by Anne Gracie
To which he replied callously, “Nonsense. You’ll feel better with some food in you. And if the headache persists, we’ll find you a nice humid conservatory to cool off in.” Proving he had no belief in her purported—and imaginary—headache.
He escorted her into the supper room and, to her surprise, steered her away from the top table, toward a table that was already filling. Aunt Agatha and her tame escort hesitated, then made for the top table where Emm and Cal and Rose and Thomas were already sitting.
The duke seated her and took the chair beside her. There was a mild scuffle as two ladies dived to get the seat on the other side of him, much to the discomposure of their partners. The duke appeared not to notice any of them; his attention was all on George.
As George removed her gloves and tucked them into her reticule, Aunt Agatha leaned forward and, from across the room, eyed George in a minatory be-nice-to-the-duke fashion. George bared her teeth in not quite a smile.
The duke proved to be a solicitous supper partner and presented George with a variety of dishes, all very much to her taste. She accepted a portion from every one. She really was very hungry, and the spread was magnificent. The memory of hunger, going several days without food, was not all that far in her past, and it simply wasn’t in her to refuse food when it was offered.
Nor could she waste good food by toying with it in a ladylike manner and leaving most of it on her plate. She allowed her plate to be filled and ate the lot. She ignored the sideways looks from the ladies close by. What she did was none of their business.
The lady beside the duke kept trying to engage him in conversation. As far as George was concerned she was welcome to him, but the duke merely responded to the woman’s gushing efforts with bored-sounding monosyllables, then returned his attention to George. It was very annoying. He ought to have better manners.
What was he playing at? If his purpose in coming here tonight was to indicate to the ton that there were no hard feelings between him and the Rutherford family—Rose in particular—he could have left after his dance with Rose.
This very particular attention to George—so uncharacteristic and public—was drawing unwelcome attention from some of the ladies. Speculative attention. Unfriendly speculation at that, she could tell.
She tried to engage the gentleman on the other side of her in conversation, old General Fairfax, a former commander of Cal’s, but the general was deaf and extremely focused on his supper. For each of her efforts he gave a smile and a nod and returned to shoveling in food, as if at any moment someone would come to snatch his plate away.
As a distraction the general was useless.
The duke plied her with food and drink and gave her his full attention. Taking her cue from the general, George gave supper her full attention.
She felt like a mouse feeding under the gaze of a cat. Or a hawk. A lady mouse with an unladylike appetite. She did her best to throw off her self-consciousness. If he didn’t like her eating so much, he shouldn’t have served her all this delicious food.
Besides which, eating prevented conversation, and that suited George. Every time she’d spoken to this duke she’d managed to offend him. Crab patties were safer than opinions, when one was trying to be good.
“The crab patties are very good, don’t you think?” the duke murmured as he signaled for her glass to be refilled with champagne.
She almost choked. Had he been counting? Was his comment sarcastic, an oblique accusation of gluttony? She gulped down some champagne and muttered, “Cook has done a splendid job.”
Around the tables there was a buzz of conversation, something about Rose’s husband and an earl. She couldn’t quite make it out. She glanced across to where her family was sitting on the other side of the room. They all looked happy enough.
The duke followed her gaze. “Lady Rose’s husband looks rather better than the previous time I saw him.”
“Yes, well, he would. He’d had a difficult time of things.” And then before he could make any critical comment about the man who’d supplanted him, she added firmly, “We are all very fond of Thomas.”
“Lady Salter spoke of him earlier—she didn’t seem very fond of him,” the duke observed.
“No, well, Aunt Agatha doesn’t like anyone very much.”
“She likes me.”
She slid him a sideways glance. “Exactly.”
The winter-gray eyes glinted, but whether with amusement or irritation she couldn’t tell.
Her plate was empty. “What will you have next?” the duke asked. “Fruit tartlets? A cream horn? Lemon curd cake? Brandied custard? Jellies, frosted grapes, ice cream? All of the above?”
“Just some ice cream and grapes, thank you.” She couldn’t resist ice cream, and the frosted grapes, dipped in beaten egg white and coated with finely pounded sugar—she’d watched them being made in the kitchen—looked cool and delicious.
He filled a bowl for her, then served himself. She watched with reluctant amusement as he filled his own plate. He’d eaten sparingly from the earlier dishes—that hadn’t surprised her; he was very lean and hard looking—but it seemed the duke had a sweet tooth. It almost made him seem human.
Almost.
“I noticed the other day on the heath that you are a very fine rider, Lady Georgiana.”
George tensed. Here it came, the purpose behind all this attention—his next offer to buy Sultan. Would the dratted man never give up?
She clenched her jaw and waited, but instead he said, “I presume you enjoy hunting.”
“You presume wrong,” she said curtly and turned her attention to the last of her ice cream.
He raised a brow. “You don’t ride to hounds? Then you’re missing—”
“Foxhunting is despicable. It’s cruel and uncivilized and—”
“Nonsense! It’s a fine sport.”
“Sport?” Her temper rose and she put down her spoon with a clatter. “You think it’s sporting? Dozens of men on horseback and a baying pack of hounds, all chasing one small fox?” Despite her vehemence, she managed somehow to keep her voice low. “And when the poor little thing is finally exhausted and cornered, you watch as the hounds rip it apart! It’s utterly barbaric!”
“Foxes are vermin and their numbers need to be kept down.” His voice was cold.
“They are God’s creatures and have as much right as any of us to exist. As for controlling their numbers, how does that explain why when someone attends their first hunt—their first kill—and most of the time it’s a child—you cut off the fox’s brush and wipe its blood on the child’s cheek and call it an honor! Blooding a child! If that’s not barbaric, I don’t know what is.”
There was a short silence. She bit off a grape and crunched through the hard, sugary coating, then added in case he didn’t get the point, “I despise foxhunting and all who participate in it.”
His face was carved from granite, his expression unreadable, his eyes cold and flinty. She turned her face away and became aware that people were leaving the supper room. Thank goodness. This ordeal was over. She set her napkin aside.
He immediately rose and politely moved her chair out of her way. “A moment more of your time, if I may, Lady Georgiana.”
He’d taken up quite enough of her evening. “I’m sorry, I have an engagement for the next dance.”
“Your partner won’t mind. This won’t take a moment.”
“He won’t mind? I suppose you’ve fixed it so that he has relinquished his dance, too? How many more of my partners have you suborned?”
“Don’t be melodramatic. A quiet word in his ear was all that was required. The fellow went quite willingly.” He gave an infinitesimal shrug. “To the victor go the spoils.”
“I am not anyone’s spoils.”
His gaze moved over her in a leisurely sweep. “No, you’re not, are you?”
; What did he mean by that? She didn’t know but she didn’t like his tone, or the way he looked at her, like a cat surveying his next dish of cream.
“How splendid to be you and have everyone fall in with your wishes,” she said sarcastically.
“It is, rather,” he agreed. “Now, show me where the library is.”
What did he want with the library? she wondered. But if that was what it took to get rid of him . . . “It’s along there.” She pointed.
He took her elbow in a light grip. “Show me.”
She glanced across at her family. Cal was helping Emm up from her chair, so tender and solicitous of his wife it caused a lump to rise in her throat. Rose was smiling up at Thomas, who looked stunned and a little preoccupied. Lily was already leaving the room, arm in arm with her Edward, oblivious of the fashion that husbands and wives should not live in each other’s pockets. Aunt Dottie was still happily eating and talking animatedly to her escort, a handsome, elderly gentleman.
Aunt Agatha was eyeing George through her lorgnette. She indicated with a jerk of her head that she should go with the duke. So she was in on this, whatever “this” was. All for the duke, was Aunt Agatha.
For a second it occurred to her that perhaps Aunt Agatha had lied the other day when she said the duke had rejected George as a possible bride. However he wasn’t acting the slightest bit suitorlike. And he must know from his friends that she had no interest in marriage. No, he probably only intended to make her another offer for Sultan.
“Lady Georgiana?” he reminded her. “The library.”
George gave him a long cool look. “Very well.” She would show the duke to the library and then, finally, she would escape.
Chapter Seven
Heaven forbid!—That would be the greatest misfortune of all!—To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate!—Do not wish me such an evil.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Hart opened the door to the library—it was empty—and held the door for her. “Just a quick word,” he said. She gave him a narrow, suspicious look, but stepped inside. He followed her in and closed the door.
Her smooth complexion was delicately flushed—temper, he assumed. She hadn’t liked being given no choice about going with him. Just as she hadn’t liked being forced to dance with him, and going in to supper with him.
He didn’t think it was an act either. At the opera he’d wondered whether her outrageous comments were designed to attract his attention—he was inured to the things women would do to make him notice them. But she’d made no attempt to follow them up or to engage his interest at any future point.
His friends seemed to think that was just how Lady George was—unconventional and outspoken. But they liked her anyway. No doubt because they’d all swallowed the nonsense about her planning never to marry and felt perfectly safe with her.
Hart wasn’t convinced. Of course she might have an aversion to men as a gender, and if that were the case, he had no use for her. But he didn’t think that was so.
At the opera, and in the conservatory he’d been aware of an undercurrent of sexual attraction between them. He’d certainly felt it, and he didn’t think it was one-sided.
His mouth dried each time he watched her cross the room, with that coltish yet oddly graceful, long-legged gait of hers. And her gaiety as she’d danced with her friends, sprightly and slender, laughing unselfconsciously—it was quite . . . appealing.
Just one question remained in his mind.
“So, what do you want?” she demanded. A few tiny crystals of sugar glittered at the corner of her mouth. Hart couldn’t take his eyes off them.
“Is it about what I said to you at the opera? Because if so, I’ll have you know—”
“It’s not about the opera.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “So it’s about my horse, then? I told you, Sultan is—”
“Not for sale. I know.”
She frowned. “Then what’s it about?”
“This.” He drew her toward him.
She leaned away from him, pushing at his shoulders but not hard enough to break his hold. “What are you—?”
He cupped her chin. “You have sugar on your mouth, just here.” She blinked, and before she could react, he bent and licked it away, tasting the sweetness and crunch of the sugar along with a hint of her own female sweetness. The swift streak of heat startled him.
He drew his head back and stared at her. He hadn’t expected this. Sweetness, heat. Hunger.
Her eyes, wide and dark, scanned his face. She looked bewildered, troubled, surprised. And wary, like a vixen scenting a trap.
She’d felt that heat too, he was sure, and didn’t know what to think of it. Her lips were parted. Her breathing hitched—and he knew why it did, because his own pulse was pounding.
She pressed her palms against his waistcoat, holding him off, though not quite pushing him away. “What do you—mmph!”
He bent and kissed her again, softly at first. Her mouth was lush and soft. He eased her lips apart and deepened the kiss, hungry for more of her. Lord, but the taste of her swept through him like wildfire, hotter than before, as if he were already addicted.
She raised her fists—he half expected her to beat him off—but instead they wavered, and after a moment of hesitation she gripped his lapels and clung hard, angling her mouth to fit herself better to him. And pressing her body against his.
She tasted of sweet, hot honey, unexpectedly luscious and somehow wild. And there was anger and surprise and hunger, deep hunger.
By the time he released her he was breathing heavily. Stunned, he stared down at her. He’d thought her attractive, but this . . . His head was spinning. And his body was afire, hard and aching.
She blinked and after a few seconds managed to muster a glare. “H . . . how dare you.” But it was a feeble, half-hearted objection and they both knew it. She tried again. “What do you think you were . . . ?” She faltered, realizing where her question was leading, and that it was to nowhere that would do her any good.
His little termagant was delightfully flustered. He was damnably shaken himself, but determined not to let her see it.
She suddenly noticed where her hands were and released his coat abruptly, then staggered.
He caught her by the waist and steadied her.
“Stop that! Let go of me!” She pushed at his hands. He released her instantly and she stumbled back, and she bumped into an armchair. She grabbed the back of it and steadied herself.
Her cheeks were flushed wild rose, her lips were plump and damp. Those extraordinary smoky eyes of hers were wide and dark and glittered with emotion.
A woman aroused. By one little kiss. Well, two. Barely.
“Well now, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmured and was pleased to hear he sounded quite cool. Quite the opposite of what he felt.
She dashed the back of her hand across her mouth as if to wipe his taste away. “I don’t know what you mean. Get out.”
He didn’t move. “I was curious. I wished to see whether you have an antipathy to men, as is rumored.” And how wrong rumor was. It took all his considerable powers of control not to snatch her back into his arms and finish what he’d started, but this was neither the time nor the place. He needed to get away, to think. To plan.
“I do have an antipathy to men—especially to you!”
He gave her a slow smile. “No, you don’t.”
“I do. I cannot bear you! I loathe the very sight of—mmph.” He kissed her again.
This time when the duke released her, George’s knees simply gave way. She collapsed into the chair. She sat with eyes closed a minute, dazed, trying to think of something scathing—really, really scathing—to say to the duke. But her heart was pounding and her brain was in turmoil and nothing, not a single word,
scathing or otherwise, came to mind.
And when she opened her eyes, he was gone.
She stared at the open door, then touched her fingers to her mouth. It wasn’t sore, but it felt swollen. She wanted to scrub her whole mouth out to remove the taste of him—it felt almost as though he had branded her. She needed something to wash his taste away.
A tray sat on the sideboard with glasses and several decanters. Someone had been in here tonight, drinking. She rose to pour herself a glass—lord, but her legs were as wobbly and uncertain as a newborn foal’s. What had that wretched man done to her?
She poured herself a large brandy, drank a mouthful, choked—it was horrid stuff—and drank again. Medicinal use. She waited. The liquor burned deep within her, warming and smooth.
But it didn’t banish the duke’s taste. Instead it was as if it had blended with his essence, so that forever after the taste of brandy would evoke the Duke of Everingham.
No loss, George decided. She’d never liked brandy anyway. But it had poured strength back into her legs. She would return to the ballroom and act as though nothing had happened.
Because nothing had. She would put it—him—the kiss—entirely from her mind.
* * *
* * *
Hart walked home, turning over the events of the evening in his mind. He hadn’t planned to kiss her. Oh, who was he fooling, of course he had. Just to test his theory.
He hadn’t planned on . . . that.
Fire and innocence and rebellion and . . . he didn’t know what else. Surprise.
What a mass of contradictions she was.
Graceful dancer, passionate music lover, outspoken animal defender—outspoken everything—and loyal to her family. He hadn’t missed how swiftly she’d leapt to the defense of Lady Rose’s husband, who she’d only known a short time.
Lady Salter’s words came back to him. I had thought, your grace, that marriage to a young woman of good family, an independently minded young woman who would not hang off your sleeve, a girl who wants nothing more than to retire to a country estate and be left to breed horses, dogs—and possibly children—would be exactly what you required. A wife who would keep out of your way and give you no trouble.