A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  “Yes, sir.” The poor man blushed deep red, which clashed greatly with his red and white striped shirt.

  “Thank you, John. I’ll ring when we are finished.”

  “I think that time has come and gone, brother,” Ash mumbled around his food. “Lady Georgiana has done you in and then some.”

  “Stubble it,” Ethan snapped. “John?”

  The footman turned at the doors. “Sir?”

  Ethan took a deep breath. “Did her ladyship provide new clothing for the female members of my staff?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ash stopped his pillaging of the tea cart mid-reach. “Lady pirates? Tavern wenches? Harem girls, perhaps?”

  Ethan elbowed him in the side.

  “Quakers, sir.”

  “Beg pardon?” Ash asked as he elbowed Ethan back.

  “The women in this house are now dressed as Quakers. Mrs. Treach is not happy about it, at all. Says she looks like a crow.”

  “Thank you, John.” At Ethan’s words, the footman scrambled out of the library like a rat deserting a sinking ship.

  “Have you given her reason to believe you might abuse those in your employ?” Ash lifted a stone tankard from the cart.

  “Absolutely not,” Ethan did not hesitate. Whatever else Georgiana might think of him, she did not believe him that sort of man. He’d wager his life on it. He was her last choice as husband. He was beginning to believe so, at least, but she was not a lady who would keep company with a man who trifled with women who had no choice.

  “Perhaps she thinks to save your pirate’s soul.” Ash laughed and took a swig from the tankard. Half of which he sprayed across the animal rug. “Grog,” he croaked and began to cough.

  Ethan beat him upon the back. “I suspected as much. Georgiana is nothing if not thorough.” He hoisted himself up and went to the large globe in the heavy wooden stand in the corner nearest them. So far as he could tell, it was the one piece his decorator had allowed to remain. He lifted the top half of the globe to reveal a fully stocked liquor tantalus. He poured two generous glasses of brandy.

  “As amusing as this”—Ash waved his arm to indicate the buccaneer’s eyesore masquerading as Ethan’s library—“is, I must ask why you chose to court Lady Georgiana at all. And why do you continue when she has set you so many tasks designed to make you cry craven and run, as any sane man might do?”

  “She is beautiful, of a good family, and it is time I took a wife, don’t you think?” Ethan handed his brother one of the glasses of brandy and sat next to him on the captain’s bunk.

  “As I see it, you have two choices. You can cut line and tell me the truth, or I can drag you above stairs to see what that wench has done to your bedchamber.”

  “Call her wench again and I will draw your cork no matter how fond I am of your wife and son.” Ethan sipped his brandy and stared at the bust of Nelson. He imagined Georgiana dressing the hero of Trafalgar in an eyepatch and smiled. She’d had a grand time, and he suspected grand times were scarce in her life.

  “That answers one question,” Ash said. “Now, why did you start this misadventure in matrimony and what does our damned grandfather have to do with it?”

  Ethan stared into his brandy glass. Weariness lapped at his feet and threatened to overtake his need to protect his brother, something he’d failed to do ten years ago. Ash was a man now, with a formidable wife and loyal friends. Ethan had wished those things for him. Now he wished them for himself. He wished for Georgiana to look at him the way Eleanor looked at Ash. Alone had worked for him all his life. Alone was safe. He didn’t want to be safe anymore.

  “Thomas is threatening to marry Margaret off to Baron Turnbull unless I make an aristocratic marriage.”

  “Neptune’s balls. Turnbull is sixty if he’s a day and he’s buried four wives.”

  “I failed to keep you and Margaret safe after Mama and Papa died. I will not fail again. As bad a choice as it seems, I must secure the lady’s hand. Though I have no idea how I am to accomplish it.” He glanced around the room, then started when his brother’s hand landed on his shoulder.

  “As Eleanor has made a point to remind me every night since the Farnsworth’s ball, you were little more than a child yourself when you left us in Thomas’s care. And I have no choice but to forgive you if I want to enjoy my wife’s favors once more.”

  “It appears we are both faced with bad choices.”

  “True. But sometimes a bad choice ends up being the best thing that ever happens to a man. Tell me about the lady. Between Matthias and I, perhaps we can help you win her.”

  “God help me.”

  “God wouldn’t be caught dead in this pirate’s harem. You’ll have to settle for me.”

  ***

  For Ethan, the only difference between a musicale and a dinner party was the absence of a caterwauling soprano. He’d not decided which was worse as the dinner party was still in progress. He studied the array of silverware around his plate, upon which a footman had placed a bowl of soup. A delicate hand brushed his elbow, then his forearm until a dainty finger touched the end of a spoon on the outer edge of the array.

  “Thank you,” he murmured as he took up the spoon.

  “I cannot in good conscience allow you to starve to death, sir,” Georgiana said softly. “That is something I would not do to a dog.”

  “A dog would not be required to use a spoon, let alone four of them.” He shifted in his chair for the twentieth time. The man who created silk knee breeches should be drawn and quartered. After being strangled with a damned neck cloth. “Nor would he have to dress for dinner.”

  “Are you saying you prefer to dine in your usual attire, Captain Dorrill?” She did not look at him as she spoke. Which allowed him to gaze at her all he wanted, if that was even possible. The gentle line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, revealed by the daring décolletage of her blue silk gown, created a heady feast for his senses, one of which he would never have his fill. Her skin glowed velvet soft beneath the candlelight. Her lips, as she took tiny sips of her soup from the silver spoon, fascinated him. He’d traveled the world, but no bloom on earth carried the shade of those lips.

  “I prefer to dine in nothing at all, Georgiana,” he murmured softly, reveling in the ensuing blush that suffused her cheeks. “Which stands as testament to my devotion to you in donning Weston’s latest torture device to dine with you tonight.”

  “You are a walking, talking scandal, sir.” She still refused to look at him.

  “Says the woman who turned my home into a Tortuga bawdy house.”

  She turned on him, eyes wide and mouth a thin line. He grinned. She gave a surreptitious flick of her serviette beneath the table.

  “Ow!” Ethan rubbed his thigh. “You have hidden talents, my lady.”

  “I grew up with a hoyden of a sister and a half dozen brawling male cousins.” She went back to her meal. The soup had been removed and replaced with a plate of thinly sliced roast beef au jus and a sort of potato looking dish Ethan tasted and discovered was asparagus, of all things.

  “Captain Dorrill, is it true you were a pirate?” a slender blonde girl, seated next to her dragon of a mother, inquired from across the table.

  He sensed Georgiana drawing into herself. The chill of her hauteur was a living, breathing thing. Worst of all, he had no way to discern if the armor she donned was against his notoriety or the censure of the society she allowed to dictate her every mood.

  The hell with it.

  Ethan launched into a colorful tale of the life of a privateer. The other guests were in turns horrified, fascinated, and condescending as the devil. The more snide the remarks and pointed the observations directed his way, the less he edited his answers to the ridiculous questions they posed. And the more he sensed her drawing away from him.

  How many men have you killed? This from a hoary earl leering at the curve of Georgiana’s breasts as they graced the caress of the heart-shaped bodice of her gown

 
; Is it true the native women run about naked? The question drawled by a young dandy who looked suspiciously like the earl’s heir Ethan had punched at the Venetian breakfast a few weeks ago.

  Do pirates truly ravish the women they capture and then sell them into harems? A dowager countess who made no effort to hide her disdain for Georgiana offered this gem. At least his answer to this question silenced her from inquiring further about the Duke of Addington’s unfortunate alliance with that dreadful McCormick man—a duke’s daughter marrying a man in trade. How nobly Lady Georgiana endured it.

  Is there truly a difference between a pirate and a privateer? Their host, a marquess distantly related to Georgiana, oozed derision as he posed this question.

  Have you any scars? The viscount’s widow seated to Ethan’s left had no reason to ask. She’d spent the entire interminable dinner running her hand over every portion of his anatomy available beneath the table. His insistent throat clearing had done nothing to call Georgiana to his aid and had the unfortunate effect of encouraging the widow. If the seams of his breeches gave way when he rose from the table it would not be his fault. He reached for the wineglass the footman had refilled when dessert was served.

  “It seems to me a privateer is merely a mercenary who serves neither king nor country but only his own interests,” the marquess said. “The lure of money is hardly as honorable a purpose as the service our brave soldiers and sailors give for the sake of patriotism.”

  The wineglass shook in his hand. Georgiana took it from him. Softly, so softly Ethan alone might hear it, she murmured the sort of gentle nonsense a mother spoke to a recalcitrant child. This time, it was he who ignored her.

  “I would submit, my lord, patriotism is often a luxury afforded to those who sit at home and go about their gently-born lives whilst the sons of the farmers, bakers, innkeepers, and whores of England are asked to exercise their patriotism on the battlefields with His Majesty’s Army and on the blood-soaked decks of ships with His Majesty’s Navy. Perhaps they do it for love of country, but more often than not they do it for the price of the few coins they can send home to provide bread and potatoes for those they know they’ll likely never see again. I found a way to serve king and country and make a decent living at it. That makes me less honorable than those poor sots dying for a few shillings and the hope of coming home to resume living in poverty and degradation. But I daresay it makes me more honorable than those who let others do the fighting for them.”

  The heavy pall of silence, punctuated by Georgiana’s labored breathing, was instantly interrupted when their hostess, the marchioness, erupted from her chair at the far end of the table. She did so with such force that dinnerware up and down the table rocked and chimed in an expensive symphony of tinkling and scraping. Chairs slid back, accompanied by the insistent buzz of male voices as the gentlemen rose.

  “Ladies, shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?” the marquess’s timid wren of a wife announced in her thin, reedy voice.

  Georgiana slapped Ethan’s hand away and got to her feet unaided. When he took a step as if to follow her, she clutched his arm and leaned up to hiss in his ear. “Stay. Here. Stay or I shall stab you in the heart with the dinner fork. And do not utter another word.”

  He brushed his hand over her bare elbow, just enough to draw her gaze to his own. Her face shone with a magnificent fury. It lit her eyes and shadowed her skin with a pale pink two shades lighter than her lips, but no less alluring. He’d never wanted to kiss a woman more. Her lips parted slightly. The enticing expanse of skin bared by her gown rose and fell. A veil of awareness passed over her expression. Unfortunately, an aware Georgiana was an armed Georgiana. She stood on his foot, spun on her heel, and left the dining room with the other ladies.

  After the longest three-quarters of an hour of his life, Ethan followed the other men into a large drawing-room decorated in the Grecian style so popular in ton homes. He briefly contemplated what the other guests might make of his “pirate’s harem” as Ash so smugly put it. Ethan stood inside the doors and observed the clusters of guests milling about, sneaking glances in his direction at random intervals. A sinking sensation lurked about the edges of his mind. He didn’t give a damn what these people saw when they looked at him. But he did care what Georgiana saw. And in spite of the utter worthlessness of their respect, she wanted it. He didn’t understand it, but his understanding was not what she required.

  What the devil did she require?

  The viscount’s widow was holding court on a green silk brocade settee next to the tea cart. The entire room was done in shades of green. Ethan felt as if he were swimming in a bowl of split pea soup. The only thing missing was the most infuriating, delectable bit of English womanhood in London. A glint of candlelight off a tiara drew his attention to a chair by the large white marble fireplace. The marchioness tilted her head in the direction of the French windows across the drawing room. The light of several torches illuminated a terrace that appeared to span the entire rear of the marquess’s town mansion. Ethan gave the marchioness a wink and strode to the windows, where he stood for a moment before slipping out onto the terrace.

  He wandered down the steps and along a paved torchlit path to an open area where a large circular fountain flowed soothingly beneath the night sky. Ethan nearly passed it by until a distinct scent came to him on the early fall breeze. Gardenia. And a hint of lemons. Now he knew.

  “Hiding, Georgiana?” He strolled around the curve of the fountain, hands clasped behind his back. She sat on one of the stone benches set about the base at evenly spaced intervals.

  “After your performance in his lordship’s dining room, you are the one who should be in search of a place to hide.” She turned away from him.

  “Why do you think I am out here? I seldom go in search of women who threaten me with cutlery, no matter how expensive the silver.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Trying to turn me up sweet.”

  He chuckled darkly. “I couldn’t if I tried. You are the least sweet woman I know.”

  “And you are the most inept suitor ever to send a posy of flowers.”

  “I have yet to send you flowers.” He sat down next to her. Unable to resist the sheen of her shoulders, bared by her dress, nor the sheen of the back of her neck, bared by her intricately upswept coiffure, he slid closer. His arm bumped against the tiny buttons outlining her spine.

  “It is just as well.” She did not move away. “You would probably send something poisonous.”

  “Well played. On my travels, I did encounter a plant that eats small animals and birds.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, her expression one of utter disbelief.

  “On my honor,” he vowed. “Unfortunately, it does not grow large enough to swallow a pompous marquess or a bland, blonde girl just out of the schoolroom whose only attraction is a dimple when she simpers.” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

  “Pity.”

  “Indeed.”

  She laughed and his stomach did an odd flip. “That was poorly done of you, Captain. Lady Millicent is considered a diamond of the first water.”

  “I wouldn’t wade through a Hyde Park puddle for her.”

  “There is no point in you saying such things.” She turned to look at him. He missed the warmth of her back against him.

  “There is every point. If tonight has shown you anything of my character, surely it has shown you I do not mince words, Georgiana.”

  “Yes, and what the marchioness and her guests think of me I cannot being to imagine. Invitations to her ladyship’s dinners are highly coveted. You have no care where you are invited or shunned. I do.” She sat perfectly erect, as if his touch were something to fear. Or perhaps, anticipate?

  “Why do you care? You are invited because you are a duke’s daughter. Is that who you want to be?” Irritation crawled along his skin like ants. Irritation at her, at what she allowed herself to believe. “Who do you want to be,
Georgiana?” He cupped her chin in his hand and rubbed his thumb along the crease of her lips. “Who do you want to be?”

  Her sigh set up an ache in his chest, which startled and confused him.

  “It matters little who I want to be. I have no choice but to be who society demands I be. It is the best choice I can make.” Her breath teased the sensitive pad of his thumb. He stroked the sharp line of her jaw, the skin velvety as a dove’s breast.

  “The best choice? But is it a good choice?” he asked softly.

  She leaned into his touch. The light of the torches and the touch of moonlight made her eyes shine grey, like the sea off the coast of Cornwall. “Sometimes there are no good choices, Captain.”

  “Ethan,” he breathed. “My name is Ethan and I want to hear you say it. Not the duke’s daughter or the well-mannered lady, you, Georgiana. Say my name.”

  “There are no good choices for a woman like me…Ethan.”

  “I’ve been to the place where there are no good choices. I’ve lived half my life there. No more. When there are no good choices, sometimes you simply have to make a bad one.” He slid his free hand across her hip and around her back to tug her closer. She did not resist. A thrill raced through his body. He had no idea who was seducing whom and, in the moment, didn’t give a damn.

  A huff, half laughter and half exasperation, escaped her lips. “I am certain you have an intimate acquaintance with a veritable feast of bad choices.” She held his gaze. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips and brushed his thumb as it did so. Lust, simmering in the far reaches of his mind, roared to life. It shifted and battled with the primitive urge to protect her, even from himself. A protection she’d never allow him to give.

  “Never doubt it. What of you? Do you have an acquaintance with any bad choices?”

  “Only one. Ethan.”

  She kissed him.

  Chapter Eight

  He was so warm. Ridiculous thing to enter her head. Georgiana ran her hands under his evening jacket and discovered deliciously hewn muscles and a heat meant to be reveled in, absorbed, and never let go. Her kiss had been prim but sure. To her surprise, Ethan let her explore and try and lead the kiss where she wanted it to lead. If only she knew where that was.