LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Fifteen

      Edmund strode along Jermyn Street with his head bowed, scarcely noticing the other pedestrians dodging out of his way. He couldn’t bear the thought of any other man touching Georgiana. Or making her miserable. And he wanted her. It wasn’t surprising Chepstow and Havelock though that meant he should marry her. But they didn’t know what that would mean.

      How could he bear being married to her and not really having her?

      How could he bear the loveless, tepid relationship she’d painted that day, when he wanted so much more?

      More? He wanted more?

      Did he? Did he really?

      The answer roared back like a toddler having tantrum. Yes, he wanted more! Everything, in fact. Everything she had. Everything she was.

      He came to a standstill, a slight sweat beading his brow.

      What was the point of getting so...worked up, when he knew she wouldn’t listen to any proposal? The only proposal she would be happy to accept, from any man, would be the kind she’d made him. Which wasn’t what he wanted.

      Dammit, he was right back where he’d started.

      There had to be another way out.

      He took a deep breath and started walking again.

      What if he were to tell Georgie that he would consider a marriage in name only? His stomach clenched. He took himself to task. Told himself sternly to consider it as a hypothetical situation. And found he could breathe more easily.

      In that kind of marriage, the husband and wife in question would live in a state of companionship. Which meant there would be none of the jealousy, and demands and betrayals, and broken crockery that went with what usually went on behind closed doors.

      There would also be no children. No heirs.

      But would that really matter? He had cousins. Dozens of them scattered about the country. Fontenay Court, and all the people who relied on the Earl of Ashenden, would be secure.

      He would be the only person to lose out.

      Very well, that was one solution. Unpalatable, but there it was. And now that he’d come up with one possible outcome, he was ready to move on to another. One in which Georgiana accepted a proposal from some other man who would be happy with that kind of marriage. Completely happy.

      No. He could not bear to see any other man taking that role. Of Georgie being grateful to any other man for living only half a life. If Georgie was going to regard any man as saviour, it would be him.

      He came to a standstill again as it dawned on him that his decision was made. He was going to have to marry Georgie, no matter what it cost him. Because no matter how hard such a marriage might be for him, the alternative, seeing Georgie married to someone else, would be far worse.

      So, all he had to do now was come up with a way to convince her that he had good reasons for changing his mind about what he wanted from marriage. Stating quite categorically that he was now ready to put aside his demands for heirs.

      How hard could that be?

      * * *

      Two days later, Edmund put in his first appearance in the park on a horse he’d bought specifically to prove to Georgie that he could be the man she needed him to be. The park, he’d decided after much cogitation, would be the perfect place to have a serious conversation with her about their future, because the intrepid and headstrong Miss Durant was not likely to be much of a chaperon.

      Miss Durant was not hard to locate, mounted side-saddle as she was on her famously expensive dappled grey. But she was not accompanied by Georgie and a groom at all, but by her half-brother, Lord Havelock.

      ‘Good morning Miss Durant, Havelock,’ he said, touching his riding crop to the brim of his hat as they all came abreast.

      ‘Morning, Ashe,’ said Havelock, looking distinctly amused. ‘Taken up riding, have you?’

      ‘I might ask you the same question,’ he replied frostily. ‘I was under the impression Miss Wickford accompanied your sister to the park, since you were not inclined to do so.’

      ‘Georgie isn’t well,’ Miss Durant replied helpfully. ‘Wasn’t well yesterday, either, which is how Gregory managed to slip the leash this morning. Even Lady Havelock had to agree it isn’t fair to make me do without my ride two days on the trot.’ She giggled. ‘So to speak.’

      ‘I’ll thank you not to imply I’m tied to my wife’s apron strings,’ Havelock snapped.

      His sister made a sulky response. Edmund saw that the pair were likely to continue bickering for some time, so he made his excuses and turned for home.

      ‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ he said to the horse. ‘Perhaps I should name you something like Folly. Or Pointless.’ The chestnut snickered and shook her mane, reminding him that, actually, his outing had not been a total loss. He had discovered one pertinent fact. Georgie was ill. In fact, she must be really ill. Nothing but the direst circumstances would make her forgo her ride two days in a row.

      If it was any other woman but Georgie, he wouldn’t have been so surprised, now he came to consider it. She’d been under a great strain for a considerable period of time.

      She had clearly already been in some desperation when she’d approached him and made that marriage proposal. And in the weeks since, she’d been pursued by Major Gowan and propositioned by Eastman because her hen-witted stepmother kept pushing her on to the marriage mart. And she’d endured it in a succession of outfits which made the entire ordeal ten times worse.

      He dismounted in the mews with a curt nod to the groom who came running, then strode into Ashenden House, absentmindedly rapping his boot with his riding crop as he went. He’d always prided himself on being observant, in the normal run of things, but when it came to Georgie, she disturbed him so much that his intellect invariably failed him spectacularly.

      Still, armed with the knowledge that she was ill and not merely avoiding him—or, more probably, he deduced on a flare of hopeful speculation, the other suitors—he decided to act accordingly. A man who wanted a woman to look upon him as a potential suitor would call upon her and deliver flowers when she was ill. Which was exactly what he would do, as soon as he’d changed out of his riding gear and asked Poppleton if he knew where, exactly, a man could procure a suitable offering at this hour of the morning.

      * * *

      Later that day, armed with a posy of pink rosebuds, he took a hack as far as Bloomsbury Square. Just as he approached her front steps, the door of the house opened and a rather disgruntled-looking man emerged. Edmund had never seen him before, but the deferential way Wiggins was handing him his hat indicated that he was a regular and welcome visitor.

      As the stranger clapped his hat on his head he noticed Edmund standing at the foot of the front steps, the posy of roses in his gloved hand, and his lip curled into a sneer.

      ‘I dare say,’ he said bitterly, ‘they’ll let you in to see her. What with you having a title.’

      From the way he said the word ‘title’ as though it was some form of disease, coupled with the distinctly northern accent in which he spoke, Edmund

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