by Reid, Stacy
At night, she became someone else. Hidden by her wigs, eye masks, and scandalous dresses she would not ordinarily dare to wear, she visited some of the most unlikely places with her lover, her protector, by her side. It had felt so different to laugh and converse with no expectations placed upon her as a duchess. They had explored Astley’s Amphitheater to her delight, and even where he had spent most of his years struggling with his family—the Seven Dials.
She had listened to the smooth timbre of his voice as he’d told her tales of stealing, fighting, and brokering deals to put food on his table, and how he had gained his wealth by trading one favor after the other before learning the art of investing on the London Stock Exchange. She had been appalled at how he had existed, but fierce admiration had also burned inside her for his strength and cunning intelligence that had made him wealthier than most titled lords.
Other nights, they strolled through the fashionable quarters, laughing and chatting, with her regaling him with dozens of tales of her Nicolas. His first walk, the first time he’d called her mamma, the first time he’d fallen and scraped his knee, and the first time he’d lost a tooth. Stories she’d never gotten to share with her duke, or with anyone else, she found herself revealing out to Rhys. He seemed so fascinated with every word that came from her mouth, several times she had to force herself to stop talking after a mortified chuckle to say she had been talking for hours.
Some nights instead of taking her home, he had discreetly whisked her to his townhouse. A flush ran along her body at the wickedness they had indulged in. Days later, the memory of his touch was still so vivid. There had been times he had loved her so fiercely, she could not find the energy to slip away and be escorted back to her own townhouse. It was those times, despite missing her son dreadfully, she was grateful Simon had taken her boy with him to Lincolnshire.
Rhys had taken her to a masquerade ball in Soho Square, where she’d mixed with politicians, actresses, and businessmen of the middle class and aristocracy. She’d been herself and had given her opinion freely on investment trends and her knowledge of the arts and theater. Then the dratted man had taken her to another house in Soho Square for a black-market art exhibition. She had been equally appalled and enervated but had refused to make an illegal purchase.
Rhys also commanded the kitchen as he did everything else. That had pleasantly shocked her, and she had watched him one night while sitting on a kitchen stool as he cooked a stew. Georgiana had awkwardly chopped carrots and potatoes, loving every minute of it. That night they hadn’t made love but had eaten the savory meal he’d so effortlessly prepared, played chess in the drawing room, and taken turns reading her “deplorable” gothic romance aloud while they lazed on the carpet by the fire. Those were the nights he stole every shred of reserve she had in her heart about their union.
The last time she had been in Rhys’s bed had been a week ago. A sweet, hot ache filled her at the memory. Every time they made love, it created a heavy craving for more. He hadn’t treated her like spun glass at all that night. He had been a bit untamed, so ungentlemanly in his passions as he flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her onto her knees, her hips arched into the air. He’d surged into her powerfully, filling her, stretching her, enslaving her to the pleasures that burned within her heart for him. He’d loved her long and hard, and she had reveled in every stroke of his possession.
“How will I find the strength to tell you good-bye?” she had whispered into the crook of his neck. Being with him was a terrible pleasure.
He had made no reply, and she had slumbered with impossible dreams in her thoughts. There had been no clandestine meeting since, but every day he had sent her some gift. They had always been signed with a R, and were so simple in their design but brought her immeasurable pleasure. The first had been a small comb fashioned from a seashell, then a single bloodred rose, a first edition of The Mysteries of Udolpho by Anne Radcliffe. Her heart had trembled with the realization he was wooing her. Her fascination with him only grew, and last night she had sobbed herself to sleep for she was falling madly, desperately in love with Rhys Tremayne.
If only she could suppress her need for him that kept her awake in the dark while everyone else slumbered. Affixing a smile to her face as her mother chattered away, Georgiana discreetly examined Rhys as he moved though the throng, clearly an anomaly in their midst. It wasn’t that he was dressed differently, though he did not favor the flamboyant colors many gentlemen wore. He was garbed once more in dark trousers and a coat with a silver-cloth waistcoat. Danger seemed inherent in his coiled elegance, and the polite world sensed it, several people instinctively giving him a wide berth.
Their hostess greeted Lydia, who seemed to make a concentrated effort to not use her fingers to sign. She nodded and smiled, watching Lady Sheffield’s lips and responding when needed. As if he felt Georgiana’s regard, Rhys’s head lifted, and his eyes met hers over several heads. She was appalled to feel her breasts growing heavy from that quick heated, probing stare. She turned away, fighting for equanimity. Since the start of their affair, this was the first time they had had cause to mingle within society. It was decidedly discomfiting. She felt naked and too vulnerable without her wig and eye mask. The scrutiny of the ton seemed sharper, or perhaps she was just more aware of how illicit she had been.
“Upon my word, Georgiana, you seemed flushed,” Lady Trombly remarked. “Are you well?”
Dear God in heavens.
“I’m quite fine. It is the heat. I’ve promised Lord Locksley a turn in the garden, and I shall soon prevail upon him for our stroll.”
Lady Trombly gave Georgiana a knowing smile, and she gritted her teeth in annoyance. She had overheard several people banding their names together. And what did she expect? While she was sneaking away in the nights to be wrapped in Rhys’s arms, in the day she was taking tea and going on picnics with the persistent marquess.
He was ardently pursuing her, and she was still declining more invitations than she was accepting. But the few outings they had already, resulted in society linking their names together.
With a sigh, she directed her attention to Lydia, assessing her reception. She was resplendent in a light-peach gown with tiny forget-me-not flowers lining her hem and puffed sleeves. Her dark ringlets were caught in an elegant cascade, and her eyes, so very much like her brother’s, glowed with trepidation. “Excuse me, Mother, there is someone I must greet.”
“Oh, is it Lady Preston? I’ve heard her husband bought her the most delightful filly at Tattersall last weekend. I should come with you.”
“No.”
Her mother frowned at her terseness.
“Who must you greet?”
“Miss Lydia Tremayne, Mr. Tremyane’s sister.”
A shocked inhalation sounded. “You go to her? Preposterous. The girl must wait to be introduced to you, and I certainly hope you’ll not be overly familiar. That will be giving a stamp of approval to a young woman who is undeserving.”
Georgiana stiffened. “Undeserving?”
“Surely you cannot be in doubt. Miss Tremayne’s background and connections are dubious.”
“Mother, I am sure Simon told you of the unmatched service Mr. Tremayne performed for us when he used his background and connections to find my son when no one else could.”
A flush worked itself up her mother’s neck. “Albeit, my dear—”
“You are the person being preposterous, Mother.” Georgiana walked away, knowing her mother would be infuriated at the insult.
She headed directly for Lydia, grateful Rhys’s attention had been diverted by Lord Mansfield. “Lydia, how wonderful to see you again,” Georgiana greeted, holding out her hands. Lydia’s smile widened in delight.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping into an elegant curtsy. “How marvelous you look.” Her eyes were wide with admiration and warmth.
Georgiana drew Lydia along and introduced her to several well-connected ladies who were friends, very much aware of the c
uriosity of the throng as the attention she paid Lydia was remarked upon. Georgiana made the rounds with her and gave Lydia encouraging smiles as she was secured for a few dances with respectable gentlemen.
Sometime later, Georgiana stood on the sidelines, observing as Lydia danced the quadrille with young Lord Fenwick. He was the son of an earl, and rumors abounded of their impoverished state. Everyone understood he was seeking a young heiress with breeding, but from Lord Fenwick’s besotted mien, Lydia’s dubious connections might prove irrelevant.
“They do look charming together,” her friend Daphne murmured beside Georgiana. “But then Miss Tremayne’s manners are so delightful, she would easily attract any gentleman.”
Georgiana laughed, quite pleased with the assessment. Rhys’s sister was so sweetly earnest and lovely, she would be much admired.
“I am curious as to the mark of approval you have given her,” Daphne said, giving Georgiana a considering glance.
“Dear Daphne, Miss Tremayne is simply a delightful young lady with cheerful manners, and I like her.”
“Pah, I’m almost certain it has to do with the man whispers say is her brother. That one lounging on the upper balcony and inspiring very unladylike thoughts in many tonight. He is a fine specimen.”
Georgiana refused to glance toward the balcony. It had been a little over two hours since he’d arrived at the ball, and she had not approached him, nor did she intend to. She hated the discomfort stirring inside at her resolve, but it would not do for society to suspect any romantic attachment between them. Thankfully, he had not approached her, either, but at times she fancied she felt his stare.
Georgiana snagged a glass of champagne from a passing footman. “I’m heading to the retiring room for a few minutes.”
“You are deflecting. Anyone with their wits intact will see there is something between the two of you,” Daphne murmured.
Georgiana shot her friend a stricken glance. “What do you mean by that?”
“You, my dear, are making a concentrated effort not to look in his direction, and he…well,” Daphne said, flicking her fan open and moved it with vigor. “No one knows Mr. Tremayne and his family, and yet you are here introducing his sister to our society. I cannot credit it. Is he…is he, could it be that he is the man you are having a scandalous affaire de coeur with? And do not deny you have a lover, you are glowing.”
Georgiana faltered and froze. Daphne gasped, her dark eyes widening.
“Oh, Georgiana,” she breathed her hand fluttering to her throat. Despite her shocked tone, there was a curl of hunger in Daphne’s eyes, and a painful need for more burned in her gaze before her expression shuttered. “Be careful, my dear, I can see the appeal, but the ton will not be kind if it is ever revealed you took a commoner to your bed.”
Georgiana neither confirmed nor denied the affair. Instead, she gripped her friend’s hand and tugged her toward the terrace windows. They stopped beside a potted plant. She could not ignore the desire she had just seen in her friend. “Daphne, is all well with your marriage?”
The countess had similarly been married at a very young age, to the young Earl of Carrington, a man lauded in parliament for his reform speeches and efforts to end the barbaric practice of slavery. He was loved by some, admired for his daring and boldness, and loathed by others. There had even been rumors the earl had survived assassination attempts from those whose interest did not want to see slavery abolished.
Daphne’s eyes shadowed, and Georgiana frowned, for she knew her friend to be in love with her husband.
“Oh, worry not about me. Carrington and I are well.”
Georgiana sensed she prevaricated. There was a plea in Daphne’s eyes to leave it alone, and she nodded wordlessly.
“I will come by for tea soon, and we will have a long chat,” Georgiana said.
Her friend gave her an obviously brave smile and was soon whisked away by Lord Mansfield for a dance. Shortly after, Lord Locksley appeared by Georgiana’s side and took her empty champagne glass and handed it to a footman. The marquess led her to the dance floor and swept her into the waltz.
“I enjoyed our jaunt in the barouche yesterday,” he said warmly. “I was hoping you would dine at my residence with my family and me soon.”
“My lord,” she began haltingly. They had been conversing quite a lot for the past few weeks, and while she enjoyed their friendship, she was painfully aware that his arms were not the ones she wanted to be in at this moment.
“Say yes,” Lord Locksley coaxed, twirling her. “My cousins are in town, and I would love for you to meet them.”
“I will think on it,” she murmured, unwilling to commit, for her nights belonged to her lover.
Her shoulder blades burned, and she knew he stared. The marquess glided with her across the dance floor, and she caught a glimpse of Rhys, partially obscured in the shadows. A place where he seemed destined to belong whenever he moved within her world. Despite his wealth and power, he would never be accepted by polite society. They had no notion of the manner of man he was, not that they would care to learn. If they knew he had an arsenal of secrets he could use at any time against them, perhaps somehow, they would see him outlawed from England.
She wanted to leave Lord Locksley’s arms, march to Rhys, and dance with him, propriety be damned. Instead, she stayed in the marquess’s arms, hating the way he stared at her, and hating that if she married this man, she would have nothing inside to give him. All that she possessed had been effortlessly captured by Rhys Tremayne.
Chapter Fifteen
His duchess wore red. A daringly bold gown with a lowered neckline that was provocative yet elegant, the wine-red a striking contrast against her pale, unblemished skin. The dress clung alluringly to her frame, hugging her voluptuous curves. She wore his rubies, and they nestled in the valley between her breasts as if they were her lovers. The duchess’s hair was swept up in an elegant knot with tendrils cascading in loose spirals down to kiss her shoulders. By God, she was magnificent. Georgiana wore no other adornment, except a pair of white satin gloves and matching red slippers.
She danced with the Marquess of Locksley. The few ladies lingering close by brought to his attention how rare and scandalous it was that the duchess had danced the quadrille, and now a waltz, with the marquess. Apparently, her actions were signaling her intention to respond favorably to Lord Locksley’s pursuit.
They were both refined, their pedigrees within the top echelon of the ton, the gossips considered the match acceptable. Rhys couldn’t help observing his duchess and her marquess, a cold knot forming in his gut.
“They are such a wonderful couple.”
“I’ve heard he offered to her and she is considering it.”
“What a worthy alliance that would be.”
They were indeed cut from the same fine, genteel cloth. The marquess was everything Rhys was not—honorable, the bluest of bloodlines, and refined. With great effort, he directed his attention from the dancing couple and found his sister in the crush. She was also dancing the waltz, and her partner was the honorable Simon Basil. Lydia now seemed relaxed and confident, and Rhys was pleased with her reception. Earlier, she had been quaking with nerves, but now she glowed. She was escorted from the dance floor toward the refreshment room. Her face was flushed, and his sister looked happy. She had long held the opinion her impairment would make her unmarriageable, even to a man from a lesser class. There was an easing inside his soul, and Rhys felt as if their dreams could be attained.
Looking for the woman who had made it possible, he spied Georgiana surrounded by several gentlemen. It was the damn red dress, her smile, the warmth he could sense radiating from her as she laughed and chatted with a few notable ladies. How absurd that he should be envious of those who heard her laughter. Georgiana was in her element, at this moment appearing so secure in her position and power. Many young women and ladies paid a kind of homage to her, as if she were the hostess of the gathering and not a guest. He ruthlessly
tore his gaze from her, understanding enough of polite society’s rules that his continued regard would incite unwanted speculation.
Several lords with whom he had done business approached him and exchanged a greeting, their eyes alive with curiosity and some with slight fear. He knew many of their secrets, had traded to some of them information that had seen them marry into fortunes. They knew he had bankrupted businesses and closed out other investors. He could see the questions in their eyes as to what he was doing in their midst…and why?
“You have formed a tendre for Her Grace,” an amused voice murmured from behind him.
He tensed as Lord Mansfield sauntered forward to stand beside him. “Not many would notice,” Mansfield continued, “but I found it curious you would attend another ball. I have been watching you, and I couldn’t help noticing the satisfied way you stare at her sometimes. I must admit, I am beyond impressed. Since her duke’s death, many gentlemen have tried to be where you are now without any success.”
Rhys gave the earl a cool, impolite glance. “I do not believe I solicited your opinion.”
Lord Mansfield held up his hand as if surrendering. “A friendly warning, Tremayne—”
“We are not friends,” he said flatly.
“You wound me,” Mansfield said, his dark eyes holding a mocking glint. “I thought our connection had transcended a mere business relationship. Her Grace’s irresistible manners, graceful style, and deportment make the duchess a woman any man would be lucky to have. It is evident that honor will soon belong to Lord Locksley. You are wasting your efforts.”