Violet sighed, realizing there was no way she could get away without accepting Euphie’s help. “That’s sweet of you. Perhaps you can give it to my maid when you find it?”
Euphie nodded, and after further detailed instructions on how to deal with that, Violet was mercifully able to escape. In her room, she closed and locked the door, and then crossed to sit on the window seat. Her room was one of the prettiest in Woldsly, although it was by no means the biggest. Faded yellow and blue striped silk hung on the walls, and the carpet was an ancient Persian in blues and reds. Normally, Violet adored the room. But now it had begun to rain again outside, the wind spitting drops against the window and rattling the panes. Had the sun shone at all since she’d come to Yorkshire? She leaned her forehead against the glass and watched as her breath fogged the window. The fire had died on the grate, and her room was dim and cold, perfectly suiting her mood.
Her life was in utter shambles, and it was all her fault. Her eyes burned again, and she swiped at them angrily. She’d cried enough in the last two months to float a fleet of ships, and it hadn’t done a lick of good. Oh, if only one could go back and have a second chance to do things over. She’d never do it again, not if she had a second chance. She’d know that the feelings—so desperate and urgent at the time—would fade soon enough.
She hugged a blue silk cushion to her chest as the window blurred before her eyes. It hadn’t helped to run away. She’d thought that, surely, if she left Leicestershire, she’d soon forget. But she hadn’t, and now all her problems had followed her to Yorkshire. And George—staid George, funny older sister so firmly on the shelf with her flyaway hair and love of fairy tales—George was acting strange, hardly noticing Violet at all and spending all her time with that dreadful man. George was so naïve, it probably never occurred to her that nasty Mr. Pye was after her fortune.
Or worse.
Well, that at least she could do something about. Violet tumbled off the window seat and ran to her escritoire. She pulled out drawers and rummaged through them until she found a sheet of writing paper. Uncapping her ink bottle, she sat down. George would never listen to her, but there was one person she had to obey.
She dipped her quill in the ink and began to write.
“WHY HAVE YOU NEVER MARRIED, Mr. Pye?” Lady Georgina stressed his surname just to irritate him, Harry was sure.
Today, she wore a yellow dress printed with birds like none he’d ever seen—some of them had three wings. She did look fetching in it, he had to admit. She had one of those scarf things that women wore tucked into her bodice. It was almost transparent, giving him a teasing hint of her titties. That irritated him as well. And the fact that she was beside him in the gig again, despite his strong objections, pretty much put a cap on things. At least the relentless rain had let up for a bit today, although the sky was an ominous gray. He hoped they could reach the first cottage before they were soaked.
“I don’t know.” Harry spoke curtly, a tone he would never have taken with her a week ago. The horse seemed to sense his mood and jogged sideways, jolting the gig. Harry tightened the reins to bring the nag back on the track. “I haven’t met the right woman yet, likely.”
“Who would be the right woman?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea,” she stated with aristocratic certainty. “Do you fancy a golden-haired girl?”
“I—”
“Or do you prefer black-haired maidens? I once knew a man who would only dance with short, black-haired ladies, not that any of them wanted to dance with him, mind you, but that never seemed to occur to him.”
“I’m not particular as to hair,” he muttered when she paused to take a breath. Lady Georgina opened her mouth again, but he’d had enough. “Why haven’t you married, my lady?”
There. Let her stew on that a bit.
She didn’t miss a beat. “It is rather hard to find a promising gentleman. I sometimes think it would be easier to find a goose that really did lay golden eggs. So many of the gentlemen in society haven’t a thought to their head, truly. They consider being knowledgeable about hunting or hounds sufficient and don’t worry with anything else. And one must make conversation about something at the breakfast table. Wouldn’t it be awful to be in a marriage with a lot of awkward pauses?”
He’d never thought about it. “If you say so.”
“I do. Nothing but the clicking of the silverware against the china and the slurping of tea. Horrible. Then there are the ones who wear corsets and use rouge and patches.” She scrunched up her nose. “Have you any idea how unappetizing it is to kiss a man wearing rouge on his lips?”
“No.” Harry frowned. “Have you?”
“Well, no,” she admitted, “but I have it on good authority that it’s not an experience one would want to repeat.”
“Ah.” That was about the only thing he could think to say, but it seemed to do.
“I was engaged once.” She gazed idly at a herd of cows they were passing.
Harry straightened. “Really? What happened?” Had some lordling jilted her?
“I was only nineteen, which, in my opinion, is a rather dangerous age. One is old enough to know quite a bit but not wise enough to realize there are many things that one doesn’t know.” Lady Georgina paused and looked around. “Where, exactly, are we going today?”
They had crossed into Granville land.
“To the Pollard cottage,” he said. What had happened with her engagement? “You were talking about when you were nineteen.”
“I found myself engaged to Paul Fitzsimmons; that was his name, you know.”
“I understand that part,” he nearly growled. “But how did you get engaged, and how did it end?”
“I’m a trifle fuzzy about how I got engaged.”
He looked at her, brows raised.
“Well, it’s true.” She sounded defensive now. “One moment I was strolling on the terrace with Paul at a dance, discussing Mr. Huelly’s wig—it was pink, can you imagine?—and then suddenly, boom! I was engaged.” She looked at him as if this made perfect sense.
He sighed. That was probably the best he would get out of her. “And it fell through how?”
“Not long afterward, I discovered that my bosom beau, Nora Smyth-Fielding, was in love with Paul. And when I saw that, it was a short step to realizing that he was in love with her. Although”—Lady Georgina frowned—“I still don’t understand why he asked me to marry him when he so obviously doted on Nora. Perhaps he was confused, poor man.”