Loving Lady Georgianna (Spirited #2)

Chapter Seven

As the lights of the ballroom flashed into her eyes and the masses of the ballroom crowded around her, Georgie had an undue amount of time to contemplate the existence of hell.

Their Rector Wilbur, no doubt, would classify the place as a burning pit of fire where souls roasted for all eternity. The ancient Greeks would have said Tartarus - part of Hades' realm where souls would be buried deep within the underworld - an eternal punishment fit for the crime. 

Georgie was sure that Moreland, the brute that had orchestrated the fire that had scarred her face, was currently roasting in fire there, vestiges of water taunting him, just out of reach to quench the unending burn.

So, it stood to reason that if perhaps someone had asked Georgie's opinion of the matter earlier in the day, she would have concluded much the same thing. Hell was her own experience shrouded in flames. Some evenings, Georgie could still feel the thick, gray smoke in her lungs and smell the dank odor of soot and ash.

Now, however, Georgie knew the correct interpretation.

There was, in fact, no burning pit of fire. Instead, it was here, surrounded by the ton who flitted about like overdressed peacocks. It was here, with Lady Elizabeth droning in her ear about the importance of comportment. Not to mention, the lady's unceasing devotion to rattling off facts like Georgie's very own auditory version of Debrett's Peerage. 

Georgie swore that if she had to hear one more tidbit about so and so's ubiquitous parentage or so and so's lack of proper decorum, she was going to gouge out her ears. After all, it should make the perfect accompaniment to her ruined half-pocked face.

And what did it say about her current state of mind that Georgie was joking about such a thing?

 Lady Elizabeth, also known as the sixth Duchess of Canton and Newbury, and as such, Burkeley's mother, interrupted her musings, and Georgie half listened in abject boredom as the woman rattled on about Baron Winter's scandal back in 1793. A small sigh fell from her lips and she heard a low chuckle. Turning to her companion, she met the amused gaze of the Duke.

Georgie narrowed her eyes at Burkeley. The cad knew his mother's incessant prattling and silent rebukes were irritating her, and the dratted duke was enjoying her discomfort.

Seemed all the men in her life found amusement in her predicaments these days. Turning to the duke, she raised a brow and smiled. "Would you care to dance, your grace?"

Lady Elizabeth's voice petered off and the woman gasped, leaning in over Georgie's shoulder. "A lady should never proposition a gentleman to dance, Lady Georgianna. It is most improper."

Georgie resisted rolling her eyes at the woman. A proposition! Lady Elizabeth made a dance sound night on comparable to a dalliance in the darkened gardens.

"It's most improper, but perhaps you have adequate reason, my dear. You have been remiss in your societal duties, secluded from the more polite of the ton for many years." 

Biting her tongue, Georgie called upon her infinite patience. Or, at least, her ability to pretend to be so. 

"Don't slouch, my lady," she continued, her voice low and harsh. "The future Duchess of Burkeley does not have a hunch. She is always the most delicate and graceful in any situation."

 Georgie called upon her usual calm reserve as she straightened her shoulders dutifully. The corset further pinched in her waist, and Georgie wondered if this what what having a fit of the vapors felt like - a cracking of one's bones and the sucking in of one's internal organs.

It was doubly hard in this gown. Her hand fell to her belly, and she wondered why she had insisted on wearing this one.  It was beautiful, to be sure, with little rosettes along the skirts. The color shifted from aqua to green and back to blue. The three-quarter inch sleeves had a fall of lace, and the skirts were full-bodied making her appear like a fairy.