Tom smothered a laugh. Georgie liked horses well enough, and she would never want to see any beast in misery, but amongst animals, her passion was dogs. He’d been tempted to point that out but thought the better of it.
“But she is terribly pretty as well,” Osbourne continued, his mouth hitching into a wistful smile. “Her hair reminds me of the mane on my favourite golden mare.”
Tom nodded, desperate to contain the pang of envy that had sprung up in his gut and threatened to twist into something ugly. Being possessive over Georgiana Hawthorne made not a single lick of sense. She wasn’t his—she’d made sure of that. And there was no way in hell he was going to suffer that heartbreak again at her expense. If Osbourne wanted her, why would it bother Tom in the slightest?
He took a long sip of brandy as he tried to push the unwanted emotion away.
“What’s her story, do you think?” Mr. Crowley asked. “I mean, it’s not every day the daughter of an earl finds herself here looking for a husband—not in a place like this anyway.”
Damn fine question. Tom stilled, trying not to appear the least bit interested, even as the thought had dominated his entire being since he’d first crossed her path today.
“She could be with child,” Crowley said, answering his own question.
The very idea of Georgie here, alone, with child—the child of a man she may have wanted to escape—pulled Tom forward in surprise. And dread. The idea of her being in such circumstances…
“Perhaps she is promised to another who doesn’t suit,” Tom offered. Georgie had suggested as much. Hell, she’d suggested as much all those years ago when he’d asked Georgie to wait for him. “Clearly, her family does not know she is here. She must have traveled alone.”
With Gabe still in Spain, there were only Lord Ashcombe and Marcus, and he’d not heard of them being in town. Marcus was hardly the brotherly sort. Tom’s memories of the Ashcombe heir were of an anxious young man too eager to protect his crumbling inheritance rather than the well-being of his family and tenants.
“That would explain it,” Osbourne said. “But if she is here, she clearly has access to a part of her dowry, and if she will have me, I do not care one lick what society has to say about it.”
Tom considered Osbourne, his near single-minded fascination with horses, and in that moment realized he’d perhaps misjudged the man. Perhaps he was good enough for Georgie.
“What if there is a challenge?” Crowley asked.
Osbourne waved away the concern.
“I’m a decent enough shot. Besides, my valet heard it from Lord Malvern’s cook, who heard it from one of Mrs. Lightwood’s footmen, who lives next door to the Baroness D’Anville, that Lady Georgiana was promised to man by the name of Sharpe, who is of an advanced age.” The man shrugged, then held up his glass, prepared to take another drink. “Given everything, I think I would stand a reasonable chance.”
Sharpe. Tom locked onto the name, turning it over in his head. He knew of only one Sharpe—an aged baron who owned a much smaller estate that bordered on Whetherby. The estate lay practically abandoned, and in all his years, he’d never once seen the man. Was this whom Georgie was trying to escape? An elderly husband?
Not that this was his problem. If she’d agreed to wait for him—
Tom stopped himself from having such dark thoughts. He’d been young and without prospects or connections when he’d made that rash proposal, and in the light of day, he could rationalize that Georgie had done what any woman in herposition would have done. Except that right until the day before, there had been an understanding between them. More than that, in fact. They’d spent hours and days fantasizing about a life beyond Whetherby. A life where they could be together, planning their own future away from the expectations that society put on them both.
Had she known then she’d been promised to this gentleman—this Sharpe fellow she’d clearly risk everything to avoid? Or had this been a last-minute attachment made because perhaps she’d turned down a line of suitors?
Something wasn’t right here, Tom mused, most particularly his concern. This was none of his business. Georgie had her own life, and so did he. That fate had thrown them in each other’s paths now had been some kind of trick—a game that may have been meant to test them both. He’d gambled on love before, and the stakes had been higher than he’d been able to pay.
He would not play for those stakes again.
Chapter Eight
The morning sunstreamed in the viscount’s study where Tom sat in his father’s chair, poring over a ledger. His sire—he could not quite bring himself to call the viscountfather—seemed to have a well-run household. To his credit, the servants by all accounts were well treated and well paid. The viscount also seemed to adore his wife, which was as rare among the upper classes as a viscount who put on his own boots.
Though endless rows of neatly written lines revealed that the estate seemed to be healthy, the dull and persistent ache behind Tom’s eyes suggested he was not. The bottle he’d shared with Osbourne and Crowley had somehow become three, and by the time he’d returned from the Lyon’s Den it was nearly dawn. The drink and the exhaustion had pushed aside the memory of Georgie’s scent in the closed confines of the carriage, if only for a few hours, but the throbbing had been the price of that medicine. God help him if tomorrow night’s game involved more music or wrestling other grown men for chairs.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, then called for a servant to bring him some headache powder. He would never make it through the next five pages without it.
It was remarkable how easy things had become since his return to England. If Tom needed something, he merely pulled a cord, which, as if by magic, summoned a person ready to entertain any request, no matter how small. While his adoptive parents still had the help of a servant to help Mrs. Blakey with her household duties, the act of washing and dressing himself, along with fetching nearly anything needed by the Blakeys or on occasion even Lord Ashcombe himself was Tom’s to do. It had made him the perfect soldier-valet for Gabriel Hawthorne, his very privileged childhood friend. Now that Tom was on the other side of the pull, he’d made a point of never using it unless it was truly needed.
Almost before he had a chance to finish that thought, the servant returned with a silver tray that he placed on the desk. The footman, wearing the blue-and-gold livery of the family, was called Benedict. Benedict, Tom had learned, originally from Cornwall.
“Your powder sir,” he said, mixing a tablespoon of powder into a glass of water. “Shall I fetch you some coffee or some breakfast?”
The thought of eggs did not appeal in the least.
“Coffee would be excellent, thank you,” he said, dropping his quill and reaching for the glass, downing the bitter drink in a single swallow. He pushed the book away and leaned back in his chair, eager to leave the ledger behind. He didn’t mind numbers. He was actually quite good at math. But his head, throbbing behind his eyes, was distracted by other things. And while it should have been how he was going to ensure he was going to make it through tomorrow night’s round of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s matchmaking game, he found another thought niggling in his mind.