by Jo Beverley
Your challenged friend,
Georgia
Georgia would much have preferred not to have her mother as chaperone on the journey to Devon, but apparently everything must be done with perfect propriety now.
Her mother’s presence meant they had to travel in full state, in the traveling berlin, with two coaches of servants, bedding, and other comforts, and six outriders. There was pleasure to be in the same carriage as Dracy, but no scope for true conversation. At night, after they’d supped, she was taken off to the bedchamber she shared with her mother and their two maids.
“I might as well be in a convent,” she muttered to Dracy one day as he handed her into the coach.
He kept her hand long enough to kiss it. “Many men find nuns arousing, you know.”
“Do you?”
“If the nun is you.”
Such little things fed her love and desire, and she grew eager to arrive at Dracy only to have this test over. But when they arrived, she had to hide her feelings.
He’d told the truth when he’d said this was no Brookhaven, and nothing was helped by them having traveled the last half day in pouring rain. There was no porte cochere, so they all had to slog through mud to get inside.
Her mother immediately insisted on a room, a fire, and dry clothes, but Georgia looked around, wondering if such things were available. The walls were grimy and soot stained, and some patches looked suspiciously like mold. She shivered in the damp air and wrinkled her nose at the smell.
Two servants hovered, but one was a terrified young girl, and the other a hunched old man.
She turned to Dracy and saw endearing apprehension.
She smiled, and it was genuine. “I’ve always enjoyed improving houses, and delighted in a challenge.”
He laughed. “I take pride in providing one, then.”
“Where is my room?” her mother asked, ominously. “I would remove to an inn except that I saw no such thing this past hour and I will not venture out again into that weather.”
“Begging yer pardon, your ladyships,” the serving girl said in a squeak, “but there be fires in the best bedchambers. Mistress Knowlton arranged them.”
Georgia looked at Dracy. “Housekeeper?”
“Friend,” he said. “I wrote ahead.”
She didn’t like the idea of a woman friend, but her mother was being led upstairs and so she followed. Pale spaces on the wall marked where paintings had hung, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a mouse scurry.
A cat.
Maybe a few cats.
The room allocated to her mother was more promising than Georgia had hoped for. A musty smell was almost masked by potpourri, and the fire burned cheerfully without spilling smoke into the room. Though as grimy as elsewhere, it didn’t seem damp, perhaps because of that lively fire. A fire in summer—that told the tale.
She quickly checked the sheets for damp and found them dry. “I think you’ll be comfortable here.”
Her mother snorted. “I am having doubts about this, daughter. Dracy, go away and see that I have hot punch to warm my bones, and sustaining food. Georgia, stay with me.”
Georgia wanted to defy her mother, but old lessons were hard to ignore. Once they were alone, she said, “You planned to marry me to Dracy, Mother.”
“I did not realize the extent of the sacrifice.”
“I can endure it. I love him.”
“You were always difficult, Georgia. Your reputation is mostly restored. There’s no need for this.” She indicated the room and the whole house.
Perhaps old lessons could be overcome.
“Mother, you plotted and connived to marry me to Dracy for the sake of a horse! Oh, I know you thought it best for me, but I was a pawn to you. I’m not a pawn anymore. My money is my own, I am mistress of my own fate, and I intend to marry Lord Dracy and, yes, live here at Dracy Manor.”
Her mother stared and Georgia braced for an explosion, but Agatha, her mother’s maid, came in, and the fire turned against her. “There you are at last. Get me out of these wet clothes before I catch an ague. Go away, Georgia. You exasperate me; I declare you do.”
Georgia escaped and found Dracy awaiting her in the corridor. She wondered how much he’d heard. He only smiled. “Let me show you to your room. I would have done better by it with more time.”
He took her down the corridor to a room also warmed by a fire, and where some flowers stood in a pottery vase. Lady Knowlton again?
“Tolerable,” she said, ignoring the moth holes in the hangings and the stained plaster in the ceiling. When she reached the window she ran a finger along the windowsill and held it up wet.
“Not quite fixed everything yet,” he said.
“Is the roof sound?”
“Mostly.”
“I can see we’ll need my twelve thousand.” This was his home, however, and thus hers. “You spent much time here as a boy. What was it like then?”
“I liked it. Never elegant, but cozy.”
“Then we’ll make it cozy again. Truly,” she said when he appeared to doubt. “I see no fallen plaster, so when the roof is repaired, paint will restore most, and the paneling in the entrance hall will be lovely when restored. Which is your room?”
“Have wicked intention, do you?” he asked, and she went hot at the look in his eyes. She supposed she had passed the last test, given that she was already planning restorations.
“How could anything be wicked between us?” she said.
He grinned. “I like a challenge.”
He took her to the end of the corridor to another room, flinging open the door. “The chamber of the Barons Dracy!”
It was large and had once perhaps had grandeur—a century or two ago. The walls were paneled here too, and the fireplace a cavern of stone. The carved oak bed, however, was the most baronial aspect. It was enormous, more than six feet wide.
“All the better to roll around in,” he said.
They looked at each other, but then her mother called, “Georgia? Where are you? Come here.”
Georgia pulled a face but went.
“Sit,” her mother said. “Eat. The rain has stopped and we have hours of daylight. We can do a first inspection of the garden. There must be something promising about this place.”
Georgia sent Dracy a silent apology. He smiled and went away.
Soon her mother was demanding pattens, and they were equipped to keep their shoes and skirts out of the mud. Dracy appeared to escort them, and Georgia muttered, “Boots. If I’m to attempt this sort of country living, I shall wear boots.”
“You’ll probably set the fashion.”
“Not here, I won’t. I can only hope no one ever sees me in this milieu.” But she sent him a smile. Truth was, she saw a challenge and she couldn’t wait.
Looked at clearly, the stone house was solidly pleasant. Much of the ivy could come off the walls, especially that hanging over windows, and perhaps some flowering plants could be trained there instead. The drive needed gravel, and there would have to be some sort of shelter for arriving coaches, but all in good time.
“I see sheep cropping the grass,” she said. “Why not more of them?”
“I’ve had a lot of demands on my time.”
“But frittered some away at horse races.”
“I can’t regret that,” he said.
She couldn’t resist. She kissed him.
“Besides that,” he said, “Carta won me a fair sum, cash in hand.”
Georgia’s mother was ahead of them, looking around. She began to call suggestions, most of them far too expensive to implement. Georgia didn’t argue, but she saw other needs.
“We must have a pond.”
“It would be in danger of overflowing at the moment,” Dracy said.
“Not if properly constructed. You promised me a naval battle, sir.”
“I don’t have twenty servants.”
Georgia considered the problem. “Don’t you think we could find twenty willi
ng children from the village? Where is the village?”
“Crux Dracy? About a mile beyond the long coppice. Over that way. And, yes, I’m sure we could find willing children. When we have a pond.”
“We” was a most delightful word, and the sun was struggling out from behind the clouds.
They progressed around to the walled kitchen garden, where beans climbed poles and cabbages thickened amid a number of other plants.
“This could easily be brought back into full production,” her mother said, and Georgia agreed. Only a third was in use, but it was decently tended.
“The few servants my cousin left here saw no reason not to grow food,” Dracy said. “Quite likely they passed any surplus to their families, or even sold it. I’ve not inquired.”
Her mother sniffed at that and went off to inspect a neglected herb area.
Dracy said, “Come and see the stables.”
“I’m more interested in the orchards. We’ll need to provide for ourselves as much as possible. What’s the state of the home farm?”
“Later. Come to the stables.”
She went, but as they approached she said, “The stable roof looks sound. And new.”
“It was in the worst state, and with Carta showing such promise…”
“Are you desperately attached to the Dracy racing stables?” she asked. “I don’t think we can afford it, and I won’t like my husband to be often away at race meetings.”
“Demanding, are you?”
Georgia felt a twinge of fear, fear that she would ruin all this, all her dreams for this, but she said, “Yes. I’m willing to put my all into Dracy Manor, but for us. It must be about us.”
“All I want is us. There’s Carta over there in the field.”
She smiled at the black mare. “Our Cupid. Without her we might have missed each other in the night.”
“Perhaps I’ll rename her, or name her first foal that. But no. You’re right about the stud. Perhaps I only dedicated myself to that because it seemed possible, and the house and estate defeated me. With you at my side, no longer.”
She snuggled up against him. “It’s a powerful challenge, but I can see it now, a mellow house in blooming gardens, well-drained land, and plentiful produce.”
“You really can bear to live here most of the time?” he asked.
“As long as it’s us.”
“I have an idea. Carta’s too good a racer to keep here. How much do you think your father would pay for her?”
She grinned. “With persuasion, a good deal.”
They came together for a kiss but eventually found the resolution to break it. No lovemaking in the muddy gardens, but Georgia longed to be closer to him, together in each other’s arms.
“Torrismonde had an interesting idea,” he said, taking her hand as they strolled on. “About Town living.”
“Yes?”
“I will need to spend some time there in winter for Parliament. What would you say to living at your father’s house?”
“What?” she exclaimed in instant rejection.
“Think about it, love. Hardly any expense, and otherwise, we can’t afford any kind of elegant accommodation. You wouldn’t like a tiny room on a third floor. Perhaps your parents would provide a suite of rooms where we could be private in a way.”
“Damnation, Dracy, you heap hardships upon me!” But she made herself consider the idea. “I will pine a little for a neat Mayfair house of my own, and that’s the truth, but it would be ridiculous to have one for only a few weeks a year. I will insist on that suite, but if that’s the worst hardship I ever face, I will be blessed. I am blessed,” she added, and they kissed again.
She decided she loved these little kisses, like tasting kisses, or sips of nectar. Nectar they could drink deeply of one day. Soon.
She linked arms with him and they strolled back toward the house. “So we toil here from spring to autumn and enjoy a little of the beau monde in the winter. And perhaps an occasional visit elsewhere? Bath is not so very far.”
“Bath is not so very far,” he agreed. “Come, you missed something in the garden.”
He took her hand and led her back to the house, to an unkempt flower bed against the wall. Part had been dug over, and in it…
“Nicotiana!” she exclaimed. “How did you manage that?”
“After the ball I asked Lady Thretford to donate her plants. I didn’t know if they’d survive the journey, but here they are, and with a blossom or two.” She smiled at him, but before she could comment, he added, “They’re carefully placed beneath my bedroom window. If you were to visit tonight after dark, you might catch the perfume.”
That night she slipped into his bedroom. He was waiting for her, this time in a plain woolen robe. She was wearing a pretty, new nightgown and her green robe.
“It seems so long,” she said.
“It’s been an eternity,” he said, taking her into his arms and kissing her, and kissing her. She could have kissed like that for eons except that she had more in mind for this night.
She pushed him away and shed her silk robe. Slowly, she undid her buttons.
With a smile, he unfastened the ones on his own robe, watching her.
She chuckled and slowly raised the skirt of her nightdress, teasing him.
He peeled off his robe and tossed it aside, naked.
“Are you going to stand there like that all night?” he said. “I don’t mind. We do have all night. If we’re caught at this, they can only make us wed.”
She laughed and pulled off the nightgown, tossing it aside as he had. “No hair powder tonight.”
“For which I thank the heavens.” He plunged his hands into her hair, raising it up and then letting it fall. “It catches fire in the candlelight.”
“I worried about that powder,” she said. “That a servant would know.”
“I cleaned it up, though I was tempted.”
“Tempted?”
“To leave it, to compromise you. To force you.”
“But you didn’t,” she said, melting with love. “You are the most perfect man in the world.” She went on tiptoe to kiss his scarred cheek. “I want you to take me to your bed and make me completely yours.”
He was caressing a breast, but his hand stilled. “Why?”
“At one time I considered taking my chosen husband to bed before the wedding, because if I didn’t conceive, I could jilt him. I didn’t want to disappoint again.”
He shook his head. “I doubt you could have done it, love, and I’ve told you, if we have no children, I’ll not complain.”
She put her hand on his chest. “Then what difference will it make? You’ll not escape marrying me, Lord Dracy, so take me now. Make me completely yours.”
He did, with all his skill, but simply, which for Georgia was skillful perfection. He caressed her to passion as she explored his wonderful body, and then sank deep into her, slowly, gently, sliding sweetly, making her arch with breathless delight.
He kissed her as he moved, commanding her, guiding her in the pounding rhythm to a passion beyond even that they’d shared before. She filled her mouth with his hot, salty flesh to stifle cries of pleasure as her body jolted with fulfillment and then collapsed into another drowning kiss and limp completion.
Eventually the power of speech returned, but what to say?
“I love you,” she said into his sweaty skin. “And I love lying here like this, tucked against you, safe from all harm. Did I tell you you’re my anchor?”
“I’d rather you fly, Georgia, than be tethered by me. I adore you,” he said, kissing her hair, “and I adore being in bed with you so much that I fear Dracy will crumble around our besotted heads.”
Georgia chuckled and turned to nuzzle into him, inhaling a sweeter and more magical smell even than flowering tobacco. “Let it.”
Author’s Note
A Scandalous Countess was great fun to write because I found some new elements with which to play.
Fi
rst, there was a widowed heroine. I haven’t featured a widow in one of my novels for a long time, but my story idea called for one. However, I also wanted a heroine who was vulnerable to her family’s pressure to marry, and I decided that meant she must be a young widow. In the eighteenth century, widows generally had a rare degree of power and independence, but I assumed that at twenty years of age Georgia would be powerless.