The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(51)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

In the end, it was only a matter of time before he went under.

Chapter Fourteen

“Men do have their uses,” Lady Beatrice Renault said as if conceding a dubious point of debate, “but giving advice on affaires de coeur is not one of them.” She raised the dish of tea to her lips and took a small sip.

George repressed a sigh. She’d been in London over a week and up until this morning had successfully managed to avoid Aunt Beatrice. This was all Oscar’s fault. If he hadn’t been so careless as to leave a letter from Violet laying around, their Aunt Beatrice would never have found out about Harry and would never have felt compelled to come and lecture George on the proper way to conduct an affair. True, Oscar had placed the damning letter in the drawer of his desk, but any fool knew that would be the first place Aunt Beatrice would start browsing when the butler left her alone in the study when she’d come to call.

Definitely Oscar’s fault.

“They are much too sentimental, poor dears,” Aunt Beatrice continued. She bit into a piece of cake and then frowned down at it. “Is this a prune filling, Georgina? I’ve specifically told you that prunes do not agree with me.”

George glanced at the offending slice of cake. “I believe it is chocolate cream, but I can ring for a different pastry.”

Aunt Beatrice had invaded George’s London town house, settled into a gilt chair in her pretty blue and white sitting room, and all but demanded tea. George thought Cook had done an outstanding job, considering she’d had no notice of potential guests.

“Humph.” Lady Beatrice poked at the cake on her plate, disemboweling it. “It looks like prunes, but if you are quite sure.” She took another bite, masticating thoughtfully. “As a result, they are competent—barely—at running the government but a complete wash at domestic doings.”

George was at a loss for a second before remembering that her aunt had been discussing men before prunes. “Quite.”

Perhaps if she feigned an attack of the vapors… But knowing Aunt Beatrice, she’d probably throw cold water in her face until George admitted consciousness and then continue with her lecture. Best to sit it out.

“Now, contrary to what men will tell you,” her aunt continued, “an affair or two or more is good for a lady. Brings a certain mental alertness and, naturally, roses to the cheeks.”

Lady Beatrice touched her own cheek with one manicured fingernail. It was indeed rosy, but more from rouge than nature. It was also decorated by three black velvet patches: two stars and a crescent moon.

“The most important thing for a lady to remember is to be discreet.” Aunt Beatrice sipped her tea. “For instance, I have found that if one is engaged with two or more gentlemen over the same period of time, it is imperative they not find out about each other.”

Aunt Beatrice was the youngest of the Littleton sisters. Aunt Clara, who’d left George her fortune, had been the eldest, and George’s own mother, Sarah, the middle sister. The Littleton sisters had been considered beauties in their day, cutting a devastating swath through London society. All three sisters had married unhappily. Aunt Clara had wed an insanely religious man who had died young, leaving her childless but wealthy. Aunt Beatrice had married a much older man who had kept his wife constantly pregnant while he lived. Tragically, all her babies had died in miscarriages or stillbirth.

As for Sarah, her own mother… George took a sip of her tea. Who knew what exactly was wrong with her parents’ marriage? Maybe only that her mother and father had not cared for each other. In any case, Lady Maitland was bedridden with imagined ills and had been for years.

“Even the most sophisticated man becomes like a little boy unable to share his toys,” Lady Beatrice continued now. “No more than three is my motto, and really with three one has to do a fine balancing act.”

George choked.

“Whatever is the matter with you, Georgina?” Lady Beatrice looked at her with annoyance.

“Nothing,” George gasped. “A bit of crumb.”

“Really, I do worry about the English as a race with—”

“What luck to find not one, but two examples of womanly pulchritude.” George’s sitting room door was flung open to reveal Oscar and a fair young man who bowed to the ladies.

Lady Beatrice frowned and lifted her cheek for Oscar’s buss. “We are busy, dear. Go away. Not you, Cecil.” The other man had started to back out the door. “You may stay. You are the only man I know with any sense, and that should be encouraged.”

Cecil Barclay smiled and bowed again. “Your ladyship is kind indeed.”

He quirked an eyebrow at George, who patted the settee cushion next to her. She’d known Cecil and his younger brother, Freddy, since they’d all been in leading strings.

“But if Cecil stays, then I beg leave to do so also.” Oscar sat down and helped himself to a slice of cake.

George glared at her brother.

Oscar mouthed What? at her.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Will you take tea, Cecil?”

“Yes, please,” Cecil said. “Oscar dragged me all over Tattersall’s this morning to look at horses. He wants a matched set for his new carriage and claims none in London will do.”

“Gentlemen spend entirely too much money on horseflesh,” Lady Beatrice pronounced.

“What other type of flesh would you have us spend our blunt upon?” Oscar opened his wicked brown eyes wide.

Lady Beatrice tapped him overhard on the knee with her fan.

“Ow!” Oscar rubbed the spot. “I say, is this a prune filling in the cake?”

George repressed another sigh and looked out her town house windows. It wasn’t raining here in London, but there was a kind of gray mist that covered everything and left behind a sticky grime. She’d made a mistake. She knew that now after more than a week away from Harry and Yorkshire. She should’ve stuck it out and made him talk. Or talked herself until he broke down and told her… what? His fears? Her faults? Why he didn’t care for her? If it was the last, at least she would know. She wouldn’t be stuck here in this limbo, not able to return to her old life and yet unable to go on with what might be a new one.

“Can you come, George?” Cecil was speaking to her.

“What?” She blinked. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch that last bit.”

Her aunt and the gentlemen exchanged a look that said they had to make allowances for her mental state.