Page 23 of The Rebel and the Rake

“All of your gowns make you look like a drab little spinster.”

“Iama drab little spinster.”

Georgiana fixed her with a look. “But you needn’t be, Sylvie. I know Mr. Davies sees what I see.”

“Georgiana––”

“And this is a wonderful chance for you,” she continued.

The hope burning in the viscountess’s bright blue eyes was nearly as vexing as her words.

“A chance for what?” Sylvia burst out. Then she craned her neck toward the open door and lowered her voice. “The man is clearly interested in Lady Taylor-Smyth. Everyone says so.” Georgiana began to dismiss this, but Sylvia pressed on. “And what happens when he finds out the truth?” she hissed. “What happens when he learns that Sylvia Sparrow doesn’t exist, and all I am is Sylvia Wilcox. Harlot. Anarchist.Conspirator.”

Not to mention accomplice to a blackmailer.

“You aren’t those things,” Georgiana insisted.

“Don’t try to deny it. My views were printed in enough columns to prove otherwise.”

To say nothing of the so-called news articles that twisted the facts surrounding her arrest to create the most salacious story possible.

Georgiana let out an exasperated huff. “You made thoughtful critiques about a system that works for only a select few and gave voice to the thoughts many have had. But thanks to thatcowardBernard and his horrible father, you were wrongly arrested while trying to help other women. Then you made sure they were all released, even at a personal cost to yourself. It was an act of bravery.”

“Not everyone would call it that,” Sylvia said darkly.

Georgiana wrung her hands and turned away. “Yes, I know. And I hate that we had to lie to my aunt, but I couldn’t take the chance that his lordship would find out about your past.”

Sylvia sighed. Even before the arrest, she hadn’t been deemed appropriate company for Georgiana. The viscount rarely let his wife mix with anyone outside their vaunted social circle, as he didn’t want any reminders that he had been compelled to marry outside the aristocracy.

“Besides,” Georgiana continued. “You wouldn’t accept my money, remember?”

Sylvia bristled. When she first told Georgiana that her brother had reneged on their agreement in order to let Hawthorne Cottage and offered her a one-way ticket to Australia, an increasingly popular destination for single women, the viscountess immediately sent an outrageous check that she refused to cash. She didn’t want charity. She needed a future. “No. I asked for help finding a position.”

“And it’s all worked out. You’re perfect for my aunt. And it’s been soniceseeing you again.” Georgiana’s voice wavered slightly, and Sylvia’s throat tightened.

“It has,” she agreed. “And I will never be able to repay your kindness, but this…this thing with Mr. Davies can go no further. Besides, even without my past, I’m still nothing more than the daughter of a middling country scholar. Men like him don’t marry below their station without—”

“Without an economic incentive, you mean,” Georgiana finished.

“Well, yes,” Sylvia agreed distractedly. “But it’s hardly the main reason. I know you think finding a husband will make me happy, but that isn’t what I want. It never was. There is too much to give up.”

Georgiana stared at her for a long moment. “I would be the very last woman in the world to ever think such a thing,” she said softly, but there was a brittle edge in her voice that grew more pronounced as she spoke. “This was a suggestion specific to Mr. Davies. A suggestion to talk to the man. Because I have seen the way you look at each other. Because I know what that means. And I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.”

Georgiana’s eyes widened as she realized what she had just admitted. Then she looked away and pressed a trembling hand across her brow. Sylvia watched, stunned, as Georgiana’s face crumpled for a moment before she mastered it. When was the last time she had allowed herself to exhibit such a loss of control? Sylvia couldn’t remember.

“Oh, Georgiana. I’m such an idiot,” she said, moving to embrace her. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I only meant that I’ve never believed such things were for me.”

After a moment Georgiana returned the hug. “Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” she explained, her tone now carefully composed. “And I suppose I understand the source of your reservations.”

Sylvia pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “That he is the son of an earl and I was once accused of harboring anarchistic sympathies?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Georgiana said sheepishly. “But I still think you should wear the gown. For yourself. In fact, I am making it a condition of my forgiveness.”

Sylvia laughed and hugged her tighter. “In that case, I accept.”

***

Castle Blackwood’s ballroom, which hadn’t been used in well over a decade, was still being readied for the fancy dress ball to celebrate Halloween that would be held in a few days’ time, so tonight’s activities were taking place in the music room. As it was a touch smaller than needed, the room was positively packed with guests, and the space left for dancing was tight. Rafe spotted a few harassed-looking musicians in the corner being instructed by Lady Delacorte. She was one of the biggest snobs in London but now took up the role of de facto hostess whenever the opportunity arose. Mr. Wardale was standing nearby, watching the commanding young woman go through potential songs with the violinist with a steadily growing smile. They had agreed to meet briefly at the top of the hour, as fewer people would notice their absence once the dancing got underway. Rafe wondered if the man planned to offer for his burgeoning hostess—or maybe he simply enjoyed having the daughter of a lord try so very hard to win his approval. With Wardale it could be either, both, or a third option Rafe would rather not imagine.

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