Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(74)

Her jaw tightened. No, it was not. She looked at Joanna, still presiding over the table like a petty despot, visibly enjoying the powers that she’d made real by concocting this silly plan. Her old governess looked so…happy and…fulfilled was the word that occurred to Georgina. And gave her pause. There was certainly no malice in Joanna’s expression. She wasn’t trying to complicate Georgina’s life. Perhaps she only wanted the years of research she’d done, as Papa lurched from one arcane subject to another, to mean something. Georgina could imagine wishing for that.

“We could tie red bows on the dogs,” said Hilda. “And line them up like a little honor guard.” She’d scarcely stopped grinning since this farce began.

Seeing the irritated look Joanna gave her, Georgina wondered if her youngest sister had been the last straw. Surely teaching Hilda must have been vastly frustrating. Hilda was more than uninterested in her studies; she actively subverted any effort to make her attend. Recalling the recent prank that had stranded her in a muddy ravine, Georgina sympathized.

“They dislike regimentation,” said her mother, a vast understatement.

However understandable Joanna’s feelings might be, Georgina couldn’t let this go on. Not after seeing Sebastian’s disgust at the plan. “Mama, really, we can’t do this,” she said.

Her mother was bent over Drustan, patting his head and saying, “No, you don’t, do you?”

“We have too much else to manage,” Georgina added, appealing to her mother’s perpetual claims of busyness. “With so many guests arriving.”

But her mother waved this aside. “Your father says he will make all the arrangements.”

“Indeed I will,” he chimed in.

So Mama wasn’t going to help. In desperation, Georgina turned to Emma. “You must agree with me. It’s just too much.”

Emma shrank back with a shrug, unwilling to state an opinion.

“Don’t be a wet goose, Georgina,” said Hilda. “It will be great fun. Like the tableaus we did that one Christmas, when Emma tripped over the candlestick and nearly set the draperies on fire.”

This lighthearted comparison earned her another sour glance from Joanna.

“You pushed me,” said Emma.

“Didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

Georgina’s sisters made faces at each other. Her mother cooed over the pugs. Her father conferred with Joanna. Sebastian had deserted her, and Randolph… Well, she didn’t really feel comfortable asking him for help. She was defeated. It seemed they’d just have to go through with this “ritual”—before any more Greshams joined their party. “I’ll go and ask Fergus for lanterns,” she said.

“Good girl,” replied her father.

The lanterns were found. Her father, Joanna, and Hilda headed off to rifle the attics for red garments. Georgina went to find Sebastian and tell him that it seemed they must go through the motions of Joanna’s scheme. He’d looked quite revolted by the idea when he stalked out of the dining room. And she freely admitted that it was ridiculous. But he’d had time to adjust by now, and she was confident she could persuade him. He loved her. She felt a glow as she remembered the way he’d said it. A bit of playacting was a small thing to do for love.

Sebastian strode down the road along the outer wall of the castle. The rain was back, and darkness had fallen, but he’d been wet and cold before. He wouldn’t take Whitefoot out into this weather; the poor horse had no anxiety to relieve and didn’t deserve it. But he was almost glad to have a hardship he could easily endure. And so he walked, ignoring the rapid destruction of his evening shoes.

Sebastian had often imagined scenes in which his stupidity was exposed in excruciating detail. An important document had to be read out in order to save a member of his family—mother, father, brother—from…any number of dire fates. Only he could do it, and he…couldn’t. An innocent would be saved an unjust accusation, if only he could make out the written evidence. A gang of his best friends dragged him into a game where the hated written word couldn’t be avoided.

Being forced to take part in a fabricated ritual for no critical purpose had not figured in these imaginings. This seemed pure mockery by the fates. It wouldn’t save anybody. It wasn’t necessary. The person behind it wasn’t even a friend. And there was the problem. Because the ritual was a silly nothing, a momentary role that another man might even enjoy enacting, he couldn’t think of one good reason to evade it.

Sebastian took shelter in a thick clump of evergreens, finding a place near the trunks where the carpet of needles was nearly dry. Finding some solace in this bit of outdoor expertise, he pulled his coat closer around his chest and settled down to wait. He would stay out here until the denizens of the castle were abed. He knew this repeated ploy of his was childish, but he couldn’t resist putting off the wreck of his hopes for a few more hours.

The rain eased to a slow drip. Now and then, a drop slithered through the branches and found its way to Sebastian, adding to his dampness. Still he waited until he judged enough time had passed. Then he pushed his way out of the soaking needles and started back. Under a cloudy sky, the way was dark. He placed his feet carefully, and yet was still surprised by a deep puddle that went right across the road. He slipped and fell, cursing, landing on his back in cold water. And mud. Mud seemed to be his fate in Herefordshire. He rose covered in it. “Devil take it,” he muttered.