No one took Georgiana Bellewether seriously.
To her dismay, she had been cursed with the lush curves of a Cyprian, sprightly blond curls, and big blue eyes that had often been compared to limpid pools. People took one look at her and decided that she didn’t have a brain in her head. Of course, most men didn’t think women intelligent anyway, but in her case they could conceive her to be nothing except a goosecap.
It was mortifying.
Her mother was a dear, rather flighty character, her father a genial, rotund squire, and Georgiana had no doubt that she would be happier had she taken after them. Unfortunately, of the four Bellewether progeny, she was the sole child to have inherited the characteristics of her great-uncle Morcombe, a noted scholar with a keen mind. Since her first toddling steps, Georgiana had devoured all manner of study, surpassing the skills of the family governess, the local academy for young ladies, and her brother’s tutor with equal fervor.
Her own particular talents leaned toward the solving of mysteries, and she often cursed the female form that kept her from life as a Bow Street Runner. Instead of following clues and daringly capturing criminals, she was forced to content herself with voracious reading and the unraveling of small puzzles that were presented to her in Chatham’s Corner, the hamlet where her father reigned jovially as both squire and sheriff.
This year, she vowed, it would be different. Her family had repaired to Bath, and Georgiana intended to make the most of her new location. Surely, in the famous resort town she would come upon at least one poser worthy of her skills! And certainly the populace must be possessed of a more discerning nature than the rural inhabitants to whom she was accustomed.
But after a week spent visiting the Pump Room and strolling the avenues at the most fashionable hours, Georgiana was forced to admit her disappointment. Although she had enjoyed exploring, thus far she had met the same genteel types with whom she was already familiar. Worse, not a single conundrum had she come across.
With a sigh, Georgiana glanced about the reception rooms of Lady Culpepper’s lavish town house, eager for a diversion at the first real ball she had attended, but she saw only the usual assortment of dowagers and gouty gentlemen. Several misses, younger than herself, were there with doting mamas, hoping to snare a husband among the resort’s visitors. Unfortunately, Georgiana had yet to meet one with more on her mind than marriage.
Frowning, she dismissed them only to have her gaze arrested by an elegant figure dressed entirely in black. Now there was a puzzle, Georgiana thought, her eyes narrowing. It didn’t take someone of her particular talents to realize that the appearance of the Marquess of Ashdowne was unusual, for the haut ton no longer favored Bath as they had a half century ago.
Handsome, charming noblemen of Ashdowne’s ilk stayed in London or followed the Prince Regent to Brighton. Or perhaps they spent their time at scandalous parties held in their palatial country homes.
Georgiana thought Ashdowne’s interest in Bath was decidedly odd. She would have liked to find out just why he was here, but had yet to wrangle an introduction. He had arrived just a few days ago, sending all the young unmarried ladies, including her sisters, into a flutter of excitement. And it was difficult to see him through the crowd of women who surrounded him.
He had let one of the fashionable houses in Camden Place, and this was the first the general public had seen of him. He was here supposedly to take the waters, but Georgiana found the idea absurd, for he was not quite thirty and not reputed to be ailing. Make that definitely not ailing, Georgiana amended, as the group parted, affording her a good view of the man.
He was the very picture of health. Indeed, the Marquess of Ashdowne might well be the healthiest man Georgiana had ever seen. He was tall, probably six feet in height, and slender. Not skinny, mind you, but broad-shouldered and muscular, though not in a bulky sort of way. All in all, the marquess possessed a grace and bearing Georgiana had not expected in one of the overfed, debauched members of the ton.
Lithe. That was the word which struck her as her attention traveled up the elegant, expensive clothing to his face. His hair was dark and sleek, his eyes a startling blue, and his mouth was… Georgiana could muster no description for it, with its lush curves and small indentation above his upper lip. Ashdowne, she realized, swallowing abruptly, was handsome beyond belief.
And awake on every suit.
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