Laura Martin - Courting The Forbidden Debutante

‘It’s what I do,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I own the largest stud in Australia.’ He grimaced. ‘More or less the only stud in Australia.’

‘You breed horses?’

‘Breed them, raise them, train them and sell them.’

Not a life of crime, then. Georgina sighed—he was probably very wealthy, although she wasn’t sure how the income of Australian landowners compared with English ones. Not that it would matter to her parents. They were destined to disapprove of him immediately. He was new money , someone who had raised themselves up and made their fortune through hard work. Although some might think it admirable working to make their legacy, her parents certainly did not agree with that opinion. To them the only people who mattered were those who had been born into money, preferably a very long line of it.

With a glance sideways she wondered if this was why she felt an irresistible pull whenever she thought about Mr Robertson. He was handsome in a rugged way, certainly had a good physique with broad shoulders and hard muscles in all the right places, but Georgina thought it was more than a physical attraction. She knew some young women flirted with and pursued the wrong sort of men, exactly because their parents wouldn’t approve of them. She’d never thought herself to be that rebellious, or that shallow, but here she was wondering how she could spend more time with Mr Robertson, even when she knew nothing could ever happen between them.

‘I should be getting home,’ Georgina said, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable. If she had any sense she would break off their connection immediately and resolve never to see this man again.

‘Would you like me to escort you?’

‘No,’ she said quickly, far too quickly, earning herself an amused grin from Mr Robertson. ‘Thank you, but, no,’ she said, forcing the words to come out at a more normal speed.

‘But you will allow me to call on you later, as we agreed?’

She should say no. Find some excuse, but silently she nodded.

‘And you will accept my call?’

It was custom for callers to be screened before being admitted to the house and Georgina had on occasion informed their butler to tell the caller she was out. She hated doing it, though, hated to think someone had made the effort to visit and she wouldn’t deign to see them.

‘I will,’ she said.

‘Until later, Lady Georgina.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Robertson.’

With practised discretion Georgina stifled a yawn. The poem Mr Wilcox was reading must have been three pages long and they were still on the first page. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t entertaining, and really she was trying not to listen to it out of fear she might laugh. And that would be rude. Mr Wilcox was a nice enough young man, persistent in his courtship despite not receiving any signs of encouragement from Georgina, and she really didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but the poem was truly terrible.

If I could liken your skin,

To the creamy plaster of a fountain.

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.’