“You think so?” Georgie said, knowing she sounded a little too eager for the reassurance.
“Yes, of course. You have been very good friends these past weeks, have you not?”
“We have.” Georgie remembered Peter saying something very similar when he proposed, and was unable to prevent a small smile from crossing her face.
Mrs. Clarke cleared her throat with unaccustomed delicacy and looked Georgie in the eye. “What of marriage did your dear mother discuss with you?”
Georgie could feel her face grow hot. “Not very much. We discussed what I had seen of the farm animals and how people were not so different. She warned me against being alone with a gentleman during my season in Bath, and that it could lead to a hasty marriage.” She thought for a moment. “She was right.”
“I suppose she was.” Mrs. Clarke laughed. “But not in the way she expected, I’m sure.”
Tears unexpectedly prickled at Georgie’s eyes. Both Mama and Papa would have loved Peter, and he would have been a good brother-in-law to Freddy as well. She ached for the loss of all of them for a moment.
“Well, since I am the closest thing you have to a mother at this time, I suppose it falls to me to prepare you.”
With dawning horror, Georgie realized what was about to come. Why did everyone feel inspired to explain sexual congress to her? “No, no, please. There’s no need.”
“There is every need, my dear. I feel all brides should know what to expect on their wedding night. Ignorance will only make for an unpleasant experience for both of you.”
Resigned, Georgie sighed and gave her attention to Mrs. Clarke, desperately resisting the urge to glance out the window to where Peter was riding.
“You have a good grasp of the natural sciences, my dear, so I feel I do not need to explain the, er, anatomy to you. That will become obvious once you are both unclothed. I do want to emphasize that you should trust your husband and your own instincts. It may well be uncomfortable the first timebut I promise you that, with practice and a patient husband, it becomes more and more enjoyable. There is no need to fear. Indeed, knowing what lies ahead for you quite makes me miss my dear Mr. Clarke.” She sighed and blushed a little, and Georgie saw for the first time that the older woman regretted her widowhood despite her habitual cheerfulness.
“Thank you, Mrs. Clarke,” Georgie said, unexpectedly touched. “I do appreciate your advice.”
Mrs. Clarke reached out to pat her hand. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear. Lord Peter will be a good husband, and I think you will make him a good wife.”
“I did not plan this,” Georgie said in a small voice, and Mrs. Clarke laughed.
“I never thought so, nor did Lord Peter. Even the most determined schemer in the world could not have foreseen how this would turn out.”
Wistfully, Georgie turned to gaze out of the window. Peter rode alongside the carriage, separated by glass from her as he concentrated on the road and his horse.
Of all the things she had thought might come from her masquerade, this was the one she had never anticipated, and she scarcely knew what to think. She was embarking on an entirely new journey where she would have to trust that Peter had her best interests at heart.
She already knew she loved him. The great question was whether he loved her in return, or could learn to do so. She could not imagine a worse torture than loving someone who was indifferent, or had only a mild affection for her. That would leave her more alone than losing her whole family had.
As though sensing her gaze on him, Peter turned his head, tipped his hat, and winked at her before returning his attention to the road. Her heart swelled, and she knew this marriage was worth the risk even if she ended up heartbroken later. She woulddo everything possible to be a good wife, and then Peter would fall in love with her.
But then a new worry rose to the forefront of her mind.
If the Archbishop refused to grant them a license, what would they do?
Gettingan audience with an archbishop on short notice was nearly impossible even for a duke’s brother. Peter used every tool at his disposal to talk his way through the maze of secretaries and deans until at last he stood in a luxuriously appointed private study deep in the heart of Bishopthorpe Castle, trying not to fidget like a guilty schoolboy.
“My secretary said you wanted to see me, Avondale.”
Peter whirled and bowed low to Edward Venables Vernon, the Most Reverend and Right Honorable Archbishop of York, who peered down his prominent nose at Peter.
“Yes, your grace,” Peter said. “I have a… situation and require your assistance.”
The archbishop’s eyebrows rose. “I must admit, I find myself alarmed given your history.” He rounded his desk and gestured for Peter to take a chair on the other side. “Sit down, sit down.”
Peter obeyed, perched on the edge of the chair, and waited for the archbishop to settle himself and put on his reading spectacles. He wished he still had his hat so he might fidget with it. Instead, he locked his hands together in his lap to keep them still.
“Well, what is it?” the archbishop asked.
“I need a license, your grace. A bishop’s license. For marriage.”