First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4) - Julia Quinn Page 0,23

It wasn’t his style to do so; he’d always been the sort of student who studied twice as much as he needed to. But there was no preparation for this examination. There was only a question, and an answer, and the answer wasn’t even his to give.

Nicholas kicked a pebble along the well-worn path that led to the lake as he made his way up the slope. He wasn’t sure where he’d look next if Georgie wasn’t there, but sure enough, when he reached the crest of the hill, he saw the three of them by the water’s edge.

By all appearances, they’d settled in for a long spell in the breezy morning sunshine. Georgie sat on a dark blue blanket next to a hamper of food and what appeared to be a sketchbook. The two boys squealed and chased each other back and forth along the narrow strip of dirt that separated the water and the grass. It was a charming scene.

“Georgie!” he called out as he approached.

She turned and smiled. “Oh, Nicholas. Good morning. What brings you this way?”

“I came to see you, actually.”

“Me?” She looked a little surprised, but honestly more amused than anything else. “Poor you.”

“Poor me?”

She motioned to the boys with her hand and the hamper with her head. “There have got to be more exciting ways to spend your morning.”

“Oh, I don’t know. My other option involves my mother, her embroidery, and six different colors of thread.”

“Six you say?”

“Almost a rainbow.”

One side of her mouth made a wry curve. “I tell you this in all honesty, Nicholas. I have never felt so valued.”

He choked out a laugh as he sat down beside her, stretching his legs straight and long in front of him. It was remarkable how at ease he felt now that he’d made up his mind to marry her. All of the angst and awkwardness of the previous night was gone, replaced with what had always been there—the familiarity and ease of lifelong friendship.

“Were you sketching?” he asked.

“Jabbing blindly with pencil at paper is more like it,” she said. “I’m a terrible artist.”

There were several loose sheets of paper tucked under the sketchbook, and Nicholas sifted through these, stopping on one of a bird in a tree. It was done in pencil, but somehow Nicholas could tell that it was a red-breasted robin, and not just from the shape of it. “I like this one,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Benedict drew that.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She gave a wave, clearly unperturbed by her own lack of talent.

“It’s really quite good.” Nicholas gave it a closer inspection. “How old is he?”

“Just five.”

Nicholas felt his eyebrows rise. “That’s … remarkable.”

“I know. The boy has talent, although I think right now he’s much more interested in torturing his brother.”

Nicholas watched the two boys for a moment. Anthony was holding Benedict upside down by his ankles.

“Or trying to avoid being tortured,” Georgie said.

“If that’s the case, he’s not doing a very good job of it.”

“No,” Georgie agreed. “Alas, the plight of the younger sibling.”

“We would both know, wouldn’t we?”

She nodded in absent agreement, keeping her eyes on her nephews, presumably to make sure they weren’t about to kill each other. “Actually …” she began.

He waited a moment, then prompted, “Actually … ?”

She looked over at him with a wry smile. “We’re both a little like onlys, aren’t we?”

“Onlys?”

“You’ve how many years between you and Andrew? Eight? Nine? Did he ever actually bother with you when you were growing up? Pay you any attention?”

Nicholas thought about that. Most of the time his older siblings had ignored him. Or more likely, simply forgotten his existence. “Not really, no.”

“If you asked him,” Georgie went on, “I’d wager he’d say he felt more like a youngest child than a middle one.” She turned, looking at Nicholas over her shoulder. “Which makes you an only.”

She had a point, but he hardly saw how it applied to her. She was one year younger than Edmund and one year older than Hugo, a middle child if he’d ever seen one. “And how does this work for you?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m entirely different,” she said with an offhand wave. “It was because I was always so sick. No one ever treated me like a sibling.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, please. My mother was convinced I would die if she let me play outside.”

“That seems a little extreme.”

“Well, yes, I agree, but that’s what she thought, and there was hardly a way to convince her otherwise. I mean, I suppose