Page 49 of A Scarred Wallflower for the Duke
“No, Mother. I do not have a fever.” Vincent turned to look back out the window. Every muscle in his body was tense, and he could not stop himself from grinding his teeth together. He was dimly aware that he was drumming his toes against the floor of the carriage.
His mother had been in a chirpy mood all day, clapping her hands together and carrying on about how wonderful it would be to have Lydia Wyatt as part of the family.
“What do you imagine you might name your son?”she had asked at breakfast.“After yourself, perhaps? Or your father?”Her face lit up like a child with a new toy.“Oh goodness, Vincent. A grandchild. I am so excited. I thought this day would never come.”
He had felt the urge to remind her that the day still had not come. That he was not even betrothed to Lydia, let alone about to produce an heir. But there seemed little point. His mother’s imagination had carried her off down this path long ago.
But it would not happen. It could not happen. He would not marry the sister of the lady he loved. His mother would just have to find a way to reconcile with that.
But Georgina…
As much as Vincent wished to ignore the expectations of theton, and their families, he knew such a thing was not possible. He simply could not do anything that might harm Georgina, or place her under unnecessary scrutiny. And aside from anything else, she had not yet given him a straight answer about her engagement to Lord Renshaw. All this agonizing meant nothing if she was already to become someone else’s bride.
Vincent let out an enormous sigh and leaned his head against the cool glass. How had life become so damn complicated? A few weeks ago, his most pressing decision had been what kind of wine to drink with dinner.
His mother reached over and patted his knee. “It’s all right, dear. There’s no need to be nervous. I have it on good authority that Miss Lydia is waiting with bated breath for your proposal.”
Vincent snorted.I bet she is…
His mother leaned forward and straightened his cravat. Vincent waved her away. “Stop it, Mother. I am not a child.”
His mother slid back into her seat with a put-out expression. “I am simply making sure you look your best, my dear. Miss Lydia will be expecting it.” Her face hardened slightly. “And perhaps you might attempt a smile? One would hardly think you were about to secure the hand of one of the most beautiful young ladies in the ton.”
The coach rolled through the gates of Thomson House, and Vincent felt the knot in his stomach tighten. They came to a stop outside the front door and he climbed out with a thumping heart.
It felt as though he had lost all control of his own life. Perhaps he ought to have expected such a thing when he had asked his mother to find him a bride. Either way, it was a feeling he did not like.
He climbed the front steps with his mother at his shoulder and nodded his thanks to the Thomsons’ butler at the door. The moment they were inside, Lady Thomson appeared in the entrance hall, wearing a wide smile that did not suit the rest of her face. Like his mother, the Dowager Viscountess had clearly made an extra effort in her appearance tonight, wearing midnight-blue silk and a thin line of jewels at her throat. She looked like she was already dressed for the wedding.
She flapped around in front of the door, fawning over Vincent and giving his mother a clipped but polite greeting. Vincent found himself glancing around the entrance hall, searching for Georgina. His mouth felt horribly dry, and his heart was beating so hard, he was sure everyone else could hear it.
He did not see Georgina. But he did see her portrait. Or rather, the infuriatingly distorted portrait her grandmother had commissioned. There it hung above the stair rail, a perfect angel beside her perfect sister. He stared at it for a moment, feeling anger rise up from his belly. Lady Thomson followed his gaze. And before he could speak, she ushered them into the parlor.
There was Georgina, standing at the back of the room on Lord Renshaw’s arm. Vincent did not miss the way her cheeks colored at the sight of him.
He looked at her squarely. “Miss Wyatt.”
She lowered her eyes. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
Renshaw, Vincent noticed, wore a look of faint panic. He wondered what was causing it. Then again, panic and uncertainty did seem to be Renshaw’s default position. Lydia was sitting beside her brother on the settle, clearly having positioned herself deliberately to prevent him from sitting beside her.
Vincent squeezed his hands into fists, faintly grateful when a footman swooped in and handed him a glass of champagne. He wanted nothing more than to sweep Georgina away from all this mindless frippery, and demand to know the truth about her and the Baron.
“A toast perhaps?” said Lady Thomson, swanning into the middle of the room in a flurry of sighing silk. “After all, we will hopefully have much to celebrate tonight.” Her smile widened, and Vincent feared her cheeks would crack. She raised her glass. “To the future.”
The Dowager Duchess hurriedly swallowed the devilled egg in her hand and raised her glass. “To the future,” she sang.
The rest of them murmured an unenthused response. Vincent gulped down his champagne, far too quickly. He was going to need something far stronger.
* * *
The air around the dinner table was poison. Could his mother not feel it, Vincent wondered? Or did she simply not care?
Vincent was seated next to Lydia, directly opposite Georgina and Lord Renshaw. His mother sat to his left, facing the Dowager Viscountess. At the head of the table was Lord Thomson, with a slightly bemused expression on his face.
“This soup is delightful,” the Dowager Duchess sang, shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth. “It has such a delicate flavor. Whatever is in it? Is that thyme?”
The Dowager Viscountess gave her a thin smile that did not reach her eyes. “I shall have to ask the cook.”
