her mending, the needle slipping through her fingers, and tried to convince herself that Lord Beeston had not just spoken the name she thought she had heard.

She raised her eyes to him. He lifted the teacup and an eyebrow in unison, a wry toast of acknowledgement. “I took the liberty of glancing at the address on that letter. I suppose you imagined I would not recognise it. Unfortunately, my memory for details is near perfect.”

Jenny opened her mouth, but it was far too dry to form words, and besides, she had no idea what she should say. She pushed the mending aside, not caring how the needle and thread tangled on their way to the floor, and stood up abruptly. “My lord…”

“You may call me Arthur, if you wish.” The smile never left his lips, though his eyes were cool and hard and fixed upon her. “We are, after all, betrothed.”