"You must keep searching. You are getting hotter. Do not give up, woman."
"I suppose this gave you a devious thrill!"
"Perhaps." He smirked. "What about you?"
She couldn't resist smiling in return. "I must admit you are not boring company."
"But I am not charming, eh?"
"Charming? No, that is not your skill. You're too rumpled... and honest."
He scowled and grabbed her hands, holding both in his. "Do you find my cousin charming?"
Georgiana chuckled. "Only in the manner of a blundering, overgrown pup. Endearing in small doses, if one does not mind the occasional puddle or torn bonnet ribbon."
This seemed to appease him. He brought her hands to his mouth and then released them. She slipped her fingers around his warm neck again. "This is where we usually kiss, Harry."
"Is it?"
"Before I say goodnight and leave you at your door."
"But I might go wandering when you leave tonight. Have you given up searching for the key that will keep me safely in my chamber?"
"I do not know where else it might be." There was surely nothing left to search.
"You found it, Georgiana," he murmured. "You found it already."
* * * *
He knew it was wrong, but he wanted her to stay and he was in a selfish mood. Had he not suffered all these guests as politely as he could? Surely he was due a reward.
On that night he was ready to give in to his raw desire, the side of Harry that did as he pleased and answered to no one. The side of Harry that still lived on that island and had begun to think like primitive man. To yearn for a mate. She had put herself there in his way, why should he not take his pleasure?
Sliding fingers through her hair he loosened the pins until a long, thick braid tumbled over her shoulder and curls framed her small face.
"I told you before that I cannot stay the night with you here," she said, her sentence punctuated by a hiccup. "I would not be satisfied with only a part of Harry, but I do not believe you can give all of yourself, and neither of us wants to marry. That much has already been decided."
True. He did not want marriage, did he? Had he not, only yesterday, assured himself that he was a danger to this young woman? She had mysterious plans for her future and they did not include marriage. But if she spent the night with him, Harry would be obliged to marry her. He was, despite everything, a gentleman. And she was not a hussy— a light-skirt chasing after a brief thrill and nothing more— but a young woman of good family, respectable.
Tonight he felt calmer, his mind moved at a regular pace and no longer felt overcrowded, or over-stimulated. The touch of her gentle hands possessed a very soothing quality and he wanted her to keep stroking him until he fell asleep. Well, on second thought, perhaps "soothing" was not exactly the right word for what she did to him. But he liked it.
As he'd said to her, his aunt was not there. Why did they care about proper?
Christ, he was drunk. Should never have tried to keep up with Max when he was so out of practice.
"Then lay with me until I sleep," he urged, coming to a compromise. Or as near as he could get to one in his current state of warm arousal and intoxication.
"Lay with you?" Georgiana cast him a skeptical look and he smiled.
"Is that too much to ask?" His fingers worked quickly to separate the strands of her braid and leave those thick brown locks cascading free, all the way to her waist. "You said you wanted to help me."
Did she know how much pain he'd been in? How much he'd lived through, and died through? If she did she would take pity, he thought with a sharp burst of drunken sulkiness.
"Lay with me," he growled. "That is all I ask."
* * * *
There was a key somewhere. There must be. He had been using something to get out of this room after Brown locked his door from the outside, but he was not going to tell her apparently. Then she would just have to find out for herself and search again once he slept.
Staying with him was a risk, of course— she would be a fool not to know that. But even in his state of undress she trusted Harry. He had always told her what he thought and what he wanted; he was never sly.
"This is all you ask?" She looked up at him, her hands resting on his shoulders.
"All I ask," he vowed solemnly.
With her fingers, she traced his lips slowly, felt their curve as if she meant to hold it in her memory. "Just one more kiss then," she murmured, wondering whether she would be able to resist more.
Suddenly he lifted her off her feet, not waiting any longer, and lowered her to the assortment of furs and blankets beside the fire.
"No more of your games?" She caught her breath as he kissed the side of her neck and she felt that thudding pulse begin again. The man seemed to know exactly how and where to touch her and make her forget herself. He wound her up like one of his clockwork creatures.
"No more games tonight," he murmured throatily, almost purring. "We'll be together, but very still and on our best behavior."
"Hmm." There was nothing more she could say for his lips were on hers, kissing hungrily, urgently. His hands swept her body, exploring every curve with tenderness, the material of her gown shifting under his palm but never lifted. When he moved his lips to her jaw, nibbling playfully, she groaned. "This is not lying still, Harry. Or behaving!"
"Just one more kiss you said."
"Harry!"
"Georgiana," he groaned, nuzzling beneath her air, burying his face in her loose hair. "I am still kissing you. I am not yet done. I might never be done. Resign yourself to it, for I am very thorough."
She laughed breathlessly because his words tickled her neck, and his fingers did the same to her nipple where it rose in a taut peak against the front of her gown.
Thus, for the next few minutes he made his "kiss" linger. With his lips and hands he worshipped her, petted her, covered her in adulation— any part of her skin that was bared for his caress. Georgiana had never imagined how a man might trace the vein in her wrist with his damp tongue and leave her in a state of heated sensual anticipation of something more. She could never have guessed that the gentlest nibble upon her earlobe would leave her squirming with restless, breathless delight.
He knew all these things, however, and diligently saw to it that her eyes were opened to all these teasing pleasures. She might have been an exotic princess being tended to by her gorgeous, naked slave.
The thought amused her, made her blush and close her eyes.
He made no move to go further than the top of her stockings and, just there, on the trembling flesh of her inner thigh, inches from her garter, he placed the most tender of all his kisses. At least, it began that way. But when she gasped out his name again and clasped a handful of his hair, he opened his lips to suck upon the damp skin, nibbling there as he had done with her ear, leaving her panting, melting into the furs upon which she lay sprawled. And then, as she pushed her gown down over her thighs, he made a small, low sound of frustration, but did not try to prevent her.
Finally, with one hand on her waist, the other arm beneath her head, he held her close, saying nothing. They lay together before his fire, the air hot and moist now, shimmering with need and a palpable desire, barely restrained.
It was as if he had struck the flint inside her, started a spark that now smoldered keenly and impatiently. When he moved his left leg and rested it over hers, his nakedness was even harder to ignore, but Georgiana soon heard his breathing fall to a more regular pace and she knew he was close to sleep. In the heat of that room, she too felt her eyelids grow heavy, her body relaxed under his. But she did not sleep.
He, of course, had downed several glasses of brandy that night before he came to bed, which helped lull him into his dreams.
How strange it was to lie there with him beside the crackling fire. As her senses took it all in, her thoughts came in bubbles, floating and popping in the air, like those hiccups that had betrayed her.
His breath b
lew steadily into a curl of Georgiana's hair, moving it against her neck. His skin held its own heat, releasing his scent into the air— leather, brandy and something spicy. The weight of his hand on her waist, and his broad thigh across her hips, did not make her feel trapped, as she might have expected, but comforted and needed.
It was peaceful, almost like her dream of lying under mangroves with the ocean waves sizzling over sand nearby. If only life could be that uncomplicated— just a man and a woman enjoying themselves, taking pleasure as and when they wanted it.
But real life was not that way, of course. In real life there were consequences, customs and conventions.
Their island was different.
Shockingly, he had nibbled her thigh. She could still feel the mark he must have left there and it seemed likely she would never be the same again.
Curiously enough, her hiccups had ceased.
When she whispered his name and there was no reply, Georgiana felt safe to investigate, but as he felt her move he tightened his hold to prevent her leaving.
"Thank you for saving me from Mrs. Swanley," he said sleepily.
Oh yes, she heard the amusement in his tone.
But he did not open his eyes.
* * * *
Harry woke a few hours later. His fire had died down and his mate still lay within his arms— sadly fully clothed, but for her slippers. Her sweet scent surrounded him. He inhaled a great breath of it and watched the dark curl dance beside her cheek when he blew upon it. Those lush lashes fluttered against pale freckles and he smiled, remembering how they had first bewildered him, made him want to touch her.
For once he could remember the events of the evening before. Every kiss was held in his memory, tied up like a bundle of love letters— ugh what a dreadfully sappy, romantic thought. Must be drunk still.
As he lay there, letting the pleasure wash over him again, every part of his body, inside and out, tingled with anticipation. There was an excitement, an eagerness to greet the day that he had not felt in a long time.
Somehow she had broken the spell in which he'd been held for the past two years. Perhaps the two Harrys finally had a reason to join forces again. Georgiana Hathaway was a formidable, slippery creature and far too much for one man to handle.
Look how she had tricked him into falling asleep, instead of seducing her.
Max would despair. You were in the Navy, Harry, for pity's sake! This chaste life is not what I expect from a sailor.
Georgiana's determination to keep him away from that other woman, while pretending it was all for his own good, amused Harry greatly. Did she really think he could not defend himself from a woman like Mrs. Swanley? That was easy, compared to fighting against the temptation she brought him.
He ran his thumb across her lips and felt her sigh as she nestled closer.
His gallant protector. Where had she been all his life?
* * * *
Georgiana woke as dawn light broke in blush streaks across the sky outside her window. Yes, her window.
She sat up and found that she was back in her own room. Was it all another dream?
Her gown had been removed and her corset, but she still wore her petticoat, chemise and stockings. Surely she must have slept deeply not to feel herself being disrobed. But there was her dress from last night, laid neatly over the brass railing at the foot of her bed.
If it was not a dream, Harry must have carried her back to her room.
She could smell his scent on her still, as if she had bathed in him.
And then, as another thought came to her, she hurriedly pulled up her petticoat to examine her inner thigh just above her garters.
Thus she learned for sure it was not a dream.
Last night she had slept with a man while there was no intention, or expectation, of marriage on either side.
She fell back to her pillow with an enormous sigh and a smile on her face. It all felt very naughty, although it could have been a great deal worse. Especially considering her record for burgeoning disaster.
She could manage this perfectly well, she decided, arms stretching over her head. It was just a little attraction and that was all. He was a man and she was a woman. These things happened.
That wicked smile still twitching over her lips, Georgiana wriggled deeper under the covers, hiding her hot cheeks even though there was nobody to see them.
Chapter Twenty
Mrs. Swanley was set up on the lawn with an easel and all the tools she needed for her watercolor masterpiece of Woodbyne Abbey.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" she whispered to Georgiana.
"I'm sure you'll manage perfectly. Splash the paint about and frown a lot. I have found that even if you do not really know what you are doing, as long as you look confident nobody notices. When it comes down to it, we're all just pretending to know what we're doing."
The supposed artiste gave her a strange look. "You're not quite the naive little miss I took you for, are you?"
"I hope not, Mrs. Swanley."
Lady Bramley was so pleased by the idea of this painting that it could not now be got out of. She was already cleaning a space in the hall where it would hang.
"I cannot let anybody see it until it is finished," Mrs. Swanley explained at dinner, after facing a fleet of questions about the progress of her work. "And I would rather not discuss it at this stage. I hope you understand, your ladyship, but I do my best work in private."
"The artistic mind must have its quirks," said Georgiana jauntily.
"Oh, of course," Lady Bramley agreed, trying to look as if she knew a vast number of artists and had familiarity with their work methods.
"You and Mrs. Swanley have formed a friendship, it seems," Harry muttered, standing behind her in the hall while they all admired the clean area on the paneling where his aunt planned to hang the completed art.
Max had proceeded to quarrel with his mother about the direction of the wind that day, or something similar as was their habit, and Mrs. Swanley attempted to keep the peace. Nobody, therefore, paid attention to them.
"Why would we not? We are both women of a similar type."
He arched an eyebrow. "You are?"
"We are both resourceful and believe in a lady making the most of her gifts, not being held back by convention."
"I see. So I have two revolutionaries in my house."
"Precisely." She grinned over her shoulder and whispered. "Now you understand the necessity of locking your door at night."
"On the contrary. If you're going to burn my house down and riot on the lawns, I need to be able to get out and save myself." He paused and she felt his breath tickle the edge of her ear. "Unless you mean to save me, before you wreck the place."
He still had not told her how he managed to escape his locked room, much to her irritation. The night she stayed with him, he could have used her key, of course, but that did not explain all the other times he managed to go wandering.
"Georgiana," he had said solemnly to her the morning after, "do you honestly think I would be tempted by Mrs. Swanley? Can you not credit me with some sense, despite the various holes in my brain?"
"She said her charms are hard to resist. She's the best in the business."
"Hmm." He placed a finger to his chin. "Perhaps I made a mistake then and should have let her in." Then, seeing her expression, he had laughed. "Even slightly intoxicated I knew better, Georgiana. You are far more tempting to me than she is."
He picked up his book immediately after, still smiling and shaking his head, apparently unaware of the devastating effect such a comment would make upon a girl who had never been found attractive by anybody — except Dickon Moone, the blacksmith's son, who, when they were ten, offered to marry her. Of course, his motivation was entirely due to the new bow and quiver of rubber-tipped arrows she'd received for her birthday. When Georgiana made it clear that she would not share her splendid weapon with him, Dickon's mercenary interest in marriage quickly waned.
<
br /> Commander Sir Henry Thrasher did not give out flattery for the sake of it and he was not after her bow and arrows. Nevertheless, she had apparently gone from being merely "not grotesque" and "mostly symmetrical", to being a creature of temptation. A woman whose thigh he kissed and left branded with a very tiny bruise.
This conversation was the only one they had in regard to the events of that steamy evening in his chamber. Words were not always necessary, however. A look, a slight brush of the fingertips, a shared smile— all were sufficient to bring that memory back and conjure with it every gloriously naughty sensation.
She knew now that she did not need to worry about him wandering into Mrs. Swanley's arms one night for he no longer took nighttime trips as Dead Harry. He was, however, still in the mood to play.
After dinner the foursome of herself, Harry, Mrs. Swanley, and Max Bramley often sat down to cards. The Commander proved himself adept and seldom lost a game, much to his cousin's annoyance. He also brought Lady Bramley's owl out of his study one evening and they all had the chance to ask it their fortune.
Georgiana was astonished by the remarkable foresight of that stuffed bird, for each paper slip that fired from its mended beak contained a Shakespearean quote seemed tailor-made for the person who sat before it.
For Harry, the wise bird had this to say, The fool doth think himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.
All at the table agreed, laughing heartily. Even Harry gave an amused shrug of acceptance to the truth of this.
Next came Mrs. Swanley, who, unable to wait, grabbed the owl before it could be passed around the table. A moment later she received unexpected encouragement for her artistic endeavors when the owl assured her that, We know what we are, but not what we may be.
And for Mr. Maxwell Bramley there was only a teasing slight. I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed.
"Mine is not even a fortune," he complained, tossing the little scrap of paper aside and reaching for his port. "I shouldn't be surprised if you made these up yourself, Harry."
"I certainly did not. This owl is far cleverer than me."
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