Loving Lady Georgianna (Spirited #2)

Chapter Five

"Mum?"

Lady Georgianna glanced over her shoulder at her lady's maid, Clarissa, and sighed. "Did you tell him I was indisposed?"

"Aye, Mum, but it didn't faze him none. He's determined to wait you out, or so he says."

Georgie had to give the dratted man credit: Thorne was tenacious when he wanted to be. Rather like a barnacle snagging on one's stocking.

"Would you like me to take care of him for you, Mum? I have a mean right hook, if I do say so meself."

Georgie snorted. "No cause for physical harm, Clarissa."

"I wouldn't say harm, exactly, Mum. A good box to the ears ought to rattle what's left of the man's brains, slosh 'em about a bit." Georgie laughed, turning fully to face her maid, whose face was flushed as she imagined her words. "And then, if needed, a little maiming, perhaps. Nothing permanent, of course."

Georgie's laughter shocked her. There hadn't been much to laugh about lately, and perhaps that was why Clarissa was her lady's maid and now, confidante. The woman added levity when it seemed the ton would pull her under. Regardless, Georgie couldn't help but ask, "How did you become my maid again, Clarissa? I wonder sometimes if you would better suit my brother's new wife. Or mayhap her friend, Miss Sophie."

"Ack," Clarissa muttered, flapping her hand in a vague dismissal. Her cheeks were reddened from the biting April wind even with her woolen cloak tied tightly beneath her chin and strands of black hair slashing her face. "I've been with you since you've been in britches. I couldn't leave you now. Besides, without me, Mum, I fear your life would be taken over by a flock of dullards."

"Dullards?" The word was more squeak as Georgie sought to contain her amusement. Honestly, where did her maid get such notions?

"O' course. I can hardly leave you with the ton's wee claws in you. Not the most bright lot, that's for certain."

"No," Georgie murmured. "They aren't, are they?"

A quiet rustled between them, and Georgie watched a squirrel scurry across the gardens, its cheeks twitching, before it sprinted past her flowers and climbed the nearest tree.

"More fool them," Clarissa muttered, picking a blade of grass from below and running it through her fingers. "Letting the most sensible of their ranks fall to the wayside."

The tears were unexpected, and Georgie cleared her throat, detesting the momentary weakness. That word, however, reverberated in her skull. "Sensible."

When had she become such? And yet, a better descriptor, Georgie could not have spoken. After all, what was her agreement - nay, betrothal arrangement - with the duke, but sensible for a ruined woman of her visage? What was her collected mein in the face of vitriolic whispers that pelted her like hot wax, but most sensible for one who had no cushion to be anything but? What was the point of shrouding herself in respectability after being thoroughly debauched? But, she smiled, bitterly, most sensible?

And so darned safe, Georgie could scream.

What a detestable word! Quite possibly the most detestable world in all England! There could be nothing more thoroughly unattractive than that trait.

To be thought sensible.

There was no other option for a woman of her age with her current circumstances, truth be told. One simply had to look upon a looking glass. Georgie's youth was no more and her face showed it with a map of ruin - following crevices and gullies that hinted at the beauty that had been hers, but had ultimately deserted her with the opinion of the ever eddying ton.