Georgie gave a gasp of outrage and sat bolt upright. “Mother! How can you say such a thing?”
“Your mother’s having a little joke,” Lord Dalrymple said mildly.
“It wasn’t funny!” Georgie said. “I don’t want to marry Vic because he’s a duke; I want to marry him because he’s Vic.”
“I’m glad to hear it, my dear.” Lord Dalrymple put his arm around her shoulders again. “We’ve watched that boy grow up. He’s a good man, and he’ll be a good husband. Which is all we want for you.”
Her mother patted Georgie’s knee. “Yes, dear. We just want you to be happy.” And then she said, irrepressibly, “And wealthy. And a duchess.”
This time Georgie didn’t rise to the bait.
Her mother waited a moment, hopefully, and then abandoned her teasing. “Don’t worry your head about Alexander,” she said briskly. “I have no doubt that he’ll propose once you’ve set his mind to rest.” She shook her head and tutted. “The poor boy. What a shock that diary must have been for him.”
Georgie looked down at the wet, crumpled handkerchief she was gripping and came to a decision. “I’m going to tell him the truth. About everything.”
She felt her mother stiffen beside her on the sofa. “I beg your pardon?” Lady Dalrymple said.
“I’m going to tell Vic about his parents, and about my magic.”
“You most certainly are not going to tell him about your magic,” Lady Dalrymple said in her most quelling tones. “I utterly forbid it! How many times do I have to tell you how dangerous it is, Georgiana? You could be hanged as a witch!”
Georgie met her mother’s gaze squarely. “You told Father before you were married.”
“I had no choice! He saw me walk on air.”
“I won’t lie to Vic,” Georgie said, lifting her chin.
“The risk—”
“I won’t lie to him!” Georgie said fiercely. “And I don’t think you would have lied to Father, either, even if he hadn’t seen you.”
Lady Dalrymple closed her mouth.
“Could you have lied to him your whole life?” Georgie demanded. “Could you?”
Lady Dalrymple looked past Georgie at her husband. Her expression was one that Georgie had never seen her wear before: uncertainty.
“I don’t think you could have, Mama. I think that if you love someone and you lie to them, it must taint everything. I think such a marriage would be like . . . like an apple that looks perfect on the outside, but has a rotten core.”
Her father huffed out a faint laugh. “Our daughter has a way with words.” And then he said, more soberly, “She’s right, Miranda. I would hate to think there’d been a secret of such magnitude between us.”
Lady Dalrymple said, “But . . .” and then halted.
“I wouldn’t have known you had a secret,” Lord Dalrymple said. “It wouldn’t have altered my feelings for you in the slightest, but you would have known, and it might have altered you.”
Lady Dalrymple eyed him.
“I agree with Georgiana on this,” her father said. “We can trust Alexander. He won’t send either of you to the gallows.”
Lady Dalrymple blew out her breath. “Very well,” she said, with a gesture of defeat. “When?”
“Today,” Georgie said. “This afternoon. After our ride.”
Chapter Four
The Dalrymple estate lay on the Dorsetshire coast, near the village of Eype. It was a stark coastline, with pale, shingly beaches that stretched as far as the eye could see and crumbling cliffs riddled with fossils and huge, wide skies. Some people found it barren; Georgie thought it beautiful.
Vickery had eight estates and a palatial residence in St. James’s Square, London, but Dorsetshire was where he was happiest. He’d never told her so in words, but she’d seen him stop often enough on the clifftops and gaze out with a faint half-smile on his face to know that he loved it here. He wasn’t wearing that half-smile this afternoon, though, as they rested the horses after their gallop. He looked tired. Tired and worried.
She knew why: his father’s diaries.
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him the truth? Maybe I should lie to him? It would be kinder.
Vickery turned his head and looked at her and something in his eyes—an intensity, an intention—made her breath catch in her throat.
Vickery didn’t say anything, he just looked at her. The sea breeze tugged at Georgie’s hat and blew a strand of hair across her cheek. She heard the distant cry of a seagull, heard the sound of the surf far below, heard the creak of her saddle as the mare shifted her weight. She discovered that she wasn’t breathing. How could she breathe when Vickery looked at her like that? Her heart thudded loudly in her ears. She felt quite lightheaded.
Vickery drew breath as if to speak . . . and then closed his mouth and looked away.
Georgie clutched her reins tightly. “Vic? What is it?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.” He nudged his horse’s flank with a knee, easing the stallion into a walk.
Georgie fell in beside him. It hadn’t been nothing. Whatever Vickery had been about to tell her had been important. Very important. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew he wasn’t the sixth duke’s son.
The horses broke into a trot when they reached the familiar path homeward. Georgie stopped wondering what Vickery hadn’t said and started worrying about the conversation that loomed ahead. Nervousness churned in her belly. How would Vickery react when he saw her mother walk on air? What would he say when he learned the truth about his parentage? Perhaps I should wait another day to tell him? Perhaps I shouldn’t tell him at all?
They cut across Baron Cathcart’s land. Her father’s estate came into view. Georgie glanced at Vickery riding alongside her, reins held lightly, muscles flexing in his thighs as he moved. It would be kinder not to tell him about his parents, wouldn’t it? And then she imagined living the rest of her life with that secret between them and knew that she couldn’t do it.
Vickery deserved to hear the truth. And he deserved to hear it today. Even if her stomach tied itself into a knot at the thought of telling him.
Georgie took hold of her courage. “Will you come inside for a moment, Vic? My parents would like to take a cup of tea with you.”
Georgie’s parents were waiting in the front drawing room. “Alexander, darling. Have a seat.” Lady Dalrymple patted the sofa alongside her.
Vickery laid his hat and gloves and riding crop to one side and sat.
Georgie took a seat beside her father. Her ribcage was tight with nervousness. Her fingers fumbled slightly as she removed her riding gloves.
A footman entered with a tea tray, set it down, and departed.
Georgie’s mother poured with her usual briskness, but there was tension in her arm. The clink of the teacups in their saucers seemed louder than usual. Her mother’s voice was ever so slightly off pitch.
Georgie had never seen her mother nervous before. It made her own nervousness intensify sharply. She gripped her hands tightly in her lap.
Georgie’s father quietly stood, crossed to the door, locked it, and resumed his seat. Vickery didn’t notice—his attention was focused on his hostess—but Georgie noticed. Her stomach tied itself into an even tighter knot.