She whirled, speaking as she walked backward, away from him. “He doesn’t need your permission. I am a woman grown. And you, sir, are a tyrant. If you gave him your blessing, I would refuse his hand. I would rather live as his trollop than satisfy you!”
He lunged after her. “And I would ruin him for it! Why, I could have him sacked like—” He gave a smart snap of his fingers.
Georgie rolled her eyes and turned away. “See to your guests,” she threw over her shoulder. “For I am done with your business—all of it.”
Chapter Eleven
December 26
As Georgie stepped into the drawing room, the sight of the Christmas tree made her sigh. All the candles had burned down to stumps, and the servants’ children had stripped away the tinsel to make garlands for themselves. The needles had begun to brown.
Here was the eternal problem with Christmas: it ended. Oh, in other places, the merriment continued till Twelfth Night, but by now the gaiety would have assumed a frenzied nature, everyone resisting the knowledge that come St. Distaff’s Day, work would resume, with nothing to look forward to but the bleak depths of midwinter.
Georgie always felt melancholy as she braced for the New Year. This poor tree seemed to reflect her wilting spirits. Thirty-six hours, and she’d still had no word from Lucas.
She knelt to study the urn in which the tree rested. Should it be watered? The von Bittners had left no instruction for it before their departure this morning.
“Has everyone gone?”
She twisted around. Lucas stood in the doorway, still wearing his heavy leather coat and riding boots. She rose to fly to him—thought better of it—crossed her arms very tightly at her waist, as his smile faded to a puzzled frown.
“What is it?” he asked gently. He wore a satchel over his shoulder; he lifted off the strap now, placing the luggage on the chiffonier as he approached.
“My father is back.” He had closeted himself with Mr. Sobieski and Count Obolensky after breakfast, to discuss his plan for the conference in Constantinople. But they would emerge soon enough. “He won’t be happy to find you here.”
“Georgie. How many times must I tell you? It no longer matters.”
“But it does.” She caught his wrist when he would have touched her. “I told him the whole of it—that we uncovered his deception; that I love you. And he made threats, Lucas. Unless—was the child a girl?”
Smiling, he turned her hand in his, lifted it to kiss. “I’ll tell you everything in a moment,” he said. “First, a late Christmas gift. Will you open it now? I had it couriered from Paris, at no small expense.”
Mystified, she let him lead her over to the chairs drawn up by the darkened hearth. He unbuckled the satchel, withdrew a thick binder, and placed it in her hands. It weighed half a stone at least.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Open it.”
Her fingers trembled as she unwound the twine. Inside lay a thick stack of papers. Her breath caught as she read the first line of the topmost page.
February 7, 1884
Dear Georgiana,
I try to make sense of it all. A wasted effort. My new colleagues must imagine me a perfect fool, so absentminded I must seem to them.
The door opened. She glanced up, heart beating very hard, and found Lucas on his feet, a military squareness to his posture.
Her father stepped into the room. “A footman told me of your arrival,” he said to Lucas. “Generally speaking, it is customary to pay your respects directly to the master of the house.” His dark gaze moved pointedly over Lucas’s rumpled wardrobe. “To say nothing,” he added, “of knocking the mud off your boots.”
She laid down the letter and rose, bristling, but Lucas took a restraining hold on her arm. “I am paying my respects,” he said, “to the woman who has tended this house better than you ever did. To you, sir, I have nothing to offer but my sincere regret, for I had hoped to look on my father-in-law with favor one day.”
Georgie braced herself for an explosion. Instead, her father stepped farther into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. “Ah. So Georgiana has managed to suborn you into this madness.”
She hissed. “If you ever had any love for me,” she said, “you will prove it now. You will put aside your pride, your outmoded notions of a suitable gentleman, and recognize this man as the most decent, honorable husband I could ever hope to find.”
“It has gone beyond your opposition,” Lucas said quietly. “You will consent to our marriage, or you will disapprove of it; but either way, sir, I have acquired a license, and mean to put it into use before the New Year.”
Georgie turned to him, amazed. “You have a license? How on earth?”
But her father gave him no chance to reply. “I have no time for this nonsense,” he said sharply. “Very well, go ahead. A more stubborn girl, I’ve yet to encounter—unless it was her mother. In which case, I know how little my opinion signifies. You may have her, Godwin—if not with my blessing, then at least with my resigned tolerance. But I will not lift a finger to promote you. I hope you understand that. You will have her hand—but none of the advantages that you might have expected from it. Will that suffice?”
“I never wanted more,” Lucas said.
“Georgiana?” Her father snapped her name. “Will that content you?”
For a moment, tears blurring her eyes, she was tempted to let the matter go. To take this peace offering, no matter how inadequate.
But something in her balked, hardened. “No,” she said. “It will not suffice. I have never asked anything of you. I have never complained at your absences—your neglect. I respected your work; I knew it was important. But I was important, too. And if I can’t have your blessing on my marriage, then I will have your apology—not only for what happened in Munich, but for everything before it. Every Christmas you spent without me. Every birthday you neglected to recognize. Then, perhaps, it will suffice. Perhaps.”
“Ah.” Her father sighed. He passed a hand over his face—and to her amazement, blinked away what looked, all too briefly, like a sheen in his eyes. “You may have that, too,” he said. “I’m sorry, Georgie.” As he glanced to Lucas, he took a deep breath. “Perhaps he is a blessing to you,” he said grudgingly. “Surely he will never put his career before your welfare. He’s already shown himself willing to throw it away with both hands, for your sake. But I shan’t interfere with him, that way.” He looked back to her, his face solemn. “You have my vow. I will take no hand in interfering with his professional accomplishments. And I think . . . Godwin will go far, if it matters.”
“Lord Lilleston,” said Lucas.
They both turned. “What?” asked Georgie.
He was staring at her father. “I am Lord Lilleston to you, sir. And my resignation has already been tendered to the service, so you may count yourself safe from any temptation to go back on your promise not to meddle.”
“Well!” Her father’s jaw sagged. Then, all at once, he beamed. “Well, that’s a fine ending to this tale, after all! A very merry Christmas gift, I dare say!”
“Oh, just go,” Georgie said in disgust. “Go and leave us in peace.”
“Without argument,” he said, and gave her a wink. “Congratulations—my lady.”
The door shut again.
“He is incorrigible,” she bit out. “And I do not mean that in the charming sense. He is a perfect dog.”
“He’s a schemer by nature,” Lucas said. To her astonishment, he sounded almost amused. “We’ll have him knocking at our door by next Christmas, I’ll wager.”
“I shan’t open that door!”
“Not next year,” he said. “But perhaps the Christmas after. We’ll make him grovel before we invite him in. And he’ll do it—I promise you that. I’ve seen him pander for less than an earl’s favor.”
“Forget about him.” She grabbed his hands. “Is everything well at Harlboro Grange? Why didn’t you write?”
“A very
healthy baby girl,” he said, “gifted with the unfortunate name of Pandora.”
She wrinkled her nose. “A curious choice.”
“A very sly one. I believe I’m meant to count as one of the troubles she’s unleashed on the Godwins.” He urged her to sit down again. “But our conversations were as cordial as one could have hoped,” he went on. “With my uncle gone, there’s nobody left who was instrumental in the quarrel between our families. And I’ve assured the dowager countess that she will be handsomely provided for. I thought—if you don’t mind it—that we might let her remain at the Grange for a year or two, until the child is weaned.”
We. The world suddenly dimmed as she stared at him—dimmed, and then came pulsing back into vivid clarity, colors brighter and clearer. Even the Christmas tree seemed to perk up. “You really have the license?” she asked softly.
He reached out to touch her face. “What else could have kept me away, my love?”
Blushing, she looked down into her lap. She noticed the folder, the letter she had laid aside at her father’s entrance, and retrieved it.
He had written to her, after Munich. Had poured his heart onto a page that he’d never sent to her.
“You should have posted this,” she whispered. “It . . .” Such ardent, agonized words. “It would have brought me flying to you.”
“I should have posted all of them,” he said, just as softly.
All . . . ? She frowned a question at him, and he nodded, his expression so tender. “Go ahead,” he said. “Look.”
The folder was full of letters—so many! All of them addressed to her. She glanced through the dates.
“You wrote to me every day.” She could not quite grasp it. “Every day, you wrote me.”
“I never let go of you,” he said gently.
“No.” She swallowed. “You did not.”
“One more thing.” He reached into his coat and laid the license atop the letters. “Shall we marry on New Year’s Day?”
She glanced up, appalled. “That’s five days from now!”
A line appeared between his brows. “Too soon? Of course, perhaps you wish a grand affair—”
“Far too long!” She grabbed his wrist, tugging him to his feet. “The vicar will be at home at this hour. What are you waiting for? Put on your coat!”
Laughing, he caught her in his arms. “It’s noon. Perhaps we should let the man take his dinner in peace, before we harass him with this spectacle.”
“Spectacle? Is that what you call our marriage? I warn you, I mean for it to be far less dramatic than what preceded it—”
His kiss stopped her words. She ceased to struggle, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him back. Mine, mine, mine.
At last, he eased back a little, his forehead against hers, their lashes tangling as he spoke with a smile:
“I expect we’ll have a spectacle nightly, don’t you think?”
She laughed. “Why not in the afternoon, too?” And with a heart full of perfect joy, she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him again.
Sparks fly in this sexy, evocative Regency romance, the third in the Rules for the Reckless series!
Lady Be Good
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SABRINA JEFFRIES is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Royal Brotherhood trilogy, and The School for Heiresses, The Hellions of Halstead Hall, The Duke’s Men, and The Sinful Suitors series. She lives in North Carolina with her family. Visit her online at www.sabrinajeffries.com.
KAREN HAWKINS is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of many wickedly funny historical romance novels set in Regency Scotland, including the MacLean Curse series, the Hurst Amulet series, the Duchess Diaries series, and the new Oxenburg Princes series. Visit Karen’s website at www.karenhawkins.com.
CANDACE CAMP is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixty novels, including her Willowmere series, the Legend of St. Dwynwen trilogy, and her latest trilogy, Secrets of the Loch. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband. Learn more at www.candace-camp.com.
MEREDITH DURAN is the USA Today bestsell-ing author of ten historical romance novels, including her most recent, Luck Be a Lady. Visit her online at www.meredithduran.com.
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Also by Sabrina Jeffries
THE SINFUL SUITORS SERIES
The Art of Sinning
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THE PRINCES OF OXENBURG
The Prince and I
The Prince Who Loved Me
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THE SECRETS OF THE LOCH SERIES
Pleasured
Treasured
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RULES FOR THE RECKLESS SERIES
Luck Be a Lady
Lady Be Good
Fool Me Twice
That Scandalous Summer
Your Wicked Heart
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Heiress and the Hothead copyright © 2015 by Sabrina Jeffries LLC
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ISBN 978-1-4767-8608-7
ISBN 978-1-4767-8612-4 (ebook)
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 35