Forever and a Day (32 page)

Satan clearly had a wife. “Might I ask, why are you helpin’ me, aside from being Mr. Astor’s friend? With you bein’ a rich aristo and all, you certainly don’t need money. Or do you?”

Lady Burton lifted an arched dark brow. “There are some things in life, Mrs. Milton, that cannot be bought. A woman’s way of life is difficult as it is without society weighing in on it. And in truth, the idea of twisting an invisible blade into the gut of London society is the only reason I am doing this. Those self-righteous bastards, who dare act like gods thinking their blood is pure, deserve to have their blood tainted.”

Georgia swallowed, wondering what happened to this woman to turn her into
this
. London had to be a hell and a half to be breeding women like her.

Settling primly before Georgia, Lady Burton gestured casually toward her attire. “Where did you get this atrocity?”

Georgia awkwardly brushed the sides of her satin skirts, which she actually thought pretty. “I rather like this gown. Mr. Astor’s wife gave it to me during my stay with them and her lady’s maid was kind enough to cinch it to better fit me.”

Lady Burton tsked. “We will have to change what you like, my dear, because poor Mrs. Astor, along with half of New York, has no taste whatsoever. I could pay them all to go out and buy taste and they still would only disappoint me.” She paused, glancing toward Georgia’s own breasts. “Of course, you are terribly underweight. You need larger breasts if we are going to make you a success with men.”

Georgia’s hands jumped to cover both of her small breasts buried within her satin bodice. She glanced down at them. “I didn’t realize I could make them bigger.” She jiggled what little she had and glanced up. “How do we do that?”

Lady Burton daintily tapped her hand away from each breast. “The secret is
food,
my dear. Something you clearly haven’t had enough of. Once you gain a far more desirable weight, only then will we invest in an extensive wardrobe. The Duke of Wentworth insisted that I build your name here in New York whilst he builds London. Therefore, once you are able to properly fill a gown, we will do our part by bringing in the most talented French seamstresses Broadway has to offer. That way, when our hired gaggle of French seamstresses are done, they will bustle off and share their succulent little tales of servicing an unknown wealthy lady just outside of New York. People in every circle will squirm to learn more about you and, in time, we will give them more.”

Lady Burton held up a manicured finger. “Now. Whenever in the presence of others outside myself, you will always abide by the golden rule of silence. That means whenever anyone enters this home or whenever you leave this home, you are not to speak. You have yet to learn how to articulate your words like a woman of quality and we do not want the wrong sort of
oui-dire
floating about New York, lest it take a boat and find itself in London. Do you understand?”

This was like a ten-dollar circus she had stupidly paid for. “That I do.”

“Good.” Lady Burton casually waved a hand about, a diamond ring glinting. “Over these next few weeks and throughout all the many months ahead, various men and women will be wading through these doors, tutoring you in the arts of dance, the pianoforte, riding and much more. The same rule will apply to them as to our lip-flapping seamstresses. You are
never
to speak, not even to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ You will only
do
as you are told. There will be no exceptions. Even if a candle should overturn and the house should catch fire, you will evacuate the premises in complete and utter silence.”

Gorgia gawked at her. “Even durin’ a fire? What if people die?”

Lady Burton gave her a withered look. “Let everyone and everything burn. Lesson one—never pity those who would merrily see you burn, in turn. These men and women servicing you are not your friends. They are but pawns we are using to win a game.”

“But won’t they suspect we’re up to somethin’? Given that I’m learnin’ all of these things and not sayin’ a word?”

“No.” Lady Burton smirked. “They will all be informed to believe the following, which I myself so brilliantly scripted. Mr. Astor kindly brought you into his care after the death of your stern mother, who had locked you away in a monastery in Ireland, which shall forever remain nameless due to the heartache it always brings you upon its mention. Tragically, you were born frail. Illness has kept you in a bed all these years. It is merely by the grace of God Himself, who touched His hand to your blessed head, that you are finally well enough to learn all of the things that had been denied due to your poor health. This does not mean, however, that you will ever fully recover, as you are prone to fainting spells. Given Mr. Astor’s overly compassionate nature, his sole aspiration in life is to see you wed to a respectable man willing to look after your health, whilst he also tends to your impressive fortune of—” Mrs. Burton paused before announcing in an elegant, theatrical tone “—thirty thousand a year.”

Georgia choked. “Thirty thousand
a year?
Isn’t that a bit much?”

“We could have easily made it more, given Mr. Astor is a millionaire in investments alone, but the duke and I decided it was best to settle on a more respectable amount that was impressive without being vulgar.”

Georgia slowly shook her head from side to side, realizing this was all turning into a thousand and one pawns piled onto the smallest board she’d ever seen. “I know this is all my idea, but it’s still quite a bit to lie about. It feels wrong slaughterin’ so many people with so many fibs. Can’t we ease off on some of the drama?”

Lady Burton leaned in and pinched her cheek, teasingly cooing, “Weep not for the aristocracy. They deserve it.”

Georgia huffed out an exasperated breath, already feeling overwhelmed. They hadn’t even started. “Do ladies of quality ever have fun?”

“No. If you are having fun, the aristocracy considers you to be a whore.”

Bursting into laughter, Georgia leaned toward her. “Surely, you jest! You mean women don’t
ever
dance or play cards or drink whiskey?”

Lady Burton smirked. “Do not make me laugh. While women dance and play cards in respectable moderation, whiskey is out of the question. As a lady of quality, you will only be allowed to drink tea, milk, hot chocolate, soda water, juice, champagne and wine. Nothing more.”

Georgia groaned. “But I like whiskey.”

“It doesn’t matter what you like. Whiskey will never touch your lips again. Not even in the privacy of your own home.”

Georgia’s eyes widened. “I would think I have every right to drink whatever I want in the privacy of my home. It’s my home, after all.”

“Ah, now, that is the American in you grouching, my dear. You Americans do love to flaunt your freedom, but remember, it always comes at the price of others. In London, one’s home is the altar of a church you had best respect, for although you may think the world is not watching, all of your servants are. Oh, yes. Those naughty, naughty servants who dutifully bow to you left and right and say, ‘Yes, my lady’ and ‘No, my lady,’ are always looking to squeal to the rest of society. ’Tis the only power they have over their masters and the
ton
will use them to judge you and dunk your head into the Thames.”

“What good is bein’ rich if you can’t do anythin’? In my opinion, you Brits are missin’ the whole point. Even God had to take a piss on Sunday.” Georgia set her hands on her hips. “Are all Brits this morbidly uptight?”

“Yes. Why do you think I left?” Lady Burton reached out and grabbed Georgia by the hands, forcefully removing them from her hips and yanking them down hard to her sides. “You must learn poise.”

Lady Burton paused, her dark brows coming together as she brought Georgia’s hands up between them. Turning them upward and exposing her palms, she drew in an astonished breath, glancing up. “What have you been doing to your hands?”

Georgia slid her hands out of Lady Burton’s grasp. “There isn’t a thing I haven’t done with them.”

Lady Burton’s features softened. There appeared to be a genuine charity buried within her, after all. “We will make them new again. A pumice stone and a daily soak in almond milk will ensure they soften. Now. Let me look at your pretty face.” Reaching up, Lady Burton grasped Georgia’s chin firmly, tilting her face toward her before nudging it from side to side. “Tragic though it is, freckles are not at all popular. We will have to fade them by using benzoin and cover them with powder whenever you are in public.”

Lady Burton stepped back, tapping the tip of her finger thoughtfully against her full lips. “I have decided on the name we will use.
Miss Georgiana Colette Tormey
.
Georgiana
will be easier for you to assimilate as it is but an extension of your real name,
Colette
gives you a dash of French class the British love and
Tormey
is of the Irish Gaelic that means Thunder Spirit. What do you think? Is it enough to seduce the masses?”

Georgia smiled. “I like it.”

“So do I.” Lady Burton eyed her. “Oh, how I dread the thought of watching you pick up a fork at breakfast tomorrow morning. I have a feeling you will be cracking the same egg for hours. That said,
Miss Tormey,
let us go upstairs. We shall begin your regimented nightly routine. Be forewarned, it involves knotting your hair with paper curls for the rest of your life.”

Georgia cringed. She had knowingly condemned herself to almost a full year of
this?
Was any man worth all of this? She paused. Yes. Yes, Robinson certainly was. Damn him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

You are not worth the dust

which the rude wind blows in your face.

—William Shakespeare,
King Lear
(as published in 1770)

9th of April, 1831
The opening of the Season in London—Rotten Row

B
Y
J
OSEPH
,
SHE
FELT
LIKE
A
horse being led by a horse.

Georgia thought it so odd that the path she and her well-groomed horse were on would be called Rotten by the aristocracy given it was
their
bloody row.

Directing her horse at a slow pace alongside Lady Burton, whose gaze was primly fixed on the path leading through the park, Georgia tightened her gloved hands on the leather reins and prayed she didn’t fall off the saddle.

“On the path before us, if I am to believe the color of his gloves, is the infamous Lord Seton,” Lady Burton announced in a casual tone, tilting her chin toward her. “He has a twin. The two wear different-colored gloves to allow the public to differentiate them. Lord Seton wears white and his brother, Lord Danford, wears black. The two play at switching gloves all the time, but we are about to beat them at their own game. Do you see him? He is the only gentleman on the path before us and is heading our way.”

Georgia scanned the dirt path before them, noting the only man visible through a crowd of carriage-riding mothers and their daughters just beyond Rotten Row itself. A young, dark-haired gentleman in a black horsehair top hat, garbed in a well-fitted riding coat and gray trousers, steadily veered toward them. His black leather boots gleamed in the sunlight with each trot of his black stallion.

Georgia glanced toward Lady Burton. “I see him. Yes.”

“The purpose of this ride is to formally introduce you to London society and ensure everyone clamors to further know you.” Lady Burton smiled and stared out before them, guiding her horse toward him. “Follow me. From what I know, after poking about for good targets, Lord Seton is not only a flirt, but happens to be within the circle of your Yardley. Producing a flurry of male interest that will rile your Yardley into full cooperation is exactly what you want. So I suggest you make this Lord Seton notice you. And now is your chance.”

“You want me to entertain him? Here on the road?” Georgia wrinkled her nose. “Wouldn’t that be considered crass?”

“No. Rotten Row is designed to showcase a woman’s potential. I am not asking you to flip up your skirts. I am asking you to smile. Do you want to marry or not?”

Georgia sighed and guided her horse to fall into a trot beside the woman. “I’m ready to be showcased.”

“Good.” Lady Burton glanced toward her with unusually bright and eager dark eyes. “Now keep up. The moment he passes, hold his gaze as if he were Yardley himself and you wanted him naked. Then we pass and you are done.”

“No words?”

“No words. Respectable society excites very easily, my dear. Here in London, you are dealing with a very different breed of men. They are well-trained dogs, so to speak. But dogs all the same. Now here he comes. Silence and poise.”

Georgia set her chin and kept her gaze trained on the young gentleman whose horse was about to pass their own. He casually glanced toward them, his dark eyes scanning Lady Burton before jumping to Georgia. His straight brows rose a small fraction as if he were genuinely intrigued.

In the name of every Five Pointer who would never see the glory of this day, Georgia heatedly met his gaze for a very long and very sultry moment and hoped to God it was sultry enough. Still holding his gaze, she lavishly smiled.

He slowly grinned, his shaven cheek dimpling rather adorably. A gloved hand came up to touch the rim of his hat as he passed.

Georgia inclined her head, in turn, before altogether ignoring him and sweeping her gaze back to the dirt path before her. She trotted on with her horse in silence until he disappeared off the path.

Lady Burton slowed their pace. “Well done. And now the gossipmongers cometh. Remember. They can smell discomfort well over a mile and these two hags are no different.”

An open black polished barouche with two elderly women well adorned in oversize bonnets and daffodil-yellow and teal-patterned gowns extravagantly embroidered with lace steered out of their path to round them. They slowed their horses and leaned toward each other, exchanging quiet words whilst glancing toward her.

Ah, yes. The gossipmongers.

In unison, they set their aged chins and veered closer, slowing their barouche. The eldest of the two, with thick white sausage curls, smiled and regally called out, “My dear Lady Burton. Was New York truly that devoid of entertainment?”

That sounded like an insult. Which meant it probably was.

Lady Burton feigned a gracious smile and slowed her horse so as to better engage them. “I rather adored New York, but my American friend, the ever-charming Miss Tormey
—
” Lady Burton sweepingly gestured toward Georgia “—insisted that I join her and Mrs. Astor for the Season.”

Both of the women’s eyes widened. They stared up at Georgia in unison, almost bringing their barouche to a complete halt.

One of them eagerly leaned forward, searching Georgia’s face. “Miss Tormey. I have heard so much about you. I am Lady Chartwell and this is my sister, Lady Hudson. We welcome you to Town.”

Hudson. Like the river that never stopped piddling.

Georgia counterfeited a smile and tugged on the reins of her horse. Using her right boot against the side of the horse, she came to a halt. She focused on her words and her stance, knowing every breath counted. “I thank you for the warm welcome and confess I am rather smitten with London. The gentleman are so civilized and the women so well dressed. You must recommend who oversees your wardrobe. ’Tis divine.”

The two women beamed.

The one with the sausage curls smugly offered, “The Nightingale over on Regent Street is where every lady ought to be outfitted whilst in London. They only hire seamstresses out of France and never replicate any of their patterns.” She perused Georgia’s riding outfit and paused. “I don’t believe I have seen a riding habit so well put together. Was it assembled here in Town?”

Georgia tried not to smirk. She thought she’d never hear rich society compliment
her
outfit. “So lovely of you to notice, Lady Chartwell, but no. It was assembled on Broadway in New York. Their seamstresses are all French, too. Though I will admit, I am rather bored with my current wardrobe. I will have to visit this Nightingale’s in the hopes of entertaining myself.”

“You will not be disappointed,” the woman chimed in return. “I do hope you will be able to find some time during the Season to call upon me and my sister over on Park Lane with Mrs. Astor. We have yet to meet her. I hear she will be acting as your chaperone? Is that true?”

“Yes,” Georgia offered.

Noting that Lady Burton was bringing her horse to a trot and was silently signaling that it was time for them to go, Georgia did the same. “It was a pleasure. I hope to see you both soon. Good day.”

“Yes. Good day.” The two prodded their barouche onward, glancing toward each other in exasperation as if they had just witnessed a woman sprinting naked across Rotten Row.

Superficial bitches.

When they were well out of sight, Lady Burton tossed out, “You did well.”

Georgia sighed. “Do I actually have to call on them now?”

“You said you would, so yes. You have to.”

Georgia groaned. “I hate London.”

“This is probably where I should remind you that you have come to town to wed and stay in it.”

“Oh, yes. That.” Georgia bit back a smile. “I wonder what Robinson will think of me when he sees me.”

“He will most likely faint.” Lady Burton paused, her dark arched brows suddenly rising. “Well, well, well. It appears the row is more rotten than usual today. I love it. For the sake of your reputation, my dear, ignore these two men approaching on horseback. Heaven only knows who they are and what they want.”

Georgia darted her gaze over to the two who were riding on black stallions in worn black coats, worn leather boots and no hats. One had black disheveled shoulder-length hair and the other had sunlit chestnut hair and a worn leather patch over his…eye?

Her eyes widened as she tightened her hold on the reins. It was Matthew! Matthew and…
Coleman?
What the bloody hell were they doing in London? Had they followed her?

Oh, this wasn’t good. She couldn’t let them see her lest they engage her in public and ruin everything.

She quickly yanked the rim of her hat as far down as it would go until she couldn’t even see the road before her and only the reins in her hands. She also yanked the long trailing veil of her riding habit up and over her face, burying herself in it.

“The veil
never
goes over your face,” Lady Burton chided. “’Tis meant for decorative purposes only.”

“Not today it isn’t.” Georgia lowered her voice. “I know those two. They’re from New York. And of all things, they’re from my part of town.”

“Are they?” Lady Burton sounded not only intrigued but smitten. She was quiet for a moment, then casually inquired, “Might I ask who the man with the patch is? He looks rough enough to be fun.”

Georgia glanced over at the woman in complete disbelief and though she couldn’t see her because of her drawn hat and veil, she hoped to God she could convey that any interest in Matthew was a very, very bad idea. “He’s the last person you want to ever involve yourself with. He’s a thief.”

Lady Burton let out a laugh. “All men are. Now quiet. Here they come.”

Georgia prayed and brought her horse to a full trot in the hopes of passing faster.

A low whistle escaped who she knew to be Matthew. “Apparently, I’ve been living in the wrong city all my life,” he drawled. “Ladies.”

She cringed as their horses trotted past one another. Georgia even sped up her horse in an effort to fling off the words Matthew had just unknowingly tossed at her.

Lady Burton called out for her to slow. “Miss Tormey.”

Georgia hissed out a breath. Flopping back her veil, she readjusted her hat and choked out, “That was disgusting. I felt like I was being groped by my own brother.”

Lady Burton aligned her horse beside hers and slowly grinned. “Speak for yourself. I rather enjoyed that.”