Loving Lady Georgianna (Spirited #2)

Chapter Eight

"Full dance card this evening?"

Thorne watched Georgie's shoulders tense at his words, and he grinned. It had been the only time today, in fact, that he had smiled at all.

He had arrived late to the ball and as soon as he had stepped into the room, the lights glimmering like thousands of obediently flickering fireflies, he had spotted her.

It had been a lesson in restraint as he had watched his Georgie be spun around in the arms of Burkeley; watched as the duke placed Georgie's tiny hand on his forearm; watched as Burkeley smiled down at her with a look so soft, contrasting so utterly with the duke's usual calm reserve, that it had set Thorne's teeth on edge; watched as Georgie had glanced about the attending party, no doubt searching for her dear Duke to make his rounds and save her.

But that last part had been Thorne's doing, hadn't it? He had milled about thus far, sending various personages of society's select gentlemen, all which Thorne knew to be infinitely more amenable for Georgie to catch than the duke of Burkeley. Even if, Thorne knew she mayhap - quite possibly - wouldn't agree.

It would keep her on her toes, wondering at Thorne's next move, and he thought that to be worth the bother.

He hadn't expected Georgie, however, to search for the duke as her savior. Even now, her eyes searched over his shoulder as if he were one of her bothersome suitors.

It burned, that.

And that was all before the cloying scent of pomade had flooded his nostrils. It had seemed that his dratted father had found him. Thorne had to shoulder back the urge to cringe away, but he wasn't the defenseless boy anymore.

Lord Randall had stopped next to him, so close as to be almost touching, as he mockingly asked, "The lady still holds your attention, dear boy."

Randall knew how to burrow beneath Thorne's skin, and he had proceeded to do so with remarkable aplomb. Thorne never had held any kind of sense where Georgie was concerned. It was just like Randall to exploit it.

"Sad to see she still leaves you no more than a slavering beast."

Thorne had snorted. "That is fine talk coming from one such as yourself."

"What do you mean by that?"

Thorne had met Randall's gaze, pleased to see the man's cheeks turned ruddy. "If we are comparing which of the two of us remains most beastly I would wager you to lose."

"And what does that make you, dear boy? You mean to trust a woman - even one such as she - with your attention? You are a fool. Twice over to think once Lady Georgianna knows you for the low-born bastard you are, she wouldn't say 'Praise Be!' that she escaped such a fate." The words were like blows to his skin in the shape of Randall's fists. The man's cheeks split wide. "Any woman - fickle creatures that they are - would never see fit to marry one such as you."

That last parry had stung more than Thorne would ever admit. His gaze had flickered away from his father as he sought divine patience. If Randall knew he had struck a nerve in Thorne, nothing would dissuade the man from taking advantage. So, he went for negligence.

"I thought you wanted me to marry," he had replied instead, leaning on the pillar beside him as his eyes roved over the ton's pretty facade hidden and riddled with disease.

"To continue the line," Randall had said, disbelief written over his face. "I didn't say anything about you caring for the lady or vice versa. At this point, with your vulgar blood and your mother's traitorous veins mixed with yours, I believe any regular dockside bird will do just fine."