The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(92)

“Yes.” Harry felt his shoulders tense.

“The older sister?”

Harry merely stared, dread filling him. “For God’s sake, just spit it out,” de Raaf said. “You could have told me the bride’s name, de Raaf. I only heard the news this morning from Freddy Barclay. We happened to meet at my tailor’s, wonderful chap on—”

“Simon,” de Raaf growled. “Oh, all right.” Iddesleigh suddenly sobered. “She’s getting married. Your Lady Georgina. To Cecil Barclay—”

No. Harry closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the other man’s words.

“Today.”

TONY WAS WAITING OUTSIDE, hands clasped behind his back, when George emerged from her town house. Raindrops speckled the shoulders of his greatcoat. His carriage, which had the Maitland crest in gilt on the doors, stood ready at the curb.

He turned as George descended the steps and frowned with concern. “I was beginning to think I would have to come in after you.”

“Good morning, Tony.” George held out her hand.

He enveloped it in his own big hand and helped her into the carriage.

Tony took his seat across from her, the leather squeaking as he settled. “I’m sure the rain will stop soon.”

George looked at her brother’s hands resting on his knees and noticed again the scabbed knuckles. “What happened to you?”

Tony flexed his right hand as if testing the scrapes. “It’s nothing. We sorted out Wentworth last week.”

“We?”

“Oscar, Ralph, and I,” Tony said. “That’s not important now. Listen, George.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to go through with this. Cecil will understand, and we can work something out. Retiring to the country or—”

“No.” George cut him off. “No, I thank you, Tony, but this is the best way. For the baby, for Cecil, and even for me.”

She took a deep breath. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to herself, but now George faced it: Somewhere deep inside, she’d secretly hoped Harry would stop her. She grimaced ruefully. She’d expected him to come charging up on a white stallion and sweep her off her feet. Perhaps wheel his stallion around while fighting ten men and go galloping off into the sunset with her.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Harry Pye was a land steward with an old mare and a life of his own. She was a pregnant woman of eight and twenty years. Time to put the past behind her.

She managed a smile for Tony. It wasn’t a very good one, judging by the doubt on his face, but it was the best she could do at the moment. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a grown woman. I have to face my responsibilities.”

“But—”

George shook her head.

Tony bit off whatever he was going to say. He stared out the window, tapping long fingers against his knee. “Damn, I hate this.”

Half an hour later, the carriage pulled up before a dingy little church in an unfashionable part of London.

Tony descended the carriage steps, then helped George down. “Remember, you can still end this,” he murmured in her ear as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

George just thinned her lips.

Inside, the church was dark and somewhat chilly with the faint smell of mildew lingering in the air. Above the altar, a small rose window hung in the shadows, the light outside too dim to tell what color the glass might be. Tony and George walked down the uncarpeted nave, their footsteps echoing off the old stones. Several candles were lit at the front near the altar, supplementing the feeble light from the clerestory. A small group was gathered there. She saw Oscar, Ralph, and Violet as well as her imminent husband, Cecil, and his brother, Freddy. Ralph was sporting a yellowing black eye.

“Ah, the bride, I presume?” The vicar peered over half-moon glasses. “Quite. Quite. And your name is, umm”—he consulted a piece of notepaper stuck in his Bible—“George Regina Catherine Maitland? Yes? But what an odd name for a woman.”

She cleared her throat, tamping down hysterical laughter and sudden nausea. Oh, please, Lord, not now. “Actually, my given name is Georgina.”

“Georgiana?” the vicar asked. “No, Georgina.” Did it really matter? If this silly man said the wrong name during the service, would she not be married to Cecil?

“Georgina. Quite. Now, then, if we are all here and ready?” The assembled nobility nodded meekly. “Then let us proceed. Young lady, please stand here.”

He shuffled them around until George and Cecil were side by side with Tony at George’s side and Freddy as best man at Cecil’s.

“Good.” The vicar blinked at them, then spent a prolonged minute ruffling his paper and Bible. He cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved,” he began in a strange falsetto.

George winced. The poor man must think it more carrying.

“We are gathered here—”

Bang!

The sound of the church doors smacking against the wall reverberated throughout the church. The group turned as one to look.

Four men marched grimly up the aisle, trailed by one small boy.

The vicar frowned. “Rude. Quite rude. Astonishing what people think they can get away with these days.”

But the men had reached the altar now. “Excuse me, but I believe you have my lady,” one of them said in a quiet, deep voice that sent veritable chills down George’s spine.