“Your whole life,” Georgiana pointed out, “totals nine years.”
Caroline’s brow knit. “Nine years and one-quarter,” she corrected before going on. “You sent me to live in Yorkshire, brought me to live here, in London. You have hired the best governesses, saddled me with chaperones.” She paused. “You’ve bought me fine clothes and even finer books. But you have never once asked me what I would like.”
Georgiana nodded, remembering her own youth, always coddled, given everything she could ever want, but never a choice. And so, when she’d finally had a choice, she’d leapt into it without thinking. “What would you like?”
“Well,” the girl said, coming closer. “As I would like to marry for love when I am old enough for it, I should like you to do the same.” She turned to Langley. “No offense, my lord, I am certain that you are quite nice.”
He inclined his head with a smile. “None taken.”
Caroline returned her attention to Georgiana. “My whole life, you have shown me that we cannot let Society dictate our lives. That we cannot allow others to set us on our path. You chose a different path for us. You brought us here, despite knowing that it would be a challenge. That they would laugh at us. That they would reject us.”
She shook her head. “What am I to think if you marry someone whom you do not love? For a title and propriety that I may not want? I am surrounded by women who have carved their own path, and you think it is a good idea to put me on this one?”
Georgiana spoke then. “I think this is the easy path, love. I want it to be easy for you.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, Mother, but doesn’t that sound terribly boring?”
Langley laughed at that, apologizing when they looked to him. “I am sorry,” he said, “but she is right. It does sound terribly boring.”
God knew it did.
And yet, “But if you fall in love – if you want an aristocrat – you will want the respectability that comes with a title.”
“And if I fall in love with an aristocrat, will he not give me the title I require?” It was an excellent point, made in perfect simplicity by a nine-year-old girl.
Georgiana met her daughter’s serious green gaze. “Where did you come from?”
Caroline smiled. “From you.” She lifted the stack of cards that had come with the morning’s flowers. “Do you want to marry any of these men?”
Georgiana shook her head. “I do not.”
Caroline nodded in Langley’s direction. “Do you want to marry him? Apologies, my lord.”
He waved the words away. “I am quite enjoying myself.” He turned to Georgiana. “Do you wish to marry me?”
Georgiana laughed. “I do not. I am sorry, my lord.”
He shrugged. “I do not take it personally. I do not entirely wish to marry you, either.”
“Mother,” Caroline asked quietly. “Is there someone you do wish to marry?”
There was, of course. There was a man in a house halfway across London, whom she wished quite desperately to marry. Whom she loved beyond measure.
She thought of the cartoon, of Duncan down on his knees, her feather in his pocket. Her breath caught in her throat. “Yes,” she admitted, softly. “I would very much like to marry someone else.”
“And will he make you happy?”
Georgiana nodded. “I believe he will. Quite desperately.”
Caroline smiled. “Don’t you think you should set an example for your daughter, then? And take your happiness?”
Georgiana thought that was a very good idea.
It seemed that nine-year-olds knew quite a bit, after all.
He had swum an ocean in this pool since he’d left her.
Every time he had thought to go to her, to snatch her from her bed and carry her off into the night, to keep her locked up until she realized that her plan was idiocy, to make love to her until she realized that he was the man she should marry and hang propriety and scandal and the damn aristocracy, he went for a swim.
But where there had been deep solace and tremendous pleasure in this place before he had met Georgiana, now there was none. Now, every inch of this pool reminded him of her, standing tall and proud and beautiful in this room. As walked through the room, he saw her standing by the fire; as he touched the edges of the pool to mark his laps, he saw her legs, dangling in the water; as he wrapped himself in a towel and made for his bedchamber, he felt her pretty, soft skin, warm and willing; as he looked up at the sky through the hundreds of panes of glass, he saw her smile.
And everywhere, he felt the loss of her.
He touched the edge of the pool, turned. Swam another length.
For two days, he’d been swimming, hoping to exhaust himself, to put her out of his mind, stopping only to eat and sleep, and barely that, because when he closed his eyes, he saw her. Only her.
Ever her.
Christ.
He had stopped himself from going to her a dozen times, not knowing what he would say. He’d crafted his little speech a hundred times, designed with pretty words to convince her that she was wrong. That he was the right choice, and hang the rest of the world.
And he had regretted his decision a thousand times to stop her from telling her she loved him. He should have let her say the words.
He might have found peace in them.
Might have.
But it was more likely he would have played them over and over until he hated them.
So perhaps it was best.