He raised a brow. “She lives with your brother. I imagine she does not want for much.”
She watched her daughter for a long moment, a memory coming thick and nearly overwhelming. “Not like that. She deserves a family of her own.”
“Tell me,” he said, the words soft and warm and tempting, making her wish they were somewhere else, where she could curl into his heat and do precisely as he asked.
She answered. “Just after the New Year, I visited her on my brother’s estate.” Those assembled had barely given her a look, each more interested in the rare warm winter’s day than in their eccentric aunt, who often turned up at strange times wearing breeches and boots.
But Caroline had noticed.
“She was surprised to see me.”
“You don’t see her often?”
Georgiana hesitated, guilt flooding through her. “The estate . . . it is far from Mayfair.”
“The opposite end of the world from where you live.” Precisely. She simultaneously adored and hated the understanding in the words. “What happened?”
She tried to explain, realizing that the story might seem simple. Unimportant. “Nothing of particular note.”
He didn’t accept the answer. “What happened?”
She lifted a shoulder. Let it drop, hoping the movement would cover her shame at the memory. “I thought she would be happy to see me. But instead, she was confused. Instead of smiling and rushing to me, she blinked up at me and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’”
He exhaled, and she thought she heard understanding in the sound, but she didn’t dare look at him. Didn’t dare ask. “I was so shocked by the question. After all, I am her mother. Shouldn’t I be there? Isn’t that my place? With her?” She shook her head. “I was furious. Not with her, but with myself.” She stopped, lost in the memory, in the way Caroline had smiled, as though Georgiana were a welcome stranger.
And that was what she had been. Not a mother. Not in the way a woman should be. She’d been so concerned with sullying her daughter with her reputation that she’d become a secondary player in Caroline’s life.
No more.
Not if she could help it.
“I never—” she started. Stopped. He did not speak, infinitely patient. No doubt it was that patience that made him such a remarkable reporter. She filled his silence. “I never feel quite as though I belong there.”
Because she did not belong there.
They walked for a bit longer. “But that does not mean that you cannot belong there.”
“First I have to wish to belong there.”
He understood. “The devastating battle between what one wants, and what one should want.”
“She deserves a family,” she said. “A respectable one. With a home. And a—” She stopped, considering the rest of the sentence. “I don’t know.” She cast about for something that would provide normalcy, finally settled on: “A cat. Or whatever normal girls have.”
As though that did not sound positively idiotic.
He did not seem to think so. “She is not a normal girl.”
“But she could be.” If not for me. She left the last unsaid.
“And you think Langley’s title will make her so.”
The title was a means to an end. Couldn’t he see that? “I do,” she said.
“Because Chase won’t have you.” The words were a shock, unexpected and unpleasant. Filled with anger, she realized, on her behalf.
“Even if Chase did want me.”
He raised a hand, and she sensed the irritation in the gesture. “You cannot tell me he is not an aristocrat. A wealthy and powerful one at that. Why else keep his identity such a secret?”
She did not speak. Could not risk revealing anything.
“He could give you everything you seek, but even now, as he hangs you in the wind, as he offers you as prey to Society’s wolves, you protect him.”
“It is not like that,” she said.
“So you love him. But do not for one moment believe that it is not his fault that your hands are tied. He should marry you himself. Throw his mighty weight behind you.”
“If he could . . .” She let the words trail off, hoping he would not hear their implicit deceit.
“Is he married?”
She did not answer. How could she?
“Of course, you won’t tell me that.” He smiled, but the expression lacked humor. “If he is, he’s an ass. And if he’s not . . .” He trailed off.
“What?” she prodded.
He looked away, out at the lake, still and silver in the March light. For a moment, she thought he would not answer. And then he said, “If he’s not, he’s a fool.” She caught her breath at the words, as he turned back toward her and met her gaze. “I find I tolerate him less and less these days.”
“Even if he were unmarried, I do not want him,” she said, hating the words. Hating the lie she perpetuated with them. That Chase was other. That Chase was some mysterious, powerful man to whom they were both beholden.
“No, you want Langley,” he said.
I want you. She bit back the words. Where had they come from? “He’s a good choice. Kind. Decent.” Safe.
“Titled,” he said.