It might have been one of her dreams—his mouth, so hot and demanding; his hands bold, freed of irrelevant daylight ideals, no decency or hesitance in them as they wandered her body, shaped her waist through her clothes, felt roughly down the curve of her hip, pausing to knead the fullness there.
But her dreams never satisfied her. She knew how to avoid their mistakes.
She reached for his coat, shoving it off; then his jacket, and the waistcoat that kept him from her. He was broader than she had realized, and leaner, too; as she palmed his waist, the soft cloth of his shirt could not disguise the muscled flex of his abdomen. He groaned, his mouth breaking from hers to track down her throat; but that, too, was a daylight business.
“Undress me,” she whispered.
Odd and so thrilling, to command him; to feel the roughness of his hands on bare skin that had never known a man’s touch. But he was not so practiced as to manage her corset without assistance; she found herself laughing as she sat up and knocked his hands aside, and when he buried his face in her nape, she felt the smile on his own lips—and then felt it fade, as the corset loosened.
She lifted her arms, and he drew the corset over her head, took her beneath her arms, and pulled her bodily out of the sagging collapse of her gown.
They knelt pressed together in starlit darkness, only the thin film of her underlinens separating them. The sensation briefly shocked her, riveted her in place. His body radiated such warmth.
But then he kissed her again, and her hands closed on his back, and the delightful discovery of the smooth texture of his bare skin, the elegance of his spine as it curved, the tightly muscled hillocks of his bottom . . .
Desire knew no shame.
They lay down together, still kissing; kissing for long minutes in which time lost its hold on them. But at last he pulled away, going up on one elbow to look at her. The dim light revealed only a faint impression of his body, but the growl he made suggested that his eyes were better than hers. He touched her breast very lightly, with the back of his hand, and she shivered.
“You like that,” he said, very low. He bent down and kissed her nipple, causing her to gasp; but before he could mistake that noise for one of protest, she threaded her hands through his hair to hold him where he was.
His lips curved against her breast. He opened his mouth and touched his tongue to her nipple, and she groaned.
“Oh, yes,” he murmured, and closed his lips around her again, suckling now, with strong pulling movements that made her feel faint—and ferocious—and deliciously weak. His hand slid into her hair, cradled her skull as though he sensed that she required the support, as he laved her breast more intently yet.
Her dreams could not compare. Here was what she’d craved, those many nights of frustration—or so she thought, until his hand smoothed down her belly, brushed lightly over the tops of her thighs, then delved between, finding a spot so sensitive that she gasped.
“Wait,” she said. It was too much—perhaps there was something wrong with her—but the insistent stroke of his hand, paired with the tugging assault of his mouth, caused something to twist tightly, low in her belly; to coil and build, an unbearable aching weight. “I don’t think—”
“You do,” he said, and stroked her more quickly, until suddenly—the coil burst. Pleasure jerked through her, took control of her hips; she bucked against him as he murmured to her, low soothing words that she barely understood; but the heat of his breath against her skin as he spoke seemed to heighten the pleasure further yet, until she turned her face into his shoulder to muffle her own moan.
His hand found her face. Smoothed back her hair. “Is that what you’d imagined?” he asked roughly. “For God knows . . . if so, we shared the same dream.”
She felt too shy to reply, at first. How odd, that one could feel shy when lying naked, pressed against a man, her face buried in the aphrodisiac scent of his damp throat.
But after a moment, the question nudged her, and she frowned a little. “There was more to it.”
He levered himself off her, his face a blur in the darkness, but she had the sense that he was smiling at her, smiling in that dark, provocative way he sometimes had.
“Is that so? What else was there?”
His voice was a purr, stoking her most secret, brazen inclinations. On a deep breath for courage, she slid her hand down his body, until she found the firm length of his erection. “This,” she whispered.
His forehead came against hers. “Georgie,” he murmured. “You . . .” He took a breath. “You realize there is no going back.”
She gripped him, amazed by this marvel of nature: that such soft, hot skin could sheath a protrusion so unyieldingly hard. Something animal, primitive, caused her to tighten her grip, to stroke him; and his hiss was her reward. “There is no going back,” she agreed unsteadily. “And I am glad of it.”
He pulled her into an openmouthed kiss, and she pushed her lower body against him, instinct taking over, seeking to fit herself against him. She felt the last measure of his restraint in the way his back tensed, muscles hardening beneath her grip, but she angled her hips again, and the head of his member pressed just where it ought, and he gasped as he pushed into her.
Pressure—increasing, burning now as she stretched to accommodate him; she had a brief fear that this wouldn’t work—and then he was inside her, penetrating deeply, filling her completely.
She held still, adjusting to the foreign sensation—until he began to move. Oh, she thought, a stupid wondering amazement seizing her, causing her to laugh as she reached up to grip his face, to encourage him with kisses. Oh, as he moved deeper yet, slow and steady strokes that seemed to strike like flint against some spot deep inside her that was not done with him by far. Oh, oh—he twisted his hips in some way, and her entire body flamed, hunger like a hot wind. She wrapped herself around him, arms and legs, kissing him deeply, then whispering, to her dim amazement, only half understanding herself: “Please. Now.”
“Forever,” he growled into her mouth, and the pleasure overwhelmed her again.
They lay together afterward in a restful, sated silence. Outside, from the distance, came the muffled sound of laughter. Perhaps the ox had been trained to kneel, but it seemed the magic of the season was spreading, regardless.
His thought had followed hers. “The season of miracles,” he said huskily. “I will never doubt it again.”
She felt her way along his face, tracing the outline of his brows, the slope of his cheekbones. “How will we rejoin the others? One look at my face, and they’ll know everything.”
“Let them look,” he said huskily. “Let them come to the wedding, if they like.”
Her hand paused—only for a fraction of a moment. But he felt it, and sat up.
“We are marrying,” he said evenly.
She reached for the blanket, covering herself against the chill. “Lucas. Let’s discuss this later.”
“Once you know whether I’m to be an earl?”
The sharpness in his voice alarmed her. “Not for my sake, but for yours.”
“No. We will not have this argument again. Especially not now.”
Miserable, she made quick work of dressing. She should have said nothing. Should have let his mention of marriage pass unremarked—for tonight, at least.
But she would not go along with his plan. She would not allow her father to leave him in shreds again.
They walked in silence back toward the house. It made a lovely sight, the windows glowing with stands of Christmas candles. Their flames blurred and jumped before Georgie’s eyes. She dashed a discreet hand over her eyes as Lucas rapped on the door.
Barton greeted them. “Sir,” he said, “a message came by courier.” He thrust out a sealed envelope.
Georgie held her breath as Lucas read the letter. He looked up at her, his face unreadable. “The baby is born.”
“And . . . is it a boy?”
“This note doesn’t say.” His jaw flexed
. “Can you lend me a horse? I’ll find out tonight. I’ll ride direct to Harlboro Grange.”
Chapter Ten
What was keeping Lucas from writing to her? The telegraph office was closed on Christmas Day, but surely he could have hired a courier? Against her better judgment, Georgie took the guests to church, where they managed to sit soberly for an hour and change. Inspired by their restraint, she even managed a satisfactory degree of conversation over the Christmas feast that followed. But her thoughts were with Lucas, her future seeming to hang in the balance as the seconds dragged by.
The houseguests, too, seemed distracted. They made polite exclamations over the gifts she had stuffed into their Christmas stockings—Italian writing paper; tortoiseshell fountain pens—but her suggestion of an afternoon walk to the Roman ruins was met with sluggish nods. So much for Christmas cheer! It seemed everyone was waiting for the holiday to expire, so they might take their leave without unseemly haste on Boxing Day.
Why did Lucas not write?
Determined to take her mind off this agonizing wait, she decided to visit the ruins herself. The lonely beauty would suit her mood. But as she approached the entry hall, she heard the front door close, and her heart flew into her throat.
Her steps slowed as she gained a view of the foyer. A gentleman stood in the entry hall, making a leisurely survey of the surroundings. As he tipped his head to inspect the rafters, his top hat tipped; he snapped it off his head, baring hair as white as snow, his movements birdlike in their quickness—deeply familiar to her.
Not Lucas. Alas, it was her father.
Perhaps she made a noise, for he turned suddenly, a smile wreathing his handsome, rosy face. “Georgiana! My surprise to you—at last, I’ve come home for Christmas.”
She stopped in the archway. She did not know what to feel. The sight of him made her curiously numb.
“And I’m here through the New Year,” he went on. “Isn’t that splendid?”
He had a rich, booming voice, and a dapper neatness to his diminutive, trim frame. His waist, he’d once told her, was the same size as on his wedding day.
He had always looked distinguished. But never before had she seen him look jolly.
She let him embrace her, accepted his kiss on her cheek. But she made no move to return his affections. When he drew back, he was frowning.
“I expected more joy than this,” he said.
“Were you ever in Constantinople?” she asked. “Or was that a sham as well?”
“What on earth?” He cast her a severe look before he set to unbuttoning his gloves. “Of course I was en route to Constantinople. But I got word at Gibraltar that the negotiations had failed, and so I turned back. We’ll need to hold a multilateral conference in January—another grand squandering of money, for the sake of squabbling dogs.” He glanced past her. “Where is the staff? It’s a disgrace that nobody met me at the door. I do hope you haven’t let our guests be neglected.”
“Naturally not,” she said.
“And where are those guests?” His keen brown gaze settled on her face, shrewdly calculating. “Is Mr. Godwin among them?”
“Mr. Godwin has left,” she said. “Why, did you hope to speak with him? He did not find your letter.”
She almost did not recognize the look that came over his face then. She had never managed to puzzle him before.
He cleared his throat. “I hope his presence didn’t fluster you overmuch,” he said smoothly. “I confess, that was part of my call to hurry back here. I would hate to have been the cause of distress, having left you with this party to manage.”
“Heaven forbid your party might go poorly,” she said. “A pity you spared no thought for my distress two years ago, when you lied to me—and to Mr. Godwin as well.”
“Ah.” His expression eased. “So the truth came out, did it? Well, I am sorry for that, Georgiana. I feel a lightening of my conscience, now the matter is laid bare. But you understand, he was no fit match for you, in Munich. Every word I spoke of his parentage was true. It’s a suspect line.” He paused. “And not a fertile one. I don’t suppose he confided in you about the mess with the earldom Lilleston?”
Her temper broke. “You lied to us! You broke your own daughter’s heart, and toyed with me as though I were your enemy—”
“Georgiana!” Aghast, he took her by the arm and looked around. “If you mean to bellow, we’ll do this privately.”
“Yes. I do mean to bellow.” She yanked free and stalked to the nearest door, which opened into the second-best drawing room, a shabby but comfortable place, not nearly grand enough for his guests.
He closed the door very quietly behind him. “I was wrong,” he said. “I won’t claim otherwise. I realized it once I saw how deeply it affected you. I do apologize for it, but I never imagined”—he grimaced—“that you would lose your head so over a man. A child of mine! I thought you had more steel at your core. But believe me, the sad spectacle you mounted afterward was very persuasive in proving otherwise.”
“So cold,” she said, marveling. “Is there blood in your veins, or only daggers and plots? You are the perfect diplomat, sir. But you make a very poor father.”
He recoiled physically, staring at her with a shock that she could not believe was feigned. “Georgiana,” he said. “I think you will regret those words later.”
“You may comfort yourself by imagining so. But they’re long overdue. My happiness was not yours to gamble.”
“I know that,” he said quietly. “I have just apologized for it.”
Stiletto jabs. Lucas had warned her of it. Her father probably did believe he had offered a satisfactory apology, no matter that he’d insulted her in the same breath. It was his training and his habit, accrued over a lifetime of handling the affairs of state, never to cede the high ground entirely.
The thought deflated her. She was angry, yes; she was furiously disappointed in him. But that was nothing new. She’d been disappointed in him her entire life—and never more so than at this time of year, when a child should be with her father, not left to the care of a staff who, despite their every kindness, had family of their own to care for, and better things to do than entertain their employer’s daughter.
But that wasn’t fair to Cook or the others. Their love was genuine and heartfelt. She would not let her father tar that, too.
“It’s pointless,” she said tiredly. “You are what you are. I cannot expect a leopard to change its spots. I only wish . . . that I had realized that two years ago. Had I remembered to suspect you, I could have saved myself so much pain.”
He hesitated, studying her. Looking, no doubt, for the best inroad, the cleverest angle of manipulation. “I am sorry, Georgie.”
She waited for the twist. But it did not come. He stepped closer to her but made no move to touch her—the diplomat’s instinct guiding him, no doubt.
“I never thought to be your only parent,” he said. “I imagined I would be able to depend on your mother’s wisdom. She would have raised you better. She loved you to the ends of the earth. She was, in every way, my better half.”
And now he would try to raise her sympathy, to soften her. “I have no doubt of that,” she said.
He sighed. “And there, in your disapproval, I hear an echo of her. Well, I deserve it. I will accept your disapproval as my due. But . . . know that I do love you, my dear. And I thought I was protecting you, in Munich. You were lovely. So bright. You could have attracted any gentleman.”
She snorted. “You’re losing your talent,” she said, “if you expect me to believe that.”
His brows shot skyward. “Georgiana, I will accept a certain degree of foolishness from you, but you are, in the end, my daughter. Please use your brain. You are your mother come to life again. So you must believe me when I say that I thought you deserved no less than a prince. After all, your mother managed to win me.”
That startled a black laugh from her. His arrogance was insufferable—but also, oddly, credible.
She eyed him warily. Perhaps he did believe what he was saying. It made no difference. “You had no right to deceive me so.”
“A father’s right,” he began, and then cut himself off with a sharp tug of his mouth when he saw her reaction. “Very well,” he said with asperity. “I said I blundered, didn’t I? But why you fancied the only mutt in a kennel of purebreds, I will never understand. Lucas Godwin could never have offered the kind of life you deserved. Not then, at least.”
And now they came to the heart of it. “You arranged this,” she said. “Our . . . reunion. On the hopes he would inherit his title.”
“Yes,” he said—smiling, to her disbelief.
Realization jolted through her. “Why—there never was a letter, was there? Nobody ever stole anything from you.”
His smile widened. “So now you see: I was conspiring for your benefit, my dear.”
She recoiled. “Have you no shame? We ransacked the guests’ belongings! Of all the horrid, manipulative things—”
“Horrid? Come now! I was trying to make amends. Two years ago, Godwin wasn’t fit for you. So I dispatched him. But now that he stands a good chance of coming up in the world, I thought I’d make amends. Effect your reacquaintance. A fine atonement, I thought.” He quirked a hopeful brow. “Did it work?”
There was no point in trying to wrap her mind around his self-justifications. But his smugness was intolerable.
“It did,” she said. “But . . .” Let him learn what it felt like to be deceived, for once. For a brief, sweet hour of justice, let him suffer. “He will not inherit. Lilleston’s child was a boy.”
“Ah.” His shoulders sagged. “Too bad, then. Too bad.”
“But it makes no difference.” She brushed past him, seizing the doorknob. “I will marry him anyway.”
He scowled as he turned after her. “Now, listen here, Georgiana. I—”
She wrested open the door. “We have already arranged for a license. I am going to meet him directly.”
“By God, you will not!” Flushing a very satisfying red, he followed her into the hall. Forgotten, all his concerns for discretion! “The cheek of him—to come back here, to press his suit when I already forbade it once—without so much as a word to me! I am his superior! That he did not even ask my permission—”
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 34