Resigned, Georgie settled herself onto the settee beside Miss Dinsdale, who shifted her skirts to make room. Lord Peter took Georgie’s spot at the mantle and gave her an ironic grin. Miss Dinsdale was clearly the village flirt, if a harmless one, and Georgie was hard-pressed to keep a straight face at her cooing and fluttering eyelashes.
That is, until she realized that Miss Dinsdale’s objective was to make Lord Peter jealous.
Without conscious volition, her spine stiffened with unwarranted anger. She should have realized earlier that every unmarried girl and woman in the village—no, in the county—would have her eye on Lord Peter. The well-connected brotherof a duke who happened to be handsome and charming into the bargain, clearly devoted to his duty as a clergyman? He must have women throwing themselves at him constantly. He likely could barely cross the street without another one fainting to gain his attention.
Perhaps he was already courting one of them. The thought had never occurred to her until now. What if he was already betrothed? Her presence here would be even more awkward if he brought his bride home.
Georgie assured herself that the burning in her chest was mere concern for the position she would find herself in should Lord Peter already be promised to another. She would… she would…
“Is something wrong, Mr. Morley?” Lord Peter was staring at her, clearly trying to signal that her inattention was upsetting his guests.
Her face grew hot. He was not her suitor or lover. He didn’t even know she was a woman. What right did she have to feel possessive of him?
She stood abruptly and bowed. “I apologize, ladies, but I am feeling unwell. Perhaps I should lie down.”
The ladies all murmured sympathetically, with only Mrs. Kilvington giving her a skeptical look, and Georgie made a hasty exit.
Instead of languishing in her room, she retrieved her sketchbook and pencils and made her way to the chicken coop with a bucket of meat and fish scraps in hand, going through the far side of the kitchen garden and skirting around behind the stable to avoid being spotted from the drawing room. The otters were thrilled to see her and insisted on swarming onto and off her lap as she fed them, Bonny pausing every few minutes to scan for danger before demanding her share again.
Georgie rinsed her hands and replenished their drinking water from the pump in the stableyard before returning to settle in a corner of the fenced yard to observe and draw. She was fully absorbed until she heard footsteps and looked up to see Lord Peter walking towards the coop.
Peter could not entirely blameMorley for abandoning ship once the Ladies’ Committee had arrived. He sometimes wished to do that himself, but he knew he needed to be present to keep Mrs. Moxon's extravagant flights of fancy in check and Mrs. Dinsdale and Mrs. Kilvington from each other’s throats. He was learning that the village feuds could influence much more than mere social interactions.
There was no doubt in his mind where Morley would be, but he was a little surprised to see the young man with a sketchbook in hand. The otters had exhausted themselves and formed a pile in Morley’s lap as he continued to sketch, notebook balanced on his knees.
Peter lifted the latch on the gate of the fence and one of the otters lifted its head to regard him suspiciously before settling back to her nap.
Morley looked up at him. “I’m sorry I left so abruptly. I really did need to feed the otters.”
“Yes, of course.”
A few loose drawings lay on Morley’s other side, and Peter picked up one of them. “Is this your work?”
A flush warmed Morley’s cheeks. “Er… yes.”
The drawing showed two of the otters—Peter still could not tell them apart—wrestling in what appeared to be a clump of grass. The third stood on a small outcropping just above theothers, watchful for any danger while her sisters played. It was half colored in with watercolors, as though Morley had been interrupted, but the lines conveyed the charming scene in a few strokes, even incomplete.
Peter was not much of a connoisseur of art, but even he knew quality when he saw it. Scientific illustration required a very specific set of skills, and Morley clearly had them. The otters seemed almost ready to roll off the page in their antics.
“You are a talented illustrator.”
“Thank you.” Morley snatched the drawing from Peter’s hand and shoved it back into the notebook. “Did you want something?”
“Only company on a stroll, but I won’t disturb you if you’re working.”
“Oh. Yes. I wouldn’t mind a stroll, actually. Thank you.”
Morley removed the otters from his lap to a nearby pile of straw and stood cautiously. The otters rearranged themselves more comfortably without opening their eyes. “We should go before they wake up.”
Peter could not help but agree. The otters slept often but in short bursts, clearly marshaling their strength for the mischief they would get into later.
Morley briefly returned to the kitchen to leave his notebook, and then they set out. Once outside the fence, they both took a deep breath of the evening air, and Morley let out a sigh.
“I’ve heard many speak disparagingly of Yorkshire,” Morley said, “but I have grown quite fond of it.”
“I suppose so,” Peter said. “It’s quite different from London.”
In truth, he rather liked the change. The quiet rhythms of the countryside soothed him in a way he had not expected, and he found himself with an unexpected feeling of inner peace at the end of each day.