Greyson awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and the urge to gouge out his bloody eyes. Did the sun have to be so damned cheerful?
He burrowed further beneath his feather pillows, murmuring curse words as his mind returned to last evening's events.
They knew.
His mother. His sister.
They knew he had a woman in his bloody stables.
Not only that, but his sister had dropped a grenade at his feet and insisted he either pick it up or let it blow.
Four little words, Greyson thought now. That was all it had taken to break through his shoddy equilibrium.
"I wish to marry."
They had barely settled into the drawing room last evening, his mother, Lady Marianne, and his sister, Georgie, having taken a seat on the settee across from Greyson. The room had been decorated by his mother, and it glimmered with a distinctly feminine touch. A cream settee sat on the far left of the room with a Persian rug beneath. Two high-backed pink and yellow floral print chairs were set across from the settee, two matching ottomans strategically placed about the delicate pale pink walls. A fire crackled merrily in the grate. The room's chandelier swayed gently, sparkling the room with tiny, sporadic diamonds.
Greyson had been blind to it all. And he had done something quite dastardly, indeed. He allowed his eyes to fall onto the red and shiny skin of his sister's left cheek.
Guilt pierced his chest, swiftly and efficiently.
Not because she was ugly for the burns, far from it. His sister was the most gentle, well-bred lady of his acquaintance, even if her facade could burn down with her sharp wit and fiery temper.
Those burns reminded Greyson of his most dismal failure.
The fire had started quickly above stairs in their Mayfair town home, a candle that had burned, forgotten. The drawing room had gone up in flames, and his sister had awoken too late or so he had been told. A board had barricaded his sister in her bedchamber. Her screams could be heard three stories up.
Greyson hadn't been there. He had been with Thorne. Knee deep in drink and honoring his father with what had been his own downfall. A game of cards.
Greyson and Thorne had made it back only after the whispers had finally reached them in the gaming hall. He had dismounted Maximums, to find the fire had been put out above stairs, only ruining a few rooms. His sister hadn't been able to escape unscathed, the fire having spread too quickly. His footman had told Greyson of the beating of her fists on her bedchamber door, the strength of her keening cries.
It was a sound Greyson hadn't heard, but that had haunted his dreams nevertheless. And then the one with Charlie...
Greyson always appeared one moment too late.
He had cradled his sister in his arms then, her ruined cheek flaming red and her thin nightdress riddled with holes and smoke. It had wafted to his nostrils as he buried his face in her neck, mumbling drunken apologies.
"My apologies, my lordship," his footman had mumbled. "We didn't know," Georgie's weight had settled more firmly in his arms.
We didn't know.
"Did you hear me?"
His sister's voice had broken through his remembrance and Greyson felt the sweat dotting his brow, the shaking of his hands. He had also been staring at her face. Scowling at it, in fact.
Greyson cleared his throat, glancing into his sister's emerald gaze. She didn't look horrified by his perusal. Instead, she looked resigned. As if that was all that people saw. As if it was all that mattered.
"Why the devil would you wish to do that?"
"Greyson..." His mother, Lady Marianne chided softly, but his sister interjected, placing one gloved hand on his mother's forearm.
Georgie had cast her chin in the air. "I know you would wish for me to hide -"
Georgie's words gutted him and Greyson lost his breath. It was then that Greyson knew he had made a mistake. After her first and only outing in London the next season after the fire, he had taken her away from it all. Sought to protect her from the gossipmongers. The lack of compassion of the ton.
Had he destroyed something else entirely? Something irreparable?
Greyson had shot up from his chair. "I don't want that for you. I have never wished such a thing!"
Georgie had licked her lips, wringing her hands. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I want a family of my own now." She had hesitated, which brought Marianne's hand to her clenched ones, gently squeezing in encouragement.
Greyson had watched helplessly, words clogging his throat.
Did she think he was hiding her? That he was ashamed of her?
He wasn't. But the next logical questions had taunted him, and it came out of its own accord. "What about the ton?"
"Greyson..."
His mother's outraged tone had brought Greyson's head around. He had given her an apologetic look, but the question held merit.
Why she used to be quite lovely before. Such a pity...
Her face is such a tragedy...
The poor thing. She'll never get a match now...
His sister's eyes had flashed. "What about them?"
"I hate to remind you, dear sister, but men abound in London like Lord White -"
Georgie had remained expressionless. "Lord White can go to the devil."
"Yes, I quite agree," Greyson had said, bringing his gaze in alignment with his sister, "but do you not remember what he said? Why, the words live in my brain -"
"As they live in mine," Georgie had shouted. She had come to an abrupt stand before him, and Greyson had stumbled back a step. Her breath was harsh in the room. "However," she had continued, waving a hand about her face, "this is the way I am now." She had straightened the wrinkles of her emerald skirts, taking a deep breath before she had said, "And I am okay with it. In fact," Georgie had glanced back at their mother before facing him, "I am being courted."
Greyson had run a hand through his hair, convinced all of society was laughing at him. How many delightful bombs, he wondered, would be dropped upon him? How many more women would get the upper hand, leaving him goddamned confused and confounded?
Hell, he had thought at the time, his unwilling stable hand was probably still outside cursing his name to the heavens, and - Greyson had laughed bitterly, receiving strange looks from his mother and sister - cracking boards and throwing them about like toys!
He had run a hand over his face, sighing deeply. For no matter how hard he tried, Greyson was always finding his thoughts landing in his stables. To the woman within them.
Greyson had been conscious of every move Charlie had made. When she had trundled out of the kitchens and come to a stop behind the carriage, watching curiously. When she had looked on, curious, as his mother and sister had alighted from the carriage.
And then when Charlie had gasped, riveting his sister's gaze upon Charlie's person.
And finally, when Charlie had regained her role and had put herself to work moving boards - By God, how that irritated him. A lady doing labor in his stables! And all the while, drilling holes into the back of his head.
Her anger had befuddled him.
What had he done to obtain her ire this time, he had wondered, equal parts exasperated and bemused.
"Now," Lady Marianne had interjected, bringing Greyson's attention back to the room. His mother had a mischievous smile on her lips as she had asked, "How long have you had a lady in your stables? And what on earth do you think you are doing?"
Greyson's head had jerked back and he had stared at his mother open-mouthed.
Lady Marianne had laughed. "I have eyes, do I not? Who would be fooled by such a disguise, dear boy? Anyone with half a brain could see through it."
Greyson had decided then that it was in his favor to not confess that for a good five to ten minutes he had believed her to be exactly as she had portrayed herself - a young lad.
Greyson had departed the room then with a mumbled excuse of having forgotten correspondence, his heels practically smoking from his sprint from the room.
He hadn't been prepared for the question then, and, Greyson knew, running a hand over his face, he wasn't prepared for it now. The morning sun stole through his eyes as Greyson sat up, moving to the edge of the bed.
How the devil to explain Charlie's presence in his stables? That the lady, in fact, had no idea that her disguise had disintegrated ages ago? That he had knowingly gone into said lady's bedchamber and almost ruined her thoroughly and completely?
That part of him feared if he had, he wouldn't have given a fig for the consequences.
By God, part of him wanted nothing more than to finish what they had started a few evenings ago. To feel her legs wrapped firmly about his waist. To have her push him onto his back and straddle his thighs...
Things surely couldn't get much worse, Greyson though, smiling wryly.
Greyson debated the merits of bothering to face his mother and sister. Nevermind Lady Charlotte.
Perhaps he could claim himself ill? A victim of a megrim, perhaps?
A throat cleared behind him, and Greyson jumped from the bed, the sheets falling from around his hips. A cool breeze hit his lower body, and Greyson remembered too late that he had undressed completely last evening. Thoughts of his little caterpillar as she had been last evening, her ire on display, making Greyson wish nothing more than to sneak into her rooms and give her another way to channel her anger.
It was not so pleasant a sight that greeted him now, however.
"Good morning, old man," his childhood friend, Vincent Thorne said, kicking back into Greyson's plush sitting room chair. A chair, Greyson knew for a fact, that had resided in another room entirely only hours before. "Is there a point to showing me your doodle there or do you intend to cover up at some point?"
Greyson cursed, reaching for his bed linens and draping it about his waist.
His friend grinned.
Widely.
Bloody hell, Greyson thought. Something told him today was going to particularly trying, indeed.
If only he had known...
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