Page 26 of Two Blessings For His Duchess
“I would like it if I could get closer to Georgianna,” she murmured. “She and Cordelia seem to get along so nicely, and I truly admire that. I thought... perhaps if I could find a way to be a part of Georgianna’s life, my presence here wouldn’t feel like such a disruption to her. I don’t want to be the source of her nightmares.”
Nathaniel’s movements slowed. For a brief second, the hard edge of his posture seemed to soften.
“All right,” he said. It was the only response he offered, his voice a murmur as he looked back down, carefully wrapping the linen around her wrist to finish securing the bandage.
Taking his acquiescence as a sign, Euphemia leaned forward slightly, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I was thinking... perhaps we could have a picnic. Out in the gardens. I think it would be a wonderful idea for us.”
Nathaniel stopped entirely. He ceased tending to her wrist and slowly turned his head, his eyes locking onto hers with a look of profound skepticism. “You think a picnic is a valid remedy for Georgianna’s distress? You truly believe a luncheon out in the open air is what is best for a child who just threw a porcelain doll at you?”
Euphemia did not flinch under his sharp gaze. She met it, her expression softening as she spoke from the heart. “I have a little sister, her name is Leonora. She is quiet, incredibly reserved, and honestly far too smart for her own years. But Georgianna reminds me so much of her, especially of how Leonora used to be when she was a little girl. She was so completely closed off, keeping the entire world at arm’s length.”
She paused as a small, tender smile tugging at the corner of her lips at the memory. “But the one thing my sister always loved, the one thing that could always bring her out of her shell, was a picnic. She loved being out in nature, away from the confinement of the house. I truly believe that the fresh air and a change of scenery might do the same for Georgianna. We won’t know unless we try.”
Nathaniel stared at her for a long, unreadable moment. Then, he smoothed down the edge of the cloth over her pulse point and lowered his eyes.
“I am done,” he said softly, letting go of her hand and gathering the scraps of linen back into the apothecary’s box.
He stood up from the mattress, preparing to leave the room. Sensing the sudden loss of his warmth, Euphemia stood up as well, stepping into his path. He began to move past her toward the door, and without fully thinking through the consequences, her hand reached out and grabbed his arm, her fingers wrapping around the soft fabric of his shirtsleeve.
“What of my question?” she asked, looking up at him. “You didn’t answer me. Shall we have the picnic?”
Nathaniel stopped. His eyes drifted slowly down to her hand resting against his arm, his gaze lingering on the contrast of her fingers against his sleeve, before he looked back up to meet her eyes.
“Fine,” he murmured. “I will think on it.”
Relieved, Euphemia let her hand slip away from his arm. Nathaniel gave her a single, curt nod. “Good night, Euphemia.”
“Good night,” she whispered.
He turned and walked out, closing the bedchamber door quietly behind him.
Euphemia stood alone for a moment before walking back to the bed, blowing out the candle, and sliding back beneath the heavywarmth of her duvet. She pulled the covers up to her chin, closing her eyes to try and force herself to sleep, but her mind was a chaotic whorl.
Strangely, she was no longer thinking about the terrifying creak of the door, or Georgianna’s venomous shouts, or even the broken porcelain doll lying in the dark at the foot of her bed.
Instead, her entire consciousness was consumed by the lingering, phantom sensation of his touch. Her wrist still throbbed, but it wasn’t the sting of the cut that kept her awake, it was the warm pressure of Nathaniel’s fingers against her skin, the memory of his proximity, and the sudden, breathless heat that had taken over her chest.
It felt entirely different. It felt dangerous.
She turned onto her side, burying her face into the pillow and fiercely telling herself that it was absolutely nothing. She was merely shaken from the night’s events. After all, she reminded herself with a small, defiant frown, Nathaniel could not possibly be any colder to her if he tried.
Yet, as she finally drifted off to sleep, her hand remained tucked close to her heart, still warm from where he had held it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Your outburst was entirely unwarranted, Georgianna Darington, and you know this,” Nathaniel said firmly. “You should never have thrown your toy. That is not how we react when we are frightened or upset, and it is certainly not what people do. I have spent years trying to teach you that throwing tantrums is not a way to solve anything.”
Georgianna kept her eyes fixed firmly on the grass, her small fingers picking at the hem of her pinafore.
They were sitting on a wide, woolen blanket spread across the velvet lawns of the lower gardens, the ancient oaks of Greymoor casting long, cool shadows over the afternoon spread.
A wicker basket sat open between them, half-filled with untouched pastries and small sandwiches. Nathaniel looked out over the rolling estate, a sigh escaping him. He honestly had no idea why he had agreed to this ridiculous picnic.
Yet, the moment he had returned to his own chambers that night, his mind had refused to let the suggestion go. The image of Euphemia standing in the hallway, bleeding and yet completely focused on comforting his daughter, had burned itself behind his eyelids.
They had never done something like this before, never simply sat out in the open air as a family without the structure of the dining room or the nursery. He had found himself wondering if Euphemia might actually be right. Perhaps a change of atmosphere was precisely what Georgianna needed to break through her internal winter. When morning broke, the thought had lingered so stubbornly that he had given the orders to the kitchens before he could talk himself out of it.
“She was in my space,” Georgianna grumbled under her breath, her jaw setting in a stubborn line that mirrored his own far too closely. “She was trying to come closer. To Cordelia.”
