by Amy Jarecki
He strengthened his grip—not hard, but firm as if he’d never let her fall. “You’ve no cause to be when you are with me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you stand upon a pedestal all your own.” He chose not to explain further as the music began. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Staring at his neckcloth, Georgiana concentrated on the steps. If she just kept it simple and let the tempo of the music flow through her, she might succeed.
“Look at me,” Evesham whispered.
It wasn’t a request, but a command which Georgiana was powerless to refuse. And as her gaze met his, the room began to swim. In his arms, she felt completely secure, though his eyes were intense and hungry.
Her heart raced. Her mouth grew dry. Her need for him rushed through her body like a raging torrent.
Why was she so drawn to this unconventional man? What power did he wield to make her insides melt? To make her want to do unspeakable things in the dark recesses? In private. In public. Wherever. She wanted his hands on her—to kiss him, to thread her fingers through his ebony hair. To examine how his skin contrasted with hers. Fletcher Markham was exotic and barbaric, masquerading in ducal clothes.
They twirled in time with the crescendo of the music, dancing as if they were on the wisps of a silvery cloud, removed from the crowd. Alone, they shared this moment, neither caring if anyone noticed the magnetism pulling them together.
Why must he look at her that way? She was a widow, a bookish bluestocking. A man like Evesham should never stir her blood, nor she his. Yet Georgiana could not deny the hot desire thrumming through her veins. This man was dangerous and roguish and everything she’d learned to abhor.
And she wanted him.
When the orchestra stopped playing, she stood dumbstruck, her breasts heaving with exertion.
“You are as graceful as a swan swimming on a glassy pond,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. Warm breath seeped through her glove while he lingered.
A hundred responses denying his claim came to mind. I am as clumsy as they come. No rational man would utter such nonsense. “What a very considerate thing to say. Thank you.”
He led her away. “I think it is time to hail the carriage.”
“So soon?” Georgiana’s heels clicked the floorboards as she hastened to match his long strides. “But you’ve only just arrived.”
“Yes, but your mother asked me to see you safely home.”
She swept a stunned gaze across the hall. “What have you done with Mama?”
“Me? Nothing.” Evesham’s grip tightened. “But she—”
She stopped and drew her hand away. “I saw the pair of you off whispering. I knew you must be colluding about something.”
Those amber eyes grew dark. “I beg your pardon? If you would allow me to finish before you pronounce me guilty, I would be much obliged.”
“Very well. Why has my mother asked the Duke of Evesham to see me safely home?” Georgiana looked over her shoulder. Where in the blazes was Eleanor?
“She wanted to retire early—said she’d slept lightly last eve and was overtired.”
“Overtired?” Mama had seemed spry enough when they’d left for the ball. And why hadn’t she said something to Georgiana? “I hope she isn’t suffering an illness.”
“She was emphatic that you needn’t worry.”
Rising onto her toes, again she searched for her friend. No matter how badly she wanted to slip away with the Duke of Evesham, such a thing simply wasn’t done. “But what will people think if we’re seen leaving together—in the same carriage. It will be The Scarlet Petticoat’s headline on the morrow. Please, give me a moment and I’ll have a word with Lady Eleanor.”
“Her Ladyship is no longer here.”
“Truly?”
“I saw her collect her cloak as I was arriving.”
“Oh dear.”
Georgiana’s insides leaped. She was left unescorted at a ball. Widow or nay, she’d been left to her own devices by Mama of all people. Her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth as she examined the duke. She would be agreeing to leave with him. To create a scandal whether anything happened or not. People would gossip. Though as Eleanor had suggested, the rules had changed. But was Georgiana ready for such a step? What might happen? She’d already kissed him.
Yes. She’d kissed him like a harlot.
And she wanted more.
Her tongue tapped the top of her mouth as her gaze settled on his lips. Pillowy soft, full, incredibly desirable lips. What harm would there be in another tiny little kiss? What might happen in a darkened carriage while it ambled across London?
“Come,” he said, leading her to the cloak room. “I might just surprise you.”
Georgiana’s mind raced with her alternatives…order a hack, ask someone else like Lord Hamilton and his wife to oblige her. She still hadn’t decided on a course of action when at the door, Evesham asked the steward to call for his coachman and let him know he would be taking Her Ladyship home, then returning to collect His Grace. “After all, she is a lady and I wouldn’t want the gossips to speak ill of her.”
“Of course not, Your Grace.”
Arching her brows, she gave him a pointed look, but the duke pressed his massive hand in the small of her back and ushered her outside. A bit of a scandal? Be daring? Wonderful. Now she would be riding alone in the Duke of Evesham’s carriage. What a memorable rendezvous she’d be having this night.
And blast him for making her feel so…so…so damned flummoxed. She wasn’t a passionate person by nature. And he knew it. Once she was gone, he’d most likely have a good laugh with his companions at the card tables. Georgiana would never be able to understand a man like the duke—a man who courted opera singers, who oft had his name emblazoned on the scandal sheets.
London’s most notorious rake?
A man like Fletcher Markham would never be interested in a wallflower like Georgiana Whiteside.
Besides, who was she fooling? He was the dandy who had told her to throw her steam engine in the Thames. She must not forget it. Not ever. Moreover, when the Season was over, she would return to her little country cottage and he would go about his ducal responsibilities. There was simply no use wasting her time dreaming about kisses like a silly maid.
He offered his hand to help her into the carriage. “I look forward to when we will meet again, my lady.”
“Thank you for your generosity, Your Grace. The next time my mother decides to leave early, I shall insist she sends the carriage back for me—which she should have done in the first place.”
She plopped onto a velvet seat while the door closed.
“Lady Georgiana is in your care, sirs.” The duke’s voice resonated through the carriage walls. “Please ensure her safety.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
Some indecipherable whispers were exchanged, doubtless some sort of sleight. Come morning, she would confront her mother. How dare Mama meddle and put her in such a compromising position—first to think she’d be alone with Evesham, and now faced with being alone, alone. Both scenarios were humiliating. Both might earn her a mention in The Scarlet Petticoat. At least the latter would put her in a frumpy, bookish, uninteresting light—the same light she’d been in all her life.
As the coach started away, Georgiana clutched her cloak tightly around her shoulders. She was comfortable being a bluestocking. She would stop thinking about the Duke of Evesham this very instant. No, she hadn’t come to London looking for a liaison and she wasn’t about to start losing her head over the most notorious rake in the city.
Mind you, a man who thinks “women have no business tinkering with machines.”
The problem? No matter how much Georgiana tried to convince herself she didn’t want another kiss from the duke, or to feel his arms surround her, she couldn’t push away the emptiness stretching her heart.
Chapter Eleven
While the orchestra played on, Fletcher slipped away fr
om the guests and out to the terrace, pretending to enjoy a stroll in the cool night air. He nodded pleasantly to the people there. After casually pattering down the stairs to the garden, he tiptoed past a couple in a passionate embrace and continued on, projecting an air of calm while he made his way along a hedge, walking farther and farther away from the manse. Beneath the cover of an oak, he took a moment to look to all corners and ensure he wasn’t being watched. A few people stood on the terrace but, at this distance, their voices were lost on the wind.
Ducking to the other side of the tree, he started off at an easy trot. He loved this part of the chase. Would the gossips whisper about him? Perhaps. But they had no idea what he was truly up to.
It didn’t take him long to reach Brook Street where he resumed a casual stroll as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Though he did keep his head down. No use being spotted by any passersby when he’d left his hat, cloak and cane with the coachman. In fact, his head felt rather bare.
As Fletcher had hoped, he spotted her as soon as he reached the northwest corner of Grosvenor Square. He couldn’t have timed it better if they had synchronized their timepieces. Continuing diagonally across the park, he met the coach as the driver reined the carriage to a stop at the southwest corner.
The coachman grinned. “Your hat and cloak, Your Grace.”
“My thanks,” he said, opening the carriage door.
“Stay back. I am armed!”
For a willowy woman, Her Ladyship certainly made herself sound ferocious.
Fletcher raised his hands. “Armed with what, my lady? A wicked fan?”
“You!” she exclaimed as if he’d taken her by surprise. But then, how could he expect her to know what he’d been planning?
He climbed in and sat across from Lady Georgiana. No matter how much he wanted to sit beside her, wrap the woman in his arms and devour her. He’d resolved to let Her Ladyship dictate the pace and, regardless of how difficult it was for him to allow her to do so, he vowed to do his best to be a gentleman.
“Do you have any idea how downtrodden you made me feel when the Duke of Evesham’s carriage hauled me off in front of all polite society? Alone, mind you. Sir, I may be a bore and a consummate wallflower, but I’ll have you know I do have feelings!”
Fletcher cringed. Yes, he’d sensed her disappointment when he’d escorted her into the carriage, but that only served to make him look forward to joining her all the more. He reached out a hand but snapped it back. Blast it all, he should have told her about his damned plan before he hauled off and injured her sensibilities.
The tension in the carriage grew. This wasn’t how a liaison was supposed to proceed. “Fie!” he cursed, shoving his hat and cloak beside him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This muddle is all my bloody fault.”
“The fact that you sent me off in shame in your carriage, or that you are now in your carriage creating a scandal—or not creating a scandal, because all of polite society thinks I’m alone?”
He ground his back molars. Why did he always seem to fumble whenever in Her Ladyship’s presence? “I never intended for you to feel embarrassed. I’d hoped it was a gallant act, sending you off while I remained behind.”
“Gallant?” She snorted. “But then slipped away to join me anyway.”
“Yes, well, that’s part of the whole…” No, he wasn’t about to say courtship. “Game, if you will.”
“Tell me, what game is it we are playing?”
He sat for a moment, tongue-tied. Had any woman in the entirety of his life ever rendered him at a loss for words?
No.
He drummed his fingers. How to proceed now that I’ve clearly piqued her ire?
“My lady,” Fletcher began, wishing he could clearly see her eyes. It was inordinately difficult apologizing to the silhouette of a female sitting across the carriage—a rather alluring female—alluring and irritated. “Please forgive my unorthodox methods, but you were right. If we had left the ball together, all of the ton would have been gossiping about our impending nuptials come the morrow.”
A wee gasp came from the shadowy figure. “Did you say I was right?”
“I did.” He crossed his ankles, letting loose a long breath. “Now tell me, is my person in danger? With what are you armed?”
Metal flashed through the dim light as she held up her slender weapon. “A hairpin.”
“I see.” At least she wasn’t pointing a loaded flintlock at his heart. “Have you ever attacked a man with such a weapon?”
“To be honest, I cannot say I have ever happened upon an occasion to do so.”
Leaning forward, he imagined a lock of long hair curling down the side of Georgiana’s face. “Has its removal disturbed your coiffeur?”
“Just a bit in the back, I believe.”
He held out his palm. “If I may, I might be able to resituate your coiffeur so it will not appear disheveled when you arrive home.”
The pin dropped into his hand. “You would do that for me?”
“Why would I not?”
“I don’t know,” she purred. “You seem more like a man who prefers removing hairpins than applying them.”
A low chuckle rumbled from his throat. “You are not wrong there. But it is important to me to deliver you home without looking like you’ve been ravished.”
She chuckled. “Especially when I haven’t been.”
“May I?”
Skirts rustled as she shifted aside and he moved to her side of the carriage. “You are a quandary to me, Your Grace,” she said as she turned away, giving him access to the back of her head.
“Oh?” He smoothed his fingers along her shoulder until he met with hair as soft as the down on a baby duckling. Fletcher couldn’t hold in a low growl as a twinge of longing swirled to life deep down where it shouldn’t be. “And why is that?”
“Need I say it?”
He drew the tress to his nose and closed his eyes as he inhaled the fragrance so clean it was as if he’d just stepped outside after a cloudburst. He wrapped the curl around his finger while he leaned closer, breathing deeper. “Are you referring to my reputation in the gossip columns?”
“Mm. I’d say after our encounter at Don Giovani I have rather first-hand experience upon which to base my opinion.”
“Ah, yes.” He palmed a tiny dagger he kept hidden in his waistcoat, cut off the end curl and slipped the talisman into his pocket. Then Fletcher applied himself to the task of pinning the lock into place. “I must apologize for my brash behavior.”
“Something tells me you’re quite accustomed to being brash.”
He secured the hairpin, his hands aching to rest on her shoulders. “Not always.”
“Truly? But I would think a man who has been a duke for nearly five years is rather accustomed to having things his way—bending the rules to suit himself.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I believe you are fond of having things your way.”
“And what about you? Do you not wish for things to go your way?”
“Wish it, perhaps. Though I am disappointed most of the time and, like the rest of society, I must accept my lot.”
“What would you do if the tides were to change?”
“Oh, please. My path has already been cut before me.”
“Has it?” Without touching, he lightly blew warm air across the back of her neck while every nerve in his body came to life. “What do you want, Georgiana? Right here. Right now. When nothing else matters except this very moment?”
She turned her head, her face glowing blue with the moonlight streaming in through the windows. Her eyes wide, her lips parted, her breathing ragged, she slid silken fingers along his jaw and to the back of his neck.
“This.”
With Fletcher’s next blink, she closed the distance, her mouth clamping over his with a searing, demanding kiss. A torrent of pent up desire burst in his chest as he pulled her onto his lap and met her fervor. Th
e moment her lips met his, his resolve crumbled like a sandcastle being consumed by the sea.
As her fingers plunged into his hair, his hand slipped over the top of her breasts. Unable to stop himself, he slid beneath the thin strip of silk covering Georgiana’s breasts and teased her nipple.
Sighing, she threw her head back and arched toward him. “I-I don’t know what has come over me.”
“Don’t think,” he growled. “Just feel.”
Holy everlasting hell, her body was ripe and full, demanding attention and Fletcher had never been so keen to oblige. His every fiber craved the woman in his arms.
As he worked loose her breast, his mouth claimed it, making love to her taut little nipple. A pillowy, ample breast caressed his cheek. “Never, ever let anyone say that you are a bore.”
One hand tugged up her skirts while the other cradled her. Soft silken stockings brushed his fingers, then the satin of her garters. A few more inches and he’d touch flesh. Warm, soft, womanly flesh.
The carriage rocked to a stop. “Mayfair Place, Your Grace,” said the coachman, rapping on the carriage wall.
Georgiana jolted to the opposite side as if she’d been stung by a bee. “Good heavens,” she whispered. “What was I thinking?”
Fletcher clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. “Was I too forward?” Damnation, he was supposed to let Her Ladyship dictate the pace, but as soon as she’d kissed him, he turned into a pillaging lunatic.
“I was far too forward. My behavior was shameful.” She adjusted her bodice. “Mercy, now I do look as if I’ve been ravished.”
“Not to worry.” He gestured toward the driver’s side of the wall with an upturned palm. “I could ask the coachman to take another tour about Town.”
“Are you serious? Clearly we cannot be in the same vicinity as each other without losing our minds.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Of course. You and I could not possibly have anything in common.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Reaching across, he helped her adjust the cloak about her shoulders, covering her from the neck down. “Tell me, my lady. How do you like to spend sunny afternoons?”