Courting The Forbidden Debutante. Laura Martin

I would liken your lips

       To the red rose that grows beside it.

      She wasn’t even sure if fountains were made from plaster. All the ones she could think of were stone.

      ‘Mr Robertson to see Lady Georgina,’ the butler announced, directing his words towards Lady Westchester, who glanced enquiringly at Georgina.

      ‘I made his acquaintance at the ball last night,’ she said, trying not to meet her mother’s eye. ‘He is related to Lady Winston,’ she fibbed.

      ‘Show him in.’

      Georgina studied the needlework in her hands, trying to compose herself for the minutes ahead. Her mother would immediately disapprove of Mr Robertson, that much she was sure, even without knowing about his questionable background. He was too different to the other men they socialised with for her mother not to notice.

      ‘Lady Georgina,’ Mr Robertson said, bowing in her direction as he entered the room.

      ‘My mother, Lady Westchester.’

      Another bow. ‘Lady Westchester.’

      ‘And I think you met Mr Wilcox last night.’

      Mr Wilcox certainly remembered Mr Robertson—his eyes narrowed and his lips trembled a little in indignation. Too late Georgina remembered it was Mr Wilcox who’d lost out on the promised dance when Mr Robertson had whisked her on to the dance floor.

      Once everyone was seated Lady Westchester fixed Mr Robertson with a piercing stare.

      ‘I do not know you, Mr Robertson. Who are your people?’

      Georgina felt like burying her head in her hands. Normally her mother waited for at least a few seconds before the inquisition began.

      ‘My people?’

      ‘Your family? From where do you hail?’

      ‘I was born and raised in Hampshire, my lady.’

      Georgina frowned, wondering why Sam hadn’t mentioned it when they had discussed her childhood before. ‘Hampshire, how delightful, that is where our primary estate is situated. Perhaps we know your family.’

      ‘I doubt it, Lady Westchester,’ Mr Robertson said. ‘My parents died when I was young and I was fortunate enough to be taken in by a kind and wealthy benefactor. I have not set foot in Hampshire for many years.’

      ‘How unfortunate.’

      ‘Shall I continue with my poem?’ Mr Wilcox asked.

      Georgina had quite forgotten he was in the room. She shot a glance at Mr Robertson, who had settled back into an armchair. If he felt at all uncomfortable or out of his depth he wasn’t showing it.

      ‘Please continue,’ Georgina said, forcing a smile on her face.

       ‘Your eyes compare to the starry sky—’

      ‘Lady Westchester, there is an urgent note from Lady Yaxley,’ the butler interrupted.

      Georgina watched as her mother weighed up the situation. She could hardly ignore an urgent note from her dearest friend, but equally she was responsible for Georgina’s reputation. She held out her hand for the note, read it quickly, then stood.

      ‘I shall be back within a few minutes,’ she said, leaving the room quickly.

      ‘I brought you a gift,’ Mr Robertson said, rising immediately and moving to take up a position next to Georgina on the sofa.

      ‘I say,’ Mr Wilcox said, ‘I was just reading Lady Georgina a poem.’

      Mr Robertson raised an eyebrow, but to his credit his lips didn’t even twitch into a smile.

      ‘I find poetry to be a quite personal, intimate thing,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is better saved for when it is just the two of you. I wouldn’t want to kill the mood and ruin your poem.’

      Mr Wilcox opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to consider what the other man had said.

      ‘Well, I suppose you’re right,’ he mumbled.

      ‘Perhaps you could even make a copy for Lady Georgina, something she can keep and look at in her own time.’

      ‘That’s a rather good idea,’ Mr Wilcox said, looking down at his handwritten poem. ‘I’ll get to work on it this afternoon, Lady Georgina.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Wilcox.’

      ‘It’s only something small,’ Mr Robertson said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a handkerchief. Georgina watched with mounting anticipation as he unfolded the square of material and reached inside. ‘It’s a flower from the tea-tree plant.’

      Pressed and perfect, it had whitish-pink petals and a vibrant pink centre and was by far one of the most beautiful flowers she’d ever set eyes on.

      ‘They’re everywhere in Australia,’ he said. ‘All different varieties and colours.’

      ‘You brought it all the way over here?’

      ‘By accident,’ he admitted. ‘So many things are undocumented in Australia. My friend, George Fairfax, is keen on cataloguing wild plants and animals, so when I’m out and about I pick anything interesting for him to have a look at.’

      ‘And this one found its way to England.’

      ‘I must have left it in a pocket.’

      Georgina was no stranger to gifts from her suitors. Many of the men came armed with huge bunches of flowers, or expensive delicacies, sometimes even intimate items such as a new pair of silk gloves, but most were extravagant, aimed at showing their wealth and status. This was a much more thoughtful gift, a little insight into a world Georgina would never know.

      ‘I love it, thank you,’ she said, looking up into his eyes. They were startlingly blue, a vibrant dash of colour in his tanned face. For a moment she forgot Mr Wilcox was in the room with them, so mesmerised was she by the man in front of her. She felt a hot flush take over her body as she imagined him wrapping those strong arms around her and not for the first time she felt her eyes flicker to the crisp white of his shirt, imagining once more what his body looked like underneath.

      ‘I’m sure your mother will be back shortly,’ Mr Wilcox said, with a polite little cough. He looked pointedly at the position Georgina and Mr Robertson were in on the sofa, far too close for propriety, and hurriedly Georgina moved away. She felt hot and bothered. Mr Robertson only had to look at her and she felt her pulse quicken, and Georgina didn’t like not being in control of her own body.

      ‘I hope whatever called your mother away is nothing serious,’ Mr Robertson said, not acknowledging Mr Wilcox’s pointed stare. ‘Is your father at home?’

      It was a nonchalant enquiry, slightly too casual, and immediately it sparked Georgina’s interest. Men often wanted to see her father to curry favour with one of the most influential men in England, or, on the more worrying occasions, to ask for her hand in marriage, but she hadn’t expected Mr Robertson to want either of those things. Perhaps she had misjudged him, perhaps he was looking for a boost up the social ladder and was hoping an acquaintanceship with her, and by extension her family, would help him on his way.

      ‘Father rarely comes to London these days,’ Georgina said. ‘He prefers to stay in the country, unless his commitments demand his presence in the city.’

      She watched Mr Robertson’s face intently, but could see no hint of disappointment. Either he was a talented liar, or he had only been enquiring about her father for politeness’ sake.

      ‘He remains in Hampshire?’

      ‘Yes, for the foreseeable future at least. He will come up once the Season is properly underway I’m sure, to attend to his political commitments, but he doesn’t like to arrive too prematurely.’

      Lady