First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4)(9)

Blanche shrugged.

Or it could have just been the way Georgie was holding her. “Sorry,” she muttered, setting her back down. But she put a little pressure on the cat’s back, nudging her into prime snuggling position. Blanche took the hint and curled up next to her, purring as Georgie scratched the back of her neck.

What was she going to do?

“It’s never the man’s fault,” she said out loud.

Freddie Oakes wasn’t holed up in his bedroom, trying not to hear his mother sobbing over his misfortune.

“They’re probably fêting him at his club. Well done, you,” Georgie snipped out in the overblown accents of the English elite. Which was to say, her accent, but it was easy to make it sound like something grotesque.

“Making off with the Bridgerton chit,” she mimicked. “That’s forward thinking of you. She’s got four hundred thousand a year, I’ve heard.”

She didn’t.

Have four hundred thousand a year, that was. No one did. But exaggeration made the story better, and if anyone had a right to embellish it was she.

“Didja tup her? Do the deed? Poke her good?”

Dear God, if her mother could hear her now.

And what would Freddie say to such a question? Would he lie? Would it matter? Even if he said they hadn’t had intercourse—

And they hadn’t. Georgie’s knee to his ballocks had more than made sure of that.

But even if he told the truth and admitted that they had not slept in the same bed, it did not matter. She’d been alone in a carriage with him for ten hours, then alone in a room with him for another three before she’d managed to metaphorically dismember him. She could possess the world’s most intact maidenhead and she’d still be deemed deflowered.

“My hymen could be three feet thick and no one would think me a virgin.”

She looked over at the cats. “Am I right, ladies?”

Blanche licked her paw.

Judyth ignored her.

And Cat-Head … Well, Cat-Head was a boy. Georgie supposed the old orange tabby wouldn’t understand, anyway.

But all the indignation in the world could not stop Georgie’s imagination from running back to the clubs of London, where the future leaders of the nation were undoubtedly still gossiping about her downfall.

It was horrible, and awful, and she kept telling herself that maybe they weren’t talking about her, that maybe they’d moved on to things that really mattered, like the revolution in France, or the state of agriculture in the north. You know, things they should be bothering with, since half of them were going to be taking up seats in the House of Lords at some point.

But they weren’t. Georgie knew they weren’t. They were writing her name in that damned betting book, setting the odds that she’d be Mrs. Oakes by the end of the month. And she knew enough of callow young men to know that they were writing ditties and laughing uproariously.

Georgiana Oakes, princess of the pokes.

God, that was awful. And probably accurate. It was exactly the sort of thing they’d say.

Little Miss Bridgerton, isn’t she a … a …

Nothing rhymed with Bridgerton. Georgie supposed she should be grateful for that.

She’ll have to marry you now, oh ho ho.

Georgie’s eyes narrowed. “Like. Hell.”

“Georgiana?”

Georgie tipped her ear toward the door. Her mother was coming down the hall. Wonderful.

“Georgiana?”

“I’m in my room, Mama.”

“Well, I know that, but—” Her mother knocked.

Georgie wondered what would happen if she did not respond with the expected, Come in.

Another knock. “Georgiana?”

Georgie sighed. “Come in.”

She really wasn’t that contrary. Or maybe she just didn’t have the energy.

Lady Bridgerton entered, shutting the door carefully behind her. She looked lovely, as she always did, her eyes made especially blue by the cornflower silk shawl draped over her shoulders.

Georgie loved her mother, she really did, but sometimes she wished she wasn’t quite so effortlessly elegant.

“Who were you talking to?” her mother asked.

“Myself.”

“Oh.” This did not seem to be the answer her mother was looking for, although in truth Georgie could not imagine what would have been preferable—that she was in deep discussion with the cats?

Her mother managed a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

Surely her mother did not want an honest answer to that question. Georgie waited a moment, then said, “I’m not really certain how to answer that.”

“Of course.” Lady Bridgerton sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Georgie noticed that her eyes were a little puffy. She swallowed. It had been nearly a month, and still, her mother was crying every day.

She hated that she was responsible for this.

It wasn’t her fault, but she was responsible. Somehow. She didn’t really feel like working out the details.

Georgie picked up Judyth and held her out. “Want a cat?”

Lady Bridgerton blinked, then took her. “Yes, please.”

Georgie stroked Blanche, and her mother stroked Judyth. “It helps,” Georgie said.

Her mother nodded absently. “It does.”