Loving Lady Georgianna (Spirited #2)

Chapter 21

       

When she was little, Georgie's father had taken her to Astley's Amphitheatre to see a show. She had remembered in one act how the performers had stood on horseback, their mounts galloping in circle after circle, and Georgie's stomach had revolved at the height the riders achieved and the amount of balance, skill and poise required of them. One misstep and they would tumble, any manner of broken bones and bruised limbs their penance.

That same feeling surged now as she watched Sophie and the duke disappear around the corner.

Only one question remained: would she stand atop her metaphorical mount now - of her own volition and will - or wait for the exact moment to be set free? In either case, the delicacy of the moment required the utmost care.

Absolute...utmost...care.

Georgie faced him. "Are you courting Miss Beaumonte?"

Or she could simply blurt it out like an imbecile.

But even to her own ears the words sounded anything but blithe. "Out of consideration for my friendship with the lady, of course," Georgie chirped, waving her hand and praying for nonchalance.

"Oh, of course," Thorne said, rubbing a hand over his chin and leaning against the balustrade. "I wouldn't dare presume otherwise." Georgie watched his hands flex from the corner of her eye. Then he turned, resting his backside against the ledge. He locked gazes with her. "What other reason could you have for being so interested in my affairs? After all, you made your disinterest known so well last afternoon."

Georgie sucked in a sharp breath. She had deserved that.

As her face flamed, her tongue darting out to moisten her dry lips, she realized his words didn't surprise her. Why wouldn't he bring up such a delicate matter here, of all places, where her mask must stay in place?

However, just because she deserved it didn't mean she would allow it.

"Like your own, you mean?"

Thorne's body jolted. "I beg your pardon?"

Her brow arched. "I only mean that any disinterest displayed on my behalf was as evident as your own."

The challenge lay between them, and Georgie's pulse sped in her wrist and a bead of sweat formed on her upper lip.

A peal of feminine laughter rang out then, and Georgie startled to the sound. She squinted down and almost wished she hadn't. There was a cacophony of feathers and finery this evening and the women's jeweled hair pieces glinted in the low light while men's hair shone thick and black with pomade. Georgie knew, however, that the vision was false. Resplendent from afar, to be sure, as if just being polished, but beneath the cake and pomp, the original metal was tarnished, the integrity diminished.

Had she become just such an ornament?

"Is that a remonstrance I hear in your tone, my lady?"

"Last I remember," Georgie said, picking up the opera glasses before her seat and drawing them to her nose, "you weren't quite as unaffected as you now portend." As she recalled the heat of his hands and the slow drag of his lips, Georgie allowed the memory to show in her eyes. Settling the glasses in her lap, Georgie looked up and preened as he sucked in a sharp breath.

Thorne's feet shifted, and that's when something else hit Georgie. His appearance at the opera, his sudden interest in Miss Beaumonte, the lazy intent in his eyes...

She gave him a narrow-eyed glance. "And now, here you are. Is this of your machination?"

His head tilted, and Georgie imagined that behind the false complacency lie a predator licking his claws in preparation of devouring her. Thorne's eyes flicked to the boxes nearest them and lowered his voice. "I would choose your words wisely, Angel."