First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4) - Julia Quinn Page 0,33
at her mother’s hoop. “What are you working on?”
“Just a few flowers.” Lady Bridgerton held her work up. Just a few flowers indeed. It was nothing short of a masterpiece. Pink peonies, purple irises, delicate white somethings—all interwoven with leaves of every possible shade of green.
It was clear where Benedict got his artistic talent.
“That is gorgeous,” Georgie said.
Her mother flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, dear. I spent several days designing it on paper before working on the fabric. I used to try to be more spontaneous, but I’ve realized I must plan things out.”
“You get a lot of joy out of your needlework, don’t you?”
“I do. I really do.”
Something in her mother’s tone piqued Georgie’s curiosity. “You sound almost surprised.”
“Not surprised …” Lady Bridgerton’s brow furrowed and a faraway look settled onto her face, the sort one got when one was deep in one’s own mind. “I suppose I never really thought about it,” she said, “but there is great satisfaction to be had in creation.”
“Creation?”
“And completion. And the knowledge that one is responsible for both.”
Georgie looked down at the neat row of stitches marching across her embroidery hoop. She’d used blue thread, for no reason other than the fact that it was in her basket near the top of the pile, but now she found she liked it. It was soothing.
And endless. Blue was the ocean, the sky. And the thread that, if she loosened the fabric from the hoop, could go on forever.
All she had to do was remove the boundaries.
She loved Aubrey Hall. She really did. And she loved her family, too. But the walls here had been closing in on her for years, so slowly she had not even realized it.
Nicholas had offered her a choice. Maybe it wasn’t the right choice; but she had been foolish to dismiss his offer out of hand. She’d chosen pride over reason, and she hadn’t even given him a chance to explain himself.
Yes, it stung that the only reason he’d proposed was that his father had called him down from Scotland to do so, but maybe …
Maybe …
Maybe there was more?
Or maybe not, but maybe there could be?
And even if there wasn’t, even if she wasn’t destined to find love and passion and hearts and flowers and whatever else it was that cupids and cherubs sang of on high …
Maybe it would still be worth it.
So how did one go about un-rejecting a marriage proposal?
Georgie stood up. “I’m going to Crake.”
Her mother regarded her with palpable surprise. “Now?”
“Yes.” Now that she’d made her decision Georgie was determined to be on her way. “I’m going to take a cart.”
“Really? A cart?”
“It’s faster than walking.”
“Are you in a rush?”
“No.”
Yes. What if Nicholas left for Scotland this afternoon? Highly unlikely, all things considered, but possible. And wouldn’t she feel like a fool?
Her mother turned to the window and frowned. “It looks like rain, dear. I don’t think you should go.”
What she really meant was—You shouldn’t go out in the rain because you could catch a chill, stop breathing, and die.
Georgie gave her mother a reassuring smile. “It has been over a year since I had an episode, Mama. I really do think I’ve grown out of them.”
Her mother did not reply, and Georgie half-expected her to order a steaming bowl of over-steeped tea for Georgie to hover over with a heavy linen over her head. It had been a common ritual in Georgie’s youth—one her mother no doubt was sure had saved her life many times over.
“Mama?” Georgie prompted, after the silence stretched into the awkward.
Her mother let out a sigh. “I would not recommend that anyone go out in this weather,” she said. “At least not in what I think the weather is going to be in a few minutes.”
As if on cue, a fat raindrop hit the window-pane.
Both Bridgerton ladies went still, staring out the window, waiting for another drop to fall.
Nothing.
“False alarm,” Georgie said brightly.
“Look at that sky,” Lady Bridgerton countered. “It grows more ominous by the second. Mark my words, if you go to Crake right now, you’re either going to catch your death on the way over or be stranded there overnight.”
“Or catch my death on the way home,” Georgie quipped.
“What a thing to joke about.”
Splat.
Another raindrop.
They both looked out the window again. “I suppose you could take a carriage,” Lady Bridgerton said with a sigh.
Splat. Splatsplatsplat.
The rain started to pelt the house, the initial fat droplets giving way to sharp little needles.