Harry froze. Whore. The name they’d called his mother so long ago.

Whore.

The boy moved beneath his hand. Harry looked down and realized he was clutching his shoulder too tightly. The boy didn’t complain, just shrugged a bit.

“What’s your name?” Harry asked.

“Will.” The boy looked up at him and wiped a hand across his nose. “My ma’s a whore.”

“Aye.” Harry released Will’s shoulder. “So was mine.”

GEORGE PACED THE LIBRARY THAT EVENING. The windows were black mirrors, reflecting the darkness outside. For a second she paused and studied her ghostly reflection. Her hair was perfect, a rarity, but Tiggle had redressed it after supper. She wore a lavender gown, one of her favorites, and her pearl drops. Perhaps she flattered herself, but she felt she looked well, almost handsome, in the frock.

If only she felt as confident inside.

She was beginning to think that the library was the wrong place for this meeting. But what other choice was there, really? With her brothers in residence at Woldsly, she couldn’t ask Harry to her rooms, and the last two times she’d gone to his cottage . . . George felt her face warm. They hadn’t done much talking, had they? So there wasn’t an alternative. But still. The library felt somehow wrong.

The sound of booted footsteps rang in the hall. George squared her shoulders and faced the door, a lonely offering waiting for the dragon. Or maybe the leopard.

“Good evening, my lady.” Harry prowled into the library.

Definitely the leopard. She felt the hairs stand on the back of her neck. Harry gave off a sort of volatile energy tonight.

“Good evening. Won’t you have a seat?” She gestured to the settee.

He flicked his eyes in the direction she indicated and back to her. “I think not.”

Oh, dear. “Well . . .” George inhaled and tried to remember what she’d planned to say to him. Her speech had made sense in her rooms. But now, with Harry staring at her, now it fell apart like wet paper tissue.

“Yes?” He cocked his head as though to better hear her thoughts. “Do you want it on the settee or the floor?”

Her eyes widened in confusion. “I don’t—”

“The chair?” Harry asked. “Where do you want to make love?”

“Oh.” She felt a flush start on her cheeks. “I haven’t called you here for that.”

“No?” His eyebrows raised. “Are you sure? You must’ve ordered me here for something.”

“I didn’t order you . . .” She closed her eyes and shook her head and began again. “We need to talk.”

“Talk.” The word was flat. “Do you want my resignation?”

“No. What makes you think that?”