by Eva Devon
She laughed, a full-throated sound, determined not to be brought down by his impossible arrogance. If she did not laugh, she would cry. Besides, she had to point all of this out to him. She had to teach him to be a decent fellow, or during one of his arrogant orations, she was going to murder him one day.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied. “I am mocking you, for you make it so easy. You are so very superior. I cannot help but find that the only way I have to deal with it is to tease you. Do you find it upsetting to be teased?”
“Not upsetting,” he ground out. “Unfamiliar. I’m unaccustomed to being teased.”
“Teasing would do you a world of good.”
Thornfield shook his head. “Teasing will not do me a world of good, for I can scarcely tell when it is happening. I must warn you that if you continue to tease me, it might not go in your favor.”
“And how might it not?” she said. “For teasing you unduly?”
He took a step forward, gazing down upon her with a spark of something she could not name.
“I think I would have to find a way to stop your mouth,” he said.
“Stop my mouth?” She folded her arms tight beneath her breasts, unsure where this was headed. Had she pushed him too far? “However will you do that? A scold’s bridal?”
“Oh, no,” he said softly, his gaze falling to her breasts now that she had unwittingly drawn attention to them. “That is something of the past, something barbaric. I’m not barbaric, Georgiana. I’m a man of progress. A man of the future, a man who recognizes that women have their needs, too. There are far more pleasurable ways to stop a woman’s tongue.”
Then… Oh then, his lips turned upward in a burning smile, a smile meant to torture a lady with a promise she did not quite understand.
He looked to her book then back to her mouth. “Mr. Shakespeare clearly knew of them. I would most definitely undertake one of those.”
“And what, pray tell, are they?”
“To begin with?” He took another step toward her, so close now that his boots were skimming the hem of her gown. “A kiss, Georgiana.”
“You want to kiss me?”
“Unless you are still so inclined to end today’s lesson, in which case I will take my leave and you may continue using your mouth in any way you desire, alone.”
She stared up at him, her heart thundering. And made her choice.
Chapter Nine
Georgiana gave no protest, and Edward pulled her into his arms, taking her mouth in a ravenous kiss. He meant it when he said he wished to stop her mouth, but it wasn’t because he disliked what he heard. It was because it was a revelation. Both upsetting and remarkable.
Every word that came out of her mouth was utterly strange and foreign to him. No one spoke to him like this, and though he gave evidence to the contrary, he liked it far too well.
Georgiana Bly was going to be a great deal of trouble. She was not at all the sort of woman that a duchess should be. No, no, no, no, for she entertained ideas that were extremely dangerous to his entire way of life and thinking. But oh how passionately she proclaimed them. He could not help but admire her to some degree, even if she drove him mad.
And if he was honest…she made him consider his own position. Was she correct? Was he too cold? Would his parents be ashamed? That had been a particularly galling moment.
He shook that thought from his head for now, knowing he would take it out in the dark of night and examine every aspect of such an accusation.
Edward traced his hands along the simple cotton gown covering her back. The feel of her beneath his palms, incomparable to any desire he’d ever known. Needing more of her, all of her, the promise of the passion between them, he slipped one hand up to the nape of her neck, angling it back, and he deepened their kiss.
This.
This was what would bring them together, even when everything else was tearing them apart. Of that he was certain.
Her lips parted as she gasped against him. Then her own hands were upon his shoulders, holding on tightly as he kissed her again and again. She took those kisses hungrily until at last she was kissing him back with a wild abandon.
Georgiana Bly was not the sort of woman he would have thought at all to wish for. But there was no question, wish for her he did. Every day in her frustrating, fascinating company only solidified that for him.
She was a conundrum, ready to be kissed, and completely unadapted to his society. She was learning, true, but she was also shaking his very foundations, asking him to let go of the walls that had made his life bearable.
What the devil was he going to do?
The only thing it seemed to him was to make love to her. And so he held her tightly, until suddenly she shoved against him, her face twisting as if she’d had the most horrific thought.
“I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed.
In the depth of need for her, his body protested at the abrupt ceasing of their kiss. Every instinct told him to pull her back, to tempt her with more passion.
“What is the matter?” he asked, his breath ragged. Good God, what had she done to him?
He wished to devour her whole, to lay her back against the window seat or the mahogany table and to take her right here. Of course, he wouldn’t. Such a thing would be completely ill-advised, even if she was to be his wife. Anyone could come in at any moment. And while he was used to sating his passions as all dukes did, he was not about to take an inexperienced young lady’s virtue in his library. That was something beyond the pale even for him.
“Let a kiss be a kiss, not a means to an end.” Her dark blue eyes flashed. “I find it incredibly patronizing that you so undervalue my intelligence as to believe I could be dissuaded thus.”
“Undervalue?” he asked, surveying her pink-cheeked face. She looked as if she could scarce draw breath. “Your intelligence is superior to most men of my acquaintance. But a kiss can distract even the greatest intellect, Georgiana, because it is a kiss being a kiss.”
The pink of her cheeks only deepened. She smoothed her hands over her gown, assuring it was put to rights, for the skirts had gone quite askew. In fact, she was delightfully mussed. Her unruly, curly hair all but bounced around her face.
He, too, adjusted his cravat and waistcoat, lest someone come in and deduce what they’d been about—and presume even more.
A perplexed frown crossed her features. “Oh bother. What was it that I wished to say to you? Oh yes.” She cleared her throat, folded her hands before her, and gave him a deadly stare. “I think your behavior is quite appalling, sir, and if this is how you intend to act whilst we are wed, we shall have to have several discussions about the proper behavior of intelligent men with intelligent women.”
“Shall we?” he said, oddly amused and intrigued. She was passionate and fiery beyond recognition at this moment. Did she even know her determination? He doubted it. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I am to be your husband, after all, therefore you shall give deference where due.”
“Shall I?”
“Indeed. Besides, not only am I to be your husband, but I’m also a duke. Everyone who is beneath me does as they are told.” He stated it all as fact, because that’s exactly what it was. These were simply the rules they all lived by.
Her mouth dropped open. “I do not know what to say.”
“I am sure that is a most rare occurrence for you, Miss Bly.”
She huffed. “I am rarely without words, but not because I’m a flibbertigibbet. Because I speak only good sense.”
He marveled at her, both in horror and admiration. It was a devilish combination. What was this strange thing that she evoked in him? He didn’t like it at all. Yet he also did.
She made him…wish to argue with her, to lose control of his feelings. To treat her as his equal because, perhaps, she was. But the only thing that got him through this
life was a sense of control, and if he let go of it—
Dear God, he didn’t wish to think of the early years of his life when he’d barely been able to contain his rages, when he’d held on tightly, when so many school masters had made dire predictions about his future and his ability to be a duke.
No, he was in control. And he would remain thus.
Indeed, he well knew how to keep himself mastered. And he was not about to let some chit of a young woman, even if it was his future wife, tempt him away from the path of reason and the path that he had so intentionally forged.
Edward bowed his head. “Go home, Miss Bly. Please give my regards and wishes for good health to your parents and your sisters.”
And with that, he turned and strode from the room, tempering his emotions, battening them down, ensuring that they could not rise to the surface again.
…
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Andrew Althorpe, Laird of MacLiesh, Earl of Montrose, arched a russet eyebrow. “I came the moment I heard, mon. Thank God, I was already back from sea. Do you think I could let my dearest friend be shuffled off into matrimony without me returning immediately?”
“I’m not dying,” said Edward as he took down a billiards cue from the wall. Even though he sounded terse, truly, he was relieved to have a friend. It was slightly assuring that he was capable of keeping a friend over the years. In fact, it was his friendship with Montrose that had convinced him he wasn’t irretrievably broken. That there was hope.
“Might as well be, mon,” said Montrose as he, too, snatched down a polished cue. “You’ve stuck your head in the proverbial noose and they’re about to pull at any moment.”
Edward inwardly did not disagree. While he was drawn to his future wife, most passionately, it was clear she did not like him. In any regard.
Aside from kissing, of course.
“You needn’t make it sound so terrible,” Edward said.
“Come now” —Montrose chalked his billiard cue—“you absolutely agree. This is the last thing you could possibly want. That chit of a girl, whoever she is, has managed to get you in her grasp. And you are now dancing the matrimonial jig of death.”
Edward ignored Montrose, circled the elaborately carved wooden table, and took aim at the ball sitting on the green felt surface. “I refuse to condemn myself to such doom and gloom.”
Montrose snorted. “You never feel doom and gloom, old mon. You just go on and on in stoicism, which of course I can appreciate. So, I shall go ahead and revel in doom and gloom for you.”
Montrose placed the cue down on the edge of the table, threw his hands up, and in great drama, let out a cry. “The loss of such a bachelorhood is a travesty to this nation. Young ladies shall wail their dismay. The upper classes shall wail in horror that you have been captured by a maiden of such low esteem.”
Edward tensed.
His friend’s words sounded painfully similar to a few of his own, and the mockery of his future wife. “Now come here, she’s hardly a shoemaker’s daughter, Montrose. And even if she was, she’s a young lady of virtue.”
“Virtue?” Montrose said, his lips twitching. “How can she be if you’re forced to marry her in such circumstances? I’ve never even heard you whisper her name. She’s a total stranger to you.”
Edward ground his teeth. The situation could hardly be borne.
“Brandy?” Edward asked, wishing to forget the difficulty of his visit with Miss Bly. She had been in his thoughts almost every moment since he had left her in the library after another thought-stealing kiss. He couldn’t think effectively around her, and away from her, she was all he could think about. It was damned provoking.
“Of course,” Montrose replied, “though I’d prefer a whisky.” He looked at the cue then shook his head. “It’s the only thing to do in such a circumstance.”
Montrose threw himself down on the settee before the fire and propped a booted foot out before him.
Edward placed his own stick down, realizing neither of them was in humor for a game. He nodded toward his friend’s choice of footrest. “That’s ancient silk, I’ll have you know.”
“Never you mind,” said Montrose. “I’ll bring some back from my next journey to reupholster this ancient monstrosity.”
“You’re going to the East again so soon?” Edward picked up a crystal decanter and pulled out the stopper in one smooth action.
“As soon as I can,” Montrose confirmed. “I loathe this island, as well you ken.”
He poured out the deep amber liquid worthy of kings. “It’s not such a very bad place. Shakespeare declared it a jewel.”
“Shakespeare can sod himself,” Montrose all but growled before he thrust a weathered hand through his thick, sun-streaked locks. “It might be a jewel, but jewels aren’t particularly pleasant. They’re a great deal of trouble and have to be polished to keep up their shine. England is a terrible place that causes trouble wherever it goes.”
“You cause trouble wherever you go,” Edward reminded, handing his friend a glass.
“That’s true, but I’m Scottish.” Montrose gave a devil’s grin. “I’m allowed.”
“Now why in God’s name are the Scots allowed to cause trouble wherever they go?”
“Because it’s in our nature and no one has been able to stop us. We like to be troublesome. We do it with a smile, though, and everyone thinks we’re charming.” Montrose took a long drink then winked. “And we like to wear a skirt.”
“It’s not a skirt,” said Edward, keeping his face completely free of emotion. “It’s a kilt.”
Montrose threw his head back and laughed. “Indeed it is. Indeed it is. We mustn’t let anyone think different, must we? I’m glad you passed my wee test.”
“Well, it’s not the done thing to wear kilts just now.” Edward sighed, not wishing to remind his friend of the painful rules inflicted upon his homeland.
“But they’re very freeing, you ken,” Montrose said with false bravado, as if he hadn’t been one of the loudest voices demanding the cultural return of his people from their Southern rulers. “If I could, I’d wear them every day, but sea air is a bit bracing.”
“You spend most of your times in tropical waters.”
“True, true. But the crossing over there.” Montrose wagged his brows. “The nether regions can barely take it. And now here I am back in the North of England. You couldn’t catch me and my bare legs out and about for anything.”
“Weakling,” he said.
“Ha! I’d like to see you climb the mountains that I have in various tropical lands. You would squeal like a wee bairn. The insects, my friend. The insects are as large as cats.”
Edward shuddered. “Do you recall our days at school? You used to absolutely be terrified of the hordes of insects.”
It was a truth that everyone knew but did not speak of. Schools for the aristocrats, one would have thought, would have been the height of luxury. They were not.
He and Montrose had attended the same school, a place where wealthy or titled young lords were sent to be taught by stoic, rather cross old men and ushered into that thing known as English gentlemanhood.
Neither of them had liked it.
Both of them had been given a great deal of trouble.
And the only reason Edward had survived it was because of the power of his future title. Everyone knew that one day when he inherited his dukedom, he could ruin all their lives.
Montrose, on the other hand, a Scot and an earl, had been a great one for being cornered in various parts of the courtyard.
Given that Edward had known he was not at all like the other boys, he and Montrose had forged an alliance. When the Scot had realized Edward could not speak up for himself, he’d happily helped give his friend voice.
After all, Montrose had no trouble with words. Artic
ulation of ideas was one of his finer points.
There had been times when Montrose’s sheer volume and enthusiasm had been challenging for Edward, who generally preferred the world to be quiet and free of annoyance. But he’d become accustomed and appreciative of his loyal and determined friend.
Even though he wouldn’t admit it, he was pleased that Montrose had come to assist him in a damned difficult moment again.
It was appreciated because Edward did feel in a corner.
“So, the lass does have you by the balls then?” Montrose asked before he lifted his brandy glass, ready for another measure.
Easily, Edward swiped up the brandy decanter and refilled his friend’s snifter. “I wouldn’t put it in quite such a way.”
“Och, how would you put it?” Montrose leaned back, eyeing the brandy. “I heard you were kissing her quite passionately when discovered. You should hear old lady Trentham talk about it, that trout. She declared that you had half the girl’s gown off and that it was a miracle you hadn’t cast the chit aside as a complete and utter whore.”
A wave of rage crashed over him, but Edward managed to carefully place the brandy decanter down on the mahogany sideboard without more than a dull thud. “Is that what’s being said?”
“Indeed it is.”
Edward folded his free hand into a fist, willing himself to stay calm. Willing himself to feel the pressure of his fingers into his palm. “I shall have to set that to rights almost immediately. Good God”—he forced his breaths to remain slow, steady—“the trouble this is all going to cause. None of it would have happened if I’d been married last year to…what was her name?”
“Gwendolyn Haverton,” enunciated Montrose with an exaggerated shudder. “Thank God you didn’t marry her. Beautiful but as curious as a trowel.”
“Curiosity is not considered to be the most important thing in a young lady.”
“It bloody well should be if one wishes to have children who love learning. Mothers who are curious about the world help their children to be as well,” Montrose countered. “You don’t wish your children to be without the spirit of inquiry do you?”