“Oh, all right.” Iddesleigh suddenly sobered. “She’s getting married. Your Lady Georgina. To Cecil Barclay—”

No. Harry closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the other man’s words.

“Today.”

TONY WAS WAITING OUTSIDE, hands clasped behind his back, when George emerged from her town house. Raindrops speckled the shoulders of his greatcoat. His carriage, which had the Maitland crest in gilt on the doors, stood ready at the curb.

He turned as George descended the steps and frowned with concern. “I was beginning to think I would have to come in after you.”

“Good morning, Tony.” George held out her hand.

He enveloped it in his own big hand and helped her into the carriage.

Tony took his seat across from her, the leather squeaking as he settled. “I’m sure the rain will stop soon.”

George looked at her brother’s hands resting on his knees and noticed again the scabbed knuckles. “What happened to you?”

Tony flexed his right hand as if testing the scrapes. “It’s nothing. We sorted out Wentworth last week.”

“We?”

“Oscar, Ralph, and I,” Tony said. “That’s not important now. Listen, George.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to go through with this. Cecil will understand, and we can work something out. Retiring to the country or—”

“No.” George cut him off. “No, I thank you, Tony, but this is the best way. For the baby, for Cecil, and even for me.”

She took a deep breath. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to herself, but now George faced it: Somewhere deep inside, she’d secretly hoped Harry would stop her. She grimaced ruefully. She’d expected him to come charging up on a white stallion and sweep her off her feet. Perhaps wheel his stallion around while fighting ten men and go galloping off into the sunset with her.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Harry Pye was a land steward with an old mare and a life of his own. She was a pregnant woman of eight and twenty years. Time to put the past behind her.

She managed a smile for Tony. It wasn’t a very good one, judging by the doubt on his face, but it was the best she could do at the moment. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a grown woman. I have to face my responsibilities.”

“But—”

George shook her head.

Tony bit off whatever he was going to say. He stared out the window, tapping long fingers against his knee. “Damn, I hate this.”

Half an hour later, the carriage pulled up before a dingy little church in an unfashionable part of London.

Tony descended the carriage steps, then helped George down. “Remember, you can still end this,” he murmured in her ear as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

George just thinned her lips.