But that did not strike her as fair, either. She stared into the blurring fire. “Then two of us were blinded,” she said with difficulty. “For I should have written to you, Lucas. Been braver, less careful of my pride. Asked why you left so hastily. But I confess . . . from the first moment you smiled at me in Munich, I never quite believed that it could be true. That a man like you—a man of every distinction, a man of beauty and charm and wit and learning, who captured every eye in the room—why would a man like you choose me? When my father told me you had a habit of meaningless flirtations, I felt . . . as though I were waking from a dream. Like I’d always known it would end so. That I had aimed too high. That I’d been a fool all along to believe you could have loved a plain, ordinary girl like me.”
She heard the breath go from him. Suddenly he was in front of her, kneeling to look into her eyes.
“Are you mad?” He cupped her cheeks, swept her hair back from her eyes. “I could use ten thousand words to describe you—but never, even at my most disillusioned, would plain and ordinary have numbered among them. You are . . .” He shook his head as he gazed at her. “Georgie, you are a miracle. Clever without cruelty, kind without naïveté, beautiful without flaw. And I prayed nightly that you would be my miracle . . . and I felt, even at the height of my bitterness, that the outcome had only been just, after all—for your father was right. I had overreached greatly when I asked for your hand. Any man would have overreached, had you been his aim.”
Amazement washed through her. “I don’t . . . You never . . .”
He made some strained noise. “I never did many things,” he said roughly. He caught her elbows, pulled her to her feet. “Many things I should have done the first moment I had a chance at them.” His hands framed her face. “Like this.”
He kissed her then, opening her mouth with his own, brooking no hesitation. His kiss was so bold—so commanding and instantaneously consuming—that it gave her brain no footing to protest.
Nor did she wish to. Gladly, hungrily, she kissed him back. Two years—two years of sleepless nights, of a pulsing aching want that had seemed destined to go unfulfilled—this ferocity she felt was only natural; it was inevitable. She cupped his face in her hands, greedy for the hot, fine-grained texture of his skin; the slight scratch of his oncoming beard; the elegant angles of his cheekbones. She slid her hands through the thick silk of his night-dark hair, tightened her grip until it must have hurt him—but he only kissed her more fiercely yet, encouraging her with lips and tongue and teeth, his hot, clever mouth.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the table. Very gently he laid her down atop it, amidst the lingering fragrance of ginger. He came over her, worshiping her lips, her cheeks, and her throat with his mouth.
But it wasn’t enough. She tugged at his hair, his shoulders, to pull him against her. His weight was heavy and sweet. She pushed her face into his throat and breathed deeply of him. That dark, masculine scent sank straight into her, plummeted deep into her bones and belly. It struck up a more primal hunger than she had ever known in her dreams.
His body was what she needed—against hers, skin to skin. She slid her palms to his upper arms, squeezing, feeling the dense bunch of his contracting muscle. The full contact of his broad chest against hers—the breadth of his strong body, enfolding hers—felt more elemental even than air. He found her mouth again, and the demanding, skilled possession of his tongue was not gentlemanly in the least, nothing like the kiss he had given that masked stranger beneath the mistletoe. Because he was kissing her now. The only woman he should kiss, ever again.
The thought exploded through her brain, bringing a brief cold moment of clarity: there was no future for them. Her father had the power to ruin his career.
She would not be the cause of his downfall.
Abruptly she averted her face. “Lucas,” she said raggedly. “Wait.”
He went still, breath rasping like a bellows in her ear. His hands found her shoulders, flexed on them as though to trammel some great straining battle within him. “Georgie,” he said hoarsely against her temple. He eased off her, straightening. “Forgive me. I . . . Are you all right?”
She sat up. His hair was mussed—her hands had done that. The knot in his necktie had unraveled—dared she hope she’d done that, too? She drank in greedily the sight of his bare, tanned throat, the glimpse of dark hair above the first button of his shirt.
“Lucas,” she said, and the sound of her own voice startled her; the low sultry purring note in it seemed to belong to some other woman—a woman, she decided in the next breath, that she very much hoped to become.
Why think of the future? Tonight was upon them. Her father never need know what had happened here.
But when she reached out to pull him toward her, he stepped backward, introducing a new space between them, air that felt shockingly cold in comparison to his touch. “You’re right,” he said, very low. “This isn’t proper.”
Proper? She almost laughed. But the rigidity in his face made her bite her tongue, take a deep breath, and gather her composure. “I’m not sure I care much for propriety.”
His mouth softened. Very lightly, he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. Drew a lingering line down her jaw, smiling a little as he reached her chin.
“A thousand times I dreamed of touching you so,” he whispered. “But the reality . . .” His glance passed briefly down her body, his mouth hardening again. When his gaze lifted, the smoldering quality of his look made her flush. “I won’t sleep tonight.”
She swallowed.
He took her hand, helping her slip off the table, then lifted her knuckles for a kiss. “Until tomorrow?”
“Of course.” But the brief sweetness of that thought faded as she realized the date.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
They had only two days remaining, to make up for two years of loss . . . unless she found some way to check her father.
Chapter Eight
December 24
The crack of gunfire made Georgie clamp her hands over her ears. A flock of grouse wheeled and darted through the sky; farther down the field, two plummeted, but Lucas’s targets made a winging escape to the north.
Applause broke out. Georgie went on her tiptoes to look over the stone wall that blocked her view. A beater had gone running out to retrieve the felled birds. “Oh, well done!” shouted Countess Obolenskaya from her own hide, some fifty yards away.
A footman approached with a freshly loaded rifle. Lucas took it, then lifted it to sight over the wall.
“Are you a poor shot?” Georgie asked teasingly. “Or do grouse rank higher in your affections than geese?”
Lucas cast her a laughing, sidelong look. “Caught out,” he said.
She swallowed a happy sigh. She could stand beside him all day. The morning had dawned bright and mild, and a playful, kicking wind flirted with the thick curls in his dark hair. The sun, not to be outdone, lit his eyes until they reflected the patches of cloudless blue sky overhead.
Gunshot cracked again. They remained staring at each other. His gaze dipped to her mouth, and her skin seemed to tighten pleasurably. The curved wall protected them from others’ view. She could touch him, if she liked—could kiss him, even. Nobody would see.
But kissing him would not be enough.
She bit her cheek. She saw no way to satisfy this longing without endangering him. Not unless she found that letter.
She cleared her throat. “I asked the staff to search belowstairs,” she said. “If the guests don’t have the letter, perhaps they left it with one of their own servants.”
His expression hardened. He turned away from her to make a study of the stray grouse still fluttering overhead. “Forget the letter today.”
Were there more time remaining to them, she gladly would have done. But the guests would depart on Boxing Day. If they had not found the letter by then, she would have no way to keep her father in check. “Lucas, my father—”<
br />
“I find myself curiously indifferent to his concerns.” He sighted his rifle. The gun cracked, and a grouse dropped to the ground.
Applause broke out again, encouragements and congratulations traveling dimly down the field. One of the beaters ran up to fetch the felled bird.
This time, when the footman appeared with a fresh rifle, Lucas shook his head. “Leave the ammunition,” he said.
He knew his way with a weapon, reloading it and sighting with swift, efficient brutality. Another round of grouse exploded into flight, and his gun barked.
Down came a bird, its body thumping audibly against the grass.
“Crack shot!” came Obolensky’s cry. Lucas, grim-faced, reloaded his weapon. Georgie looked away from the tight line of his jaw to the dark huddled mass of the bird.
“Poor thing,” she said softly.
She heard Lucas sigh. He laid down the gun and turned to face her, his expression stony.
She took a deep breath. “If we find that letter, we can use it to our advantage. We can name our own price in exchange for it. We can be . . . safe.”
His eyes narrowed. As he studied her, she felt her color rise. It was a shameful thing to propose blackmail. But she was not above it now.
“Safe,” he said evenly. “Safe from what, may I ask?”
“Lucas.” She hesitated, her stomach knotting. She could not say what she feared more—that he would ignore the risk to himself, or that he would deem it too costly. “My father is not a man to tolerate being crossed. If he were to discover your . . . renewed interest in me, he might punish you for it. He could ruin your career.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—a fleeting, humorless smile. “Yes,” he said. “No doubt he could.”
Frustration tightened her throat. “Then don’t you understand why—”
He seized her elbows and dragged her against him. As she goggled up at him, he said, “This is what I understand.” His mouth came down onto hers.
The kiss was hard, furious, a branding more than a caress; his lips ground against hers as his grip tightened to the point of pain around her upper arms. Confused, a little frightened, she gasped—and his mouth abruptly gentled. His lips soothed hers, stroking once, twice, until she relaxed against him. His grip eased, his fingers flexing around her elbows as he turned his face aside. His breath warmed her temple for a long, silent moment before he spoke.
“What I felt for you in Munich.” His voice was low and harsh. “What I feel for you now. It is not interest.”
Why, he was shaking—she could feel the fine tremors of his body where his chest pressed against hers, as though he were racked by some inward pressure too great for his flesh to contain.
Her own pulse was hammering. “I . . . I meant no insult.”
He eased back from her. Their eyes met, his own intent and unblinking. “Interest fades,” he said. “Interest dulls. Interest does not ruin a man. It does not blind him to other women. It does not catch in his chest like a hook. What I felt for you—what I feel for you—is far from interest.”
The top of her head seemed to lift away. Wonder purled through her. “Yes,” she breathed.
“So hear me now,” he said. “I do not give a damn what your father has to say about this. Do you understand that?” When she hesitated a moment too long, he said, “Answer me.”
Swallowing, she nodded.
“Good.” His hands slid down her arms, his fingers stroking over her palms, raising goose bumps, causing her breath to catch and her knees to weaken. He lifted her hands to his mouth in turn, his gaze hot on hers as he pressed his lips to her knuckles. His nostrils flared as he breathed deeply, in and out. Then he returned her hands to her sides, squeezing them once before stepping backward. “Good,” he said softly. “We understand each other.”
Giddy delight washed through her. She crossed her arms to contain it, to prevent herself from reaching for him again. He could not know what he was saying. He had not thought it through. Would his conviction remain so steadfast once his career was stolen from him? She had no inheritance, apart from what her father might choose to leave her. She would not be able to help him regain his footing. She was no Countess Obolenskaya, to smooth his way by her own charm and beauty.
And yet, the look on his face . . . the resolution, the steadfast intensity of his regard . . . it made her drunk.
She forced herself to glance away, down the sloping grassland toward the stone towers of Brisbon Hall. “Why would he have sent you here?” Why would her father have risked the truth coming out? “It’s so careless. So unlike him.”
He made a low noise, almost a scoff. “About that.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a crumpled slip of paper. “Cable came this morning.”
Hesitantly she took it.
Lady L in labor STOP Advise you go directly to Harlboro Grange STOP
“Lady L?” She looked up, frowning.
“Lady Lilleston,” he said flatly. “My aunt by marriage, for all that I’ve never met her. Her husband was my father’s brother.” He paused. “He died a week ago.”
She gasped. “I’d no idea. Lucas, I’m so sorry for . . .” But she trailed off, realizing that her condolences were hardly wanted.
He offered her a faint smile. Another round of gunshot exploded; birds wheeled overhead, and cries of disappointment went up. “I’m sorry for those who loved him,” he said. “Naturally, having known him only through his silence, and the insult it offered to my father—I don’t number among his mourners.”
“But who sent this, then?”
“Certainly none of the Godwins,” he said. “But I have a suspicion who might have wished me informed of this matter.” He raised his brows, inviting her to guess.
She shook her head; she had not the faintest inkling.
“Georgie.” He sighed. “Lilleston has no son. If this babe is a girl, I will inherit his estates. His honors. His earldom. I think your father would take an interest in that.”
Comprehension dawned. “You think my father arranged that telegram?”
“I think,” he said dryly, “that he has great faith in your appeal. Not a stupid man, Sir Philip. And he saw a chance to put a future earl in your path. It all depends on Lilleston’s newborn.” He tipped his head toward the telegram. “I expect he wants me at Harlboro Grange to make sure no trickery is played with the babe.”
She crossed her arms, buffeted by a wave of violent distaste. “How . . . gothic.”
His laughter was soft. “Indeed. But in your father’s circles? No doubt there’s been a babe switched here and there, to keep a crown in the family.”
She sagged against the stone wall. “How can you sound so amused by it?” She was mortified, every inch of her skin prickling. “He’s scheming again! You should—heavens!” She covered her face, feeling the great heat rushing into her cheeks. “How presumptuous! To think you would have any interest in me, after what he told you in Munich!”
“As I said, he’s no fool,” he said gently. “No doubt he guessed that with one look at you, I would be lost again.”
The words were sweeter than she deserved. “If the babe is a boy, he’ll still oppose you.”
“Hence, I suppose, the secrecy. Gives him a fine cover to repudiate me, should I end up a commoner tomorrow.”
“I think I would like to take a shot myself,” she said through her teeth. “If only innocent birds weren’t the target. Will you go to Harlboro Grange, then?”
“Of course not.” His voice was perfectly neutral now. “I wouldn’t be welcomed there.”
She could not match his equanimity. A dark, poisonous feeling brewed in her chest at the notion of his family scorning him.
She shoved the telegram into her pocket. “We must find that letter.”
“Must we?” He picked up the rifle, aimed once more.
“Yes!” How did he not understand this? She caught his elbow. “You’ve fought so hard,” she said, “your whole life, to make this career for y
ourself. I won’t let you throw it away!”
He laid down the gun. “And I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not if what you felt for me was interest. Is it?”
Anxiety welled in her throat. She turned, looking blindly over the hide toward the sun-dappled grass.
“I’ll be braver than you,” he said levelly. “It was love, in Munich.”
She closed her eyes. The beauty of that admission—it dazzled her. “Yes,” she whispered. “It was love.”
“And last night, as I walked through these fields, I did not feel like a man mired in the past, Georgie. I was not mourning for what could have been. I felt like a man given a chance at a new future—a future with you.”
She swallowed hard. “Then we must find that letter. There’s no other way.”
“No. That’s not so.” He cupped her cheek. Drew her around to face him. “With or without the letter,” he said. “Answer me: what does your future look like?”
♦ ♦ ♦
Her expression shifted in some subtle, unquantifiable way. A moment ago, she had looked dazed and flush and achingly ripe for any proposal he might have put to her. But at his question, some spark went out of her face. He could feel her withdrawal as distinctly as the nip of the breeze.
“I would make my future with you,” she whispered. “But not at such cost.”
He bit back his frustration. He’d spoken truly to her. Now he knew that what they’d shared had been real, it changed everything—altered the very grounds on which he’d conceived his hopes. For it was one thing to strive to forget a humiliation, a humbling breach of judgment: that effort was only wise. But no wise man hoped to forget the only woman who had ever held his heart. No man had ever died peacefully in his bed, contented with his efforts, while knowing that he’d been robbed of the chance to share all his days with a woman like Georgiana Trent.
This desire—this need—did not seem a return to Munich so much as a rebirth, stronger, fiercer, for the years it had been wrongfully trammeled.
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 32