A Wallflower for the Melancholic Earl (Preview)

Chapter One

“I will not have you embarrassing this family any further, Georgiana. The visitor arriving today is one of considerable importance, and I expect you to remain entirely out of sight. Is that understood?”

Lord Bryson’s voice shattered the serene stillness of the library at Briarwood House, as sharp and cold as the frost that clung to the windows beyond.

Georgiana’s hand stilled, the quill in her grasp pressing too firmly against the page. Ink bled into the parchment, spreading into the fine paper like spilled wine and obliterating the words she had so carefully crafted. Her emerald eyes lifted from the manuscript before her to meet her uncle’s steely gaze, her expression one of measured calm.

“And who, pray tell, is so important that I must be hidden away like some shameful secret, Uncle Philip?” she replied, her voice even but laced with defiance.

Lord Bryson stood rigid, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the desk. His silver-threaded waistcoat caught the muted light filtering through the library’s towering windows, every detail of his appearance meticulously arranged to project authority. Even his boots, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the dim glow of the fire crackling in the hearth.

“That,” he said, his tone clipped, “is none of your concern. Your peculiar habits and refusal to engage with society have already caused enough whispers. I will not allow your eccentricities to disrupt matters of significance any longer.”

Georgiana set her quill down with deliberate slowness, her fingers brushing against the edge of the parchment as though grounding herself.

“Matters of significance, to who?” she asked evenly. “To you? To the reputation you guard so carefully? Or is it simply another attempt to manage me as you would a piece on a chessboard?”

Lord Bryson’s jaw tightened, the lines of his face hardening into irritation. His hands clasped behind his back as he took a measured step closer. “You forget yourself, niece,” he said, his voice low. “Your father’s indulgence has left you woefully unprepared for your place in the world. I am doing what must be done to salvage your future, even if you lack the wisdom to appreciate it.”

Georgiana rose slowly, her movements fluid and deliberate. Though slender, her height and poise lent her a commanding presence that belied her delicate features. Her auburn hair seemed almost ablaze as it caught the firelight, the vivid tones of copper and garnet framing a face of striking beauty—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and lips that often curved into a wry smile—all gave her a natural elegance. Despite that, her pale complexion betrayed the hours she spent indoors, immersed in books rather than promenading in the sun.

“My father taught me to think, to question and to create,” she said, her voice steady despite the heat rising to her cheeks. “If you see those qualities as faults, perhaps it is not I who lacks wisdom, Uncle.”

Lord Bryson’s face reddened alarmingly, a clear indication of his irritation making way for anger. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the soft scrape of Flint’s paws against the carpet. The greyhound, sensing the tension, rose and stood beside Georgiana, his sleek frame, a quiet, but potent symbol of loyalty. The animal aimed a soft growl in Lord Bryson’s direction.

“Hush, dearest,” Georgiana whispered, though her heart warmed at her companion’s protective instinct. The greyhound’s loyalty was one of the few constants left in her increasingly confined world.

“Control that beast,” Lord Bryson sneered. “It is unseemly enough that you insist on keeping it in the house like some lapdog. I will not tolerate disrespect, from you, or from that hound.”

“Flint has more fine breeding his whiskers than most of your refined acquaintances,” she retorted, her voice carrying the sharp edge she had inherited from her mother, who sadly passed away while giving birth to Georgiana. “And I dare say, he also has considerably better manners.”

“At four-and-twenty, you should have been married years ago,” Lord Bryson said at last, his tone dripping with disdain. “Instead, you waste your days scribbling nonsense and shirking the responsibilities that come with your station. If you will not act in your own best interest, I shall be forced to act for you.”

The library, vast and imposing, seemed to hold its breath. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, their dark wood polished to a sheen that reflected the flickering light. Each shelf was crammed with volumes in varying states of wear—some leather-bound and gilded, others tattered and well-loved. The scent of aged paper and beeswax polish mingled with the faint aroma of wood smoke, wrapping the room in a sense of timelessness.

Within this haven of knowledge and imagination that her father had curated with care, she had found a place where she could usually escape the barbs of her uncle’s scorn, the numerous leather-bound volumes offering a world untouched by his disdain. Yet now, under her uncle’s watchful eye, it felt less like a refuge and more like a gilded cage.

Flint pressed his head against her leg, his dark eyes glinting with concern. Georgiana reached down, her hand brushing over the smooth curve of his head. Her heart ached with the weight of her father’s absence. She thought of the hours they had spent together in that very room, his rich voice often weaving stories as they explored the pages of books that promised a world beyond the confines of Briarwood House.

But her father was gone, and with him, the freedom she had once known.

Lord Bryson turned abruptly, his boots thudding against the floor with a sound that reverberated through the large space. “Emily!” he barked, his voice harsh and cold as steel.

The maid appeared almost instantly; her small frame dwarfed by the imposing doorway. She curtsied quickly, her sharp eyes darting between her mistress and Lord Bryson.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Ensure that Lady Georgiana remains in this library for the duration of today’s meeting,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Under no circumstances is she to be seen, is that clear?”

Emily’s gaze flitted to Georgiana, her expression softening with a glimmer of sympathy. “Of course, my lord.”

Lord Bryson cast one last, scathing look at his niece before striding toward the door. His departure was marked by the sharp click of the latch, the sound echoing through the vastness of the library despite its size.

Georgiana exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing only slightly. She turned back toward her desk, her fingers brushing over the quill she had abandoned. Beside her, Flint settled back onto the carpet, though his watchful eyes remained fixed on the doorway.

Emily approached cautiously; her movements deliberate as she placed a steadying hand on Georgiana’s arm. “My lady,” she said gently, “are you all right?”

Georgiana managed a faint smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “No,” she admitted softly, “But I suppose I must be.” She glanced at Flint. The greyhound’s presence, as steady as the bookshelves around her, was a small comfort amid the storm of emotions swirling in her chest. She reached down, her fingers brushing his sleek coat, the warmth of his body grounding her in the moment.

Now those memories seemed distant, like dreams she could no longer reach. Her uncle’s presence had turned the house into a place of rigid order and constraint, and the library was no exception. The books her father had treasured so while he was still alive were still there, but the room had been drained of its magic.

Emily leaned closer, her movements as precise as her uniform of crisp black bombazine and white lace. She motioned over to the table, where a tray of tea and biscuits sat waiting patiently.

“My lady,” she said, her voice calm and gentle, “I thought you might like some refreshment.”

Georgiana allowed herself a small smile, though it felt heavy on her lips. “Thank you, Emily.” She said as she took a seat near the fire, and the maid set the tray down carefully. As Emily poured the tea, the steady stream of amber liquid filling the porcelain cup, Georgiana sank into the armchair. Flint followed loyally, curling up at her feet once more, his head resting on his paws.

“You needn’t stay,” Georgiana said softly, though her words lacked conviction.

Emily handed her the cup, and straightened, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. “I’d rather not leave you alone, my lady.” She said simply.

Georgiana’s lips twitched, a flicker of gratitude in her expression. “I suppose I should be used to it by now—my uncle’s demands, his expectations. But each time, it feels as though these walls close in a little tighter.”

Emily pulled a footstool closer and sat, her posture relaxed, yet attentive. “Lord Bryson is a man of rigid ideas,” she said carefully. “He sees the world in black and white. But that doesn’t mean you have to let his rules define you, my lady.”

Georgiana laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. “Define me? He would rather erase me altogether. To him, I’m nothing but an obligation. A nuisance.”

“That cannot be true,” Emily said firmly, her gaze steady. “You are much more than that, my lady. More than he could see, or ever understand.”

Georgiana looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting the delicate lace trim of her sleeve. Her dress, a soft shade of lilac, was simple but elegant. It was a far cry from the opulent gowns her uncle would have preferred, with their heavy silks and elaborate embellishments designed to attract suitors. But Georgiana had never cared for such frivolities. Her clothes, like her life, reflected practicality and purpose.

“You speak as though I have a choice,” Georgiana said finally, her voice tinged with bitterness. “But what power do I have, Emily? I am to remain here, out of sight, out of mind, until my uncle decides how to best dispose of me.”

Emily leaned forward, her expression earnest. “You have more power than you think, my lady. Your father knew it. He saw that fire within you, even if others refuse to. Do not let anyone—especially Lord Bryson—extinguish it.”

The sincerity in Emily’s words brought a lump to Georgiana’s throat, though she refused to let her emotions show. Instead, she lifted her teacup, sipping slowly as if the warmth could melt the ice that had settled in her chest.

“I wish he were here,” she admitted quietly. “My father would never have allowed this.”

Emily hesitated before responding but when she did, her tone was soft and resolute. “Your father gave you the strength to face this. And I am sure he would not want you to forget it.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth spreading through the room as the conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence. Georgiana sipped her tea, the fragrant blend of bergamot and jasmine with a dash of honey soothing her frayed nerves. Flint’s breathing was steady and rhythmic, a counterpoint to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, counting seconds in a life that felt confined and out of control at the same time.

Flint stirred suddenly, his ears pricking up as a low growl rumbled in his throat. Georgiana set her cup down, her attention shifting to the greyhound. “What is it, boy?” she asked, though her own senses were now also attuned to the shift in the air.

Emily stood still, but her gaze drifted toward the window. A moment later, the distant sound of carriage wheels crunching on gravel reached their ears. Flint rose to his feet, his body tense and alert.

“They have arrived,” Emily said quietly, moving toward the curtains. She drew them back just enough to reveal the scene below. Georgiana joined her, her breath catching in her throat as she how striking in presence the carriage in the driveway was. Its black lacquered panels gleamed like obsidian in the sunlight. The crest on its door—a gilded design of a rearing stag beneath a crown—was unfamiliar, though it spoke of wealth and lineage. The matched grey horses pawed at the gravel, their silver-plated harnesses clinking softly as they shifted in place.

Georgiana pressed her hand against the cool glass of the library’s towering window, her breath fogging the pane as she peered down at the scene below. Flint stood beside her, his sleek body taut with tension, his ears pricked and his nose twitching at the unfamiliar scents carried by the crisp morning air. Her gaze shifted to the figures emerging from the house. Her uncle stood tall, his shoulders squared as he greeted the visitor with the calculated charm he reserved for those he deemed of consequence. She couldn’t make out their words, but the tone of Lord Bryson’s voice carried through the air, rich with formality.

Though she could not clearly see his face, the visitor—a tall man with dark hair and a commanding presence, stepped forward with a measured grace that caught her attention. His coat, perfectly tailored to fit his muscular frame, emphasized broad shoulders and a stature that matched her uncle in height, but exceeded him in bearing. Even at a distance, Georgiana could sense the quiet power he exuded, a presence that seemed to command attention effortlessly.

Her heart fluttered in her chest and a pang of frustration bubbled up within her. This, then, was the reason for her uncle’s insistence on invisibility—the arrival of someone deemed too important to be tainted by her presence. She bit her lip, her fingers curling to fists at her sides. Flint whined softly, nudging her leg with his nose as if sensing her inner turmoil.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Emily’s voice drew her back to the present.

Georgiana turned, the frustration in her emerald eyes softening as she met the maid’s concerned gaze. “I am fine.” She said, though the tightness in her voice betrayed her.

“My lady, perhaps you should sit or-”

“No,” Georgiana declared, lifting her chin. “I refuse to sit idly while my life is decided for me. I am to determine who this guest is and what my uncle is scheming.”

She turned back to the window and squared her shoulders. She would remain hidden as her uncle demanded, but she would not remain ignorant. If he wished to play games with her future, she would learn the rules—and the players—before making her own move. Georgiana made a promise to herself to face whatever lay ahead with dignity—not as a pawn in her uncle’s schemes, but as the woman her father had taught her to be.

Chapter Two

“Come on, boy.” Georgiana called her trusty companion as the corridor stretched ahead like a river of polished marble, dappled with the pale sunlight filtering through the arched windows. She moved quietly, her steps as cautious as the breeze that teased the leaves outside. Flint trotted beside her, his sleek grey frame a dart of energy against the stately stillness of Briarwood House.

This house, with all its grandeur, had often felt more like a prison than a home, but even more so since her father had passed away one year ago, but she had learned to find solace in its quiet corners. Today was no different—or so she had hoped. As she neared the drawing room, the sound of a low, unfamiliar voice reached her ears, halting her in place.

It was a man’s voice, resonant and composed, weaving through the cracks of the half-closed door. The tone carried a subtle tension, suggesting an exchange teetering between civility and confrontation. Georgiana glanced at Flint, who paused and looked at her, his tail wagging happily as if to urge her onward.

She knew she should leave, but her curiosity was piqued by the words ‘investments’ and ‘returns’. Her uncle’s financial dealings had been a troublesome subject for years—his obsession with appearances often coming at the expense of prudence. Tentatively, she edged closer, her fingers grazing the doorframe as she pressed herself against the cold, hard wood.

“Dare you presume to lecture me on prudence, Colborne?” Lord Bryson’s voice was sharp, layered with condescension. “An earl you may be, but experience trumps title. I have managed my affairs long before you inherited yours.”

Georgiana tensed, the familiar edge in her uncle’s voice twisting her stomach. She had heard it many times before—usually directed at her during one of his many lectures regarding her ‘unladylike interests’ or her ‘insolent questions’. This time, however, the disdain was aimed at someone else, a shiver ran through her as she leaned in closer, her curiosity overtaking her apprehension as she recognized who her uncle was speaking to.

Colborne. Georgiana’s pulse fluttered at the name. Victor Colborne, the Earl of Huntingdon—a man whispered about in the deepest corners of London Society. Though his face was a mystery to her, his reputation was not. The ton painted him as both brilliant and withdrawn, a man with an uncanny eye for business, yet marked by personal tragedy.

The earl’s reply came measured, almost amused. “Experience is invaluable, Lord Bryson, but even the most seasoned sailor knows better than to ignore the changing tide.”

A soft scoff followed, her uncle’s disdain clear. Georgiana leaned closer, captivated by the contrast in their voices. Her uncle’ words, like the brittle snap of a twig, seemed to crumble under the earl’s calm retorts.

Her eavesdropping, however, ended abruptly when Flint barked—a bright, cheerful sound that rang out like a bell in the corridor. Georgiana froze, her breath caught in her throat as the voices on the other side of the door fell silent. A moment later, the door swung open, and her uncle’s imposing figure filled its frame.

“Georgiana.” His voice lashed at her like a whip. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

Before she could stammer an explanation, another figure stepped forward, appearing beside her uncle, and all thought vanished from her mind.

Victor Colborne. He was taller than she had imagined, his dark curls catching the muted light from the chandelier above, making them look like polished jet, gleaming with the same dangerous allure that marked his reputation among the ton. His grey eyes, piercing, yet softened by a trace of melancholy, locked onto hers and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to tilt. She noticed how handsome he was, and her mouth suddenly felt dry. Flint bounded toward him, wagging his tail with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. The hound sniffed at the earl’s boots before rolling onto his back in an unapologetic display of trust.

Victor crouched to rub Flint’s belly, a faint smile playing at the perfect bow that formed his lips. “It rather seems I have made an ally,” he jested, his voice warm but laced with dry humor. His eyes flicked upward, captivating Georgiana’s gaze once more.

“Pay her no mind, Colborne,” Lord Bryson snapped, his face a mask of irritation as his hands tightened into fists at his side. “My niece has a penchant for meddling where she doesn’t belong.” Georgiana flinched inwardly, the sting of her uncle’s words sharp despite their familiarity. She was surely in trouble for not staying in the library as he had instructed. She bristled at the accusation, but remained silent, her gaze darting between the two men. Her uncle’s irritation radiated from him in waves, but it was his visitor’s composed demeanor that kept her rooted to the spot. The earl had an expression that did not mirror her uncle’s disdain. Instead, he straightened, his focus shifting to her with quiet intensity.

“Curiosity,” he said mildly, “is hardly a crime, Lord Bryson.”

The simple statement carried no bite, yet its weight was undeniable. Lord Bryson’s mouth tightened, his fingers flexing at his side as if he longed to wave the earl’s words away like a bothersome fly. “Come, Colborne. We have more pressing matters to discuss.”

Victor hesitated, his gaze lingering on Georgiana for a moment longer. “Perhaps,” he said finally, his tone controlled and even, “but such discussions need not prelude civility.”

The entire space seemed to hold its breath as the earl’s words hung in the air. Georgiana, emboldened by his subtle defense, straightened her spine and met her uncle’s glaring gaze head-on. “I merely heard voices,” she began, her tone as even as she could manage. “I had no intention of interrupting.”

Lord Bryson grunted, clearly unconvinced, but before he could rebuke her further, the sharp clip of a servant’s heels echoed down the corridor. “Lord Bryson,” the butler announced, “you are urgently needed in the study.”

Lord Bryson opened his mouth, likely to retort, but instead he let out a reluctant growl, muttering something under his breath. With a sharp gesture, he turned and strode away, leaving Georgiana and Victor standing in the doorway.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words. Victor’s eyes, shadowed, yet probing, remained fixed on hers. Georgiana’s heart thundered in her chest, an unfamiliar unease blooming inside her in the wake of his scrutiny. He bowed before her, his voice warm when he finally spoke.

“You are quite bold, my lady,” he said at last, a touch of amusement and teasing in his voice.

“I prefer curious,” she retorted, her cheeks warming slightly under his scrutiny.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.” He said, “Victor Colborne, Earl of Huntingdon.”

Georgiana kept her expression neutral, despite her still thudding heart. She nodded and curtsied. “Lady Georgiana Bryson of Briarwood, my lord.” When she looked up, his grey eyes bore into her with an intensity that made her cheeks flush. Georgiana’s pulse quickened. She had spent years perfecting the art of fading into the background, of avoiding attention. And yet, here she was, standing alone with a man who had—despite having no reason to—defended her against her uncle’s derision, and an earl, no less. The moment felt precarious as a tightrope stretched over an unsee chasm.

Victor shifted, his grey eyes steady but devoid of judgement. “I fear my words may have caused you undue embarrassment,” he said, his voice low and soft.

Georgiana blinked for a moment, startled by the unexpected gentleness in his tone. she tilted her head, meeting his gaze with a flicker of defiance. “Embarrassment would require caring about my uncle’s opinions. I assure you, Lord Huntingdon, I have long since discarded that burden.”

A shadow of a smile played at his lips, though the sorrow in his eyes did not fade. “You speak as thought you’ve mastered the art of indifference.”

She hesitated, his observation cutting uncomfortably close. “Indifference,” she replied carefully, “is a useful armor.”

Victor studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Armors protect, but they also isolate. I have found t is a rather lonely defense.”

The honesty of his words struck her with surprising force. Georgiana straightened, her shoulders stiffening under his scrutiny. “Is that loneliness I hear in your voice, Lord Huntingdon? Or merely pity?”

His brows furrowed slightly, a gesture of intrigue rather than offence. “Perhaps a touch of both,” he admitted. “Though pity is not my intention. I find I prefer truth to platitudes.”

Georgiana allowed a soft, incredulous laugh to escape. “Truth is a rather dangerous preference.”

“And yet,” he said, his gaze unwavering, “it is the only thing in this world that holds meaning.”

Her amusement faltered. For all his calm demeanor, there was something unyielding in Victor’s presence—a quiet intensity that made her feel as though he could see straight through her carefully constructed defenses. Georgiana shifted her weight, the delicate lace hem of her gown brushing softly against the flagstone floor. Flint trotted back to her side, his tail wagging as if to punctuate her thoughts. She reached down to stroke the hound’s sleek fur, drawing comfort from his steady presence.

“Do you make a habit of challenging every stranger you meet, Lord Huntingdon?” she asked lightly, though the tension in her tone betrayed her unease.

Victor took one step toward her, his hands clasped behind his back. “Not every stranger,” he said, his voice carrying the faintest hint of a smile, though she noticed the melancholy in his eyes remaining steady. “Only those who intrigue me.”

Georgiana stilled, his words stirring something within her she could not name. “Intrigue is fleeting,” she countered, “and hardly worth pursuing.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But some fleeting moments can leave a deeper mark than years of monotony.”

She arched an elegant eyebrow, trying to suppress the warmth threatening to rise to her cheeks. “You speak as though from experience.”

Victor hesitated, a glimmer of something undefinable passing across his handsome features. “Experience can be a burdensome companion, my lady,” he said quietly, “it teaches you much, yet demands a heavy toll.”

The air between them seemed to thrum with an unspoken understanding, a fragile thread connecting their unvoiced griefs. Georgiana’s curiosity deepened, though she was wary of prying further. “You seem to wear your burden well, my lord,” she said, her voice softer now.

“Only because it is what is expected,” he replied, his tone now riddled with irony. “Masks are far more palatable than the truth.”

The comment hung in the air like a challenge, and Georgiana found herself unable to resist rising to meet it. “And what lies beneath your mask, Lord Huntingdon? A grieving man? Or simply one who finds the world lacking?”

For a fleeting moment, his composure seemed to falter. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze turned distant, as though searching for an answer beyond the confines of the hall. “Perhaps both,” he said finally. “Or perhaps neither. The answer changes, depending on the day.”

Georgiana leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing absently against the soft fur on Flint’s head. “And today?”

Victor’s eyes remained focused on hers, the sadness within their grey depths deep and impenetrable, like a storm-lade sea. “Today I find myself envying your pup,” he said, a faint smile breaking through his somber expression. “He seems blissfully unbothered by the complexities of human existence.”

Georgiana couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing down the corridor like the chime of a soft bell. “Ah, yes, Flint. Perhaps that is his secret,” she said. “A life devoid of masks and expectations.”

Victor’s smile lingered, though it seemed tempered by the weight of his thoughts. “A rare luxury, indeed.”

The moment dissolved into silence, and Georgianna’s gaze drifted to the far end of the corridor. Beyond the cold stone walls, the gardens stretched out in manicured perfection, their beauty a stark contrast to the storm brewing within her. She had spent years yearning for connection, for someone who might see beyond the surface of her eccentricities. And now, in the span of a single conversation, this enigmatic man had managed to unsettle the delicate balance she had so carefully maintained.

“You speak like a philosopher,” she said at last, her tone softer now. “Yet, the ton speaks of you as a charmer.”

Victor’s expression softened, a wry amusement glinting in his light eyes. “The ton loves its tales, Lady Georgiana. Charm is merely one of the latest masks it has chosen for me.”

“And the others?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

His smile faded, replaced by a solemnity that pressed upon her like an unseen weight. Her heart ached for the look that settled upon his features. “The masks are many, but none of them seem to fit quite right.”

Georgiana studied him carefully, her heart clenching with a sympathy that she had not anticipated. She had worn her own ill-fitting masks for so long that she had almost forgotten the weight that accompanied them. “Perhaps,” she said gently, “the problem lies not with the masks, but the ones who force us to wear them.”

Victor regarded her words with a burning intensity that made her feel as though she had stumbled upon something profound. But before he could respond, the sharp click of heels in the corridor signaled the return of Lord Bryson.

Georgiana curtsied swiftly “Goodbye, Lord Huntingdon,” she said, her voice steady despite the emotions whirling within her.

Victor nodded, “Until we meet again, Lady Georgiana.”

As she made her way down the corridor, her faithful companion’s feet patting rhythmically next to her, she exhaled slowly, her hands smoothing her skirts as she attempted to quell the flurry of thoughts racing through her mind. Victor Colborne was not at all what she had expected. Beneath his composed exterior, she thought, lay something raw and unresolved, a reflection of her own restless spirit.

For the first time in years, Georgiana felt the faint stirrings of something she had long thought dormant—a flicker of hope, fragile, yet persistent, that perhaps, she would not always remain as alone as she believed.

Once she was settled in the library once again, she stroked Flint’s head absently, her thoughts swirling like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. “What do you think, boy?” she murmured, her voice low and laced with uncertainty. “Do men like him wear masks for protection, or to hide something they fear the world might see?”

Flint’s tail thumped against the floor in response, his black eyes gazing up at her with unspoken loyalty. Georgiana smiled faintly, though her fingers tightened in the soft fur at his neck. “And what if I have been wearing one for far too long, too?” she whispered. “What if… for the first time, someone is beginning to see through it?”

The hound tilted his head, a silent question in his gaze. Georgiana exhaled shakily, the weight of her own thoughts pressing on her. “Oh, Flint,” she said, rising to her feet. “What on earth is it about him? Why do I feel so utterly drawn to him?”

Flint whined softly at her feet, though his tail still wagged happily. “You have all the answers, do you not?” Georgiana said tenderly, as she struggled to pull her thoughts away from Lord Huntingdon.