The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurlЧитать онлайн книгу.
of whom your uncle approves. Someone … well, someone like me.’
He watched as her eyes widened, and a smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. ‘Do you mean to say …’
‘I do mean to say … I mean, Georgia, I would consider it an honour if you would agree to be my wife.’ Well, the words were out, the deed was done. If she said yes, there was no going back.
Her smile widened, and she raised an eyebrow. ‘Bartholomew, I did not suspect you cared for me in that way! I am flattered, honoured, and, well … I suppose you want an answer …’ She turned away, gazing out to sea as though the answer would be brought to her on the crest of a wave.
‘You do not need to answer immediately, my dear. Take time to think about it, if you need to.’
She nodded, then turned back to him with a flirtatious smile. ‘You carried me once, along the promenade in the snow. That was fun. I cannot quite imagine Mr Perry doing such a thing.’
‘And is that the kind of behaviour you would like in a husband?’
‘I believe it is required behaviour in a husband.’ She held out her hand. He took it and kissed her fingers.
‘In that case,’ he said, hoisting her up into his arms as she squealed and giggled, ‘I shall demonstrate my suitability as a husband, and shall carry you down the beach.’
‘Not into the sea!’
‘What is your answer?’ He took another few steps towards the waves.
She squealed again. ‘You said I could take time to think about it!’
‘You may think about it – in the sea!’ The waves were now lapping at his boots.
‘But my feet will get cold and wet!’
‘That did not bother you at New Year. Do you say yes?’
He made as if to drop her. She clung tightly to his neck, and, laughing, gasped out a yes.
His debts would be paid, his future secure. How easy it had been to influence her! She would make him a perfect wife. He held her more firmly, and bent his head to seal their agreement with a kiss.
‘Mr St Clair, Miss Georgia, is everything all right? Has something happened? Do you need any help?’
It was Agnes, clutching a shopping basket, her eyes wide with concern. Where had she appeared from? Had she followed them? How much had she overheard? Bartholomew stepped back from the water’s edge, and placed Georgia carefully on the bank of pebbles above the water line. He coughed, embarrassed.
‘Oh, Agnes, I am perfectly all right. You gave me quite a surprise, appearing like that. You mustn’t mind our larking about. I am so excited – I am engaged to be married to Mr St Clair!’ Bartholomew felt momentarily embarrassed by the way Georgia had blurted out their news, like an overexcited child.
‘Congratulations, I am sure,’ said Agnes. ‘You have torn your gown.’ She pointed to a seam at the bodice which had come away.
‘Oh!’ Georgia twisted to inspect the damage. ‘Well, never mind, you can mend it for me later.’
Agnes nodded curtly, then turned on her heel and walked up the beach, her head held high.
Bartholomew watched her go, his heart racing, his palms sweating. She’d had that effect on him, yet again. And had there been a touch of hurt, disappointment perhaps, in her eyes?
‘She fusses so,’ said Georgia. ‘She acts as though she’s my mother, although she is only a few years older than me. She says I am missing a woman’s influence in my life. My mother died when I was born, and Father never remarried. But never mind her – we are engaged, and you, sir, were about to kiss me, I do believe.’
‘I was indeed,’ he said, taking a step closer to claim the kiss. But Georgia picked up her skirts and ran off, along the beach, laughing like a child. Bartholomew grinned and shook his head. She was not much more than a child, he must remember that.
In the evening, having spoken to Charles Holland who’d readily agreed to the match, telling him it was about time, Bartholomew sat next to Georgia at dinner. All through the meal she flirted prettily with him, treating him to glittering smiles, laughing at his witticisms, and pressing her foot against his. Once she even put her hand beneath the table, on his knee. Bartholomew felt his desire for her increase – she may have acted like a young girl on the beach but now she seemed all woman. As the dinner drew to a close and the servants cleared away the dessert dishes, he longed to be alone with her; to get a chance to hold her and kiss her.
‘We’ll set your wedding date sooner rather than later, eh, St Clair? No sense making you wait longer than necessary to claim your bride.’
Bartholomew reddened. It was as though Holland had read his mind. He nodded, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I’d certainly like to marry as soon as possible.’
‘We’ll need to wait at least until the banns are read,’ she said.
‘Banns, my foot,’ said Holland. ‘St Clair’ll purchase a licence. He can get that in a day. We could have you married by the weekend.’
Georgia’s face fell. ‘Oh, but Uncle, but that’s too soon to arrange any celebrations, or buy any new clothes!’
‘He’s pulling your leg, my dear,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We’ll marry soon, but not quite as quickly as that. You shall have a new gown if you want one, and a bonnet, and petticoats, and anything else you desire. And for now, you shall have this.’ He pulled the box containing the hair ornament out of his pocket and handed it to her.
He watched as she opened the box and gasped at the comb. The jewels sparkled in the candlelight and reflected in her eyes.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, in a whisper. ‘Quite the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. I shall wear it for my portrait, so that when I gaze upon it in future years I will always remember this day. In fact, I want to wear it at once. Ring for Agnes – without a mirror I can’t put it in by myself.’
Charles Holland smiled indulgently, and reached for the bell-pull. A moment later Agnes entered. Her eyes widened as she saw the comb.
‘A pretty piece, Miss Georgia. You are a lucky woman.’ She removed a plain tortoiseshell comb from Georgia’s hair, and replaced it with the emerald one. Her eyes flickered towards Bartholomew, as she tucked away a stray strand of hair. What was in those eyes? Jealousy? Of her mistress’s betrothal, of her comb, of her fiancé? Desire? For the comb, or for him? She was standing behind Georgia, so close to Bartholomew he could feel her warmth, smell her soap. His skin tingled, and he pressed his foot closer still to Georgia’s.
‘There, miss. Looks very nice.’ Agnes curtsied and left the room.
Bartholomew let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I am glad you like it, my dear. When we are married I shall take you to visit the man who made it, at the shop in Bond Street. He shall make you a brooch to match it.’
‘Watch it, St Clair. Don’t spend all your money on trinkets for her. Women are all the same, you know. They take your money, your youth and your vigour, and leave you an empty shell. Now then, Peters, where’s the brandy? Georgia, time you left us now. St Clair will be all yours soon – but for now, I want to enjoy his company for myself. You’ll join me for a brandy or two, I take it?’
‘Indeed I will,’ said Bartholomew, holding out his glass for Peters to fill. He turned to Georgia. ‘I shall see you in the drawing room later, my dear.’
Georgia pushed back her chair and stood, trailing her fingers over his shoulder. ‘Don’t keep him too long, Uncle, please.’ She patted her hair comb and left the room.
‘I wasn’t joking about marrying her at the weekend,’ said Holland, as soon as the door closed behind her. ‘Sooner the better. I’ve enjoyed your company, but having that