Discovering Miss Dalrymple (Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Book 6)

by Emily Larkin

Georgie moistened her lips, found her voice. “You’re magnificent.”

  Vickery blushed, until his face was as rosy as his appendage. “Do you still want to continue with this daydream?”

  “Yes,” Georgie said.

  Vickery stood quite still for a moment, and then he climbed back onto the bed on hands and knees, looming over her.

  She looked at his face—flushed and intent—and then at his appendage, and reached out and touched the very end of it with a fingertip, cautiously, curiously.

  Vickery inhaled a sharp breath and shuddered.

  “Do I touch you in your daydream?”

  “Yes.” The word was half-strangled, almost unintelligible.

  “Do I touch you a lot?” His appendage was very hot, very smooth.

  He caught her hand. “Sometimes.” He was trembling. “But that’s not my favorite.”

  “What is?”

  “My favorite is when you take off my coat and we make love.”

  His words froze her for a moment, every muscle in her body clenching tightly.

  “Do you want that, Georgie?”

  “Yes,” she said urgently.

  Vickery released her hand.

  Georgie scrambled out of her nightgown and lay on the counterpane, naked. Her nipples were tight, her whole body taut with anticipation. “Like this?”

  Vickery let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” he breathed. “Exactly like that.”

  He bent his head and kissed her breasts, his mouth gentle at first, barely touching her, then more forcefully, grazing her nipples with his teeth, nipping them. Georgie clutched his head, digging her fingers into his hair, arching up.

  She was breathless by the time Vickery abandoned her breasts. He kissed her throat, and then her mouth, fiercely, and she kissed him back just as fiercely. His hand was between her legs, two fingers inside her, and she arched into his touch. “Vic.” His name came out in a sound that was neither gasp nor groan, full of urgency and need.

  Vickery withdrew his fingers and positioned himself over her. He looked almost wild—the tousled hair, the flushed face, the dark eyes. A man made of hot skin and hard muscle. “It doesn’t hurt you in my daydream, but it might . . .”

  “I don’t care,” Georgie said.

  It did hurt, a little, but then came pleasure. Georgie surrendered to instinct, not thinking at all, arching up to Vickery, their bodies striving together, a fierce and primitive dance, and she was hot, so hot, tension building inside her until it almost hurt—and then the tension released in great waves of pleasure. Georgie heard herself cry out breathlessly, heard Vickery cry out, and then the frantic dance slowed and stilled.

  Vickery drew in a shuddering breath and rolled off her and gathered her in his arms, holding her close.

  Georgie burrowed into him, inhaling the scent of his skin.

  It was a perfect moment. A moment she never wanted to end. Slowly their breathing steadied. Slowly their heartbeats steadied. They lay together quietly, warm and sated and relaxed. Vickery stopped holding her quite so tightly. Georgie nestled in his embrace, her hand on his chest, drinking him in with her fingers. Warm skin, a little damp with perspiration, with that soft trail of hair leading downwards. My Vic.

  His heart was beating in time with hers. Their breathing was exactly in unison, slow inhalation, slow exhalation.

  We match each other, Vic and I.

  Finally Vickery said, “Do you like my daydream?”

  “I love your daydream,” Georgie told him. “May I borrow it?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Now?”

  “If you wish,” he said again.

  Georgie thought for a moment, making patterns on Vickery’s chest with one fingertip. “We’re riding along the beach, the horses are almost up to their bellies in the water, and you fall off—”

  “Fall off? The devil I do.”

  “You fall off your horse,” she repeated.

  “No,” Vickery said, mock indignation in his voice. “I do not. I haven’t fallen off a horse since I was eleven.”

  “It’s my daydream,” she protested.

  “No, it’s mine,” he said. “And I’m not lending it to you if you make me fall off my horse.”

  Georgie huffed out a breath, but what she really wanted to do was laugh. “All right.” She thought for a moment. “My hat blows off into the sea, and you jump in and rescue it for me.”

  “Much better,” he said. “You may continue.”

  She hid a smile against his skin. “It’s winter, and the water’s freezing, so I take you to the summerhouse to get warm, and I make you take off all your clothes.” She sat up suddenly and dragged on her nightgown. “But I keep mine on, because my clothes wouldn’t fit you.”

  “What? You don’t give me your chemise to dry myself with?”

  “Oh, no,” she said primly. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  Vickery laughed, as he hadn’t in days, and he looked so relaxed and so happy and so Vic that Georgie couldn’t resist leaning over and kissing him.

  He kissed her back, one hand cupping the back of her head, holding her there. They kissed until they were both breathless, then Georgie drew back. She looked at him stretched out naked on the bed. “Poor Vic,” she said sorrowfully. “You’re so cold. Shivering.”

  She drew one fingertip lightly up his thigh, which did make him shiver. “I need to warm you up, even if it isn’t proper . . .”

  Chapter Twelve

  September 16th, 1814

  Cornwall

  Alexander stared determinedly out the carriage window; it was either that or gaze at Georgiana with a foolish love-besotted smile on his face. He tried to concentrate on the sheer beauty of the day—the blue sky, the sunshine—but his head turned without his volition and he found himself looking at her again.

  Damn it.

  He wrenched his gaze from Georgiana and focused on the view out the window. He recognized this stretch of road. He’d walked it yesterday. Another minute and they’d be skirting the clifftops.

  The carriage slowed to little more than walking pace. Alexander craned his head. There was the exact spot where he’d stood and watched the waves crashing eighty feet below.

  He glanced at Dalrymple, and decided not to tell him how close they were to the cliff edge. His gaze slid to Georgiana. Happiness swelled in his chest. After a moment he realized he was doing it yet again: staring at her and smiling like a love-struck fool.

  He tore his gaze away and glanced at Lord Dalrymple.

  The viscount was watching him, his eyes slightly narrowed.

  Alexander felt himself flush. Had Dalrymple guessed some part of what had occurred last night? Not the sex, he prayed. Let him not have guessed that. He cleared his throat. “Uh, sir . . . Georgiana and I have something we’d like to tell you.”

  “Do you?” Dalrymple said, and there was a dry undertone in his voice that Alexander didn’t like the sound of.

  Shit. He has guessed.

  The carriage lurched to a halt. “Whoa!” he heard the coachman cry, and “Whoa!” from the coach-and-four behind.

  The carriage swayed as the footman jumped down.

  “What on earth?” Georgiana said.

  “Sheep on the road, probably,” Alexander said, opening the door and jumping down himself.

  It wasn’t sheep on the road ahead of them; it was a boy and a cart and a donkey.

  The cart was tilted at a dangerous angle over the cliff, one wheel off the road. The donkey was straining and so was the boy, every line of his body taut with desperation. “Help!” he cried out. “Help!”

  Alexander ran. For a moment all was frantic effort, he and the footman heaving and hauling, and then the cart lurched up onto the road again. He turned to the boy. “You all right?” But the boy paid him no attention. He abandoned the cart and ran to the cliff edge. “Janey!” he screamed.

  Alexander’s chest tightened with foreboding. He crossed to the boy, crouched, and looked over.

&n
bsp; He saw rocks.

  Rocks and sea.

  Rocks and sea and a girl clinging to the cliff, about twenty feet down.

  For a moment it looked impossible—the cliff too sheer, the drop too far, the sea-smashed rocks at the bottom too brutal—and then Alexander’s brain started working again. “Hold tight,” he called down. “We’ll get you up.”

  He wasn’t sure the girl heard. She was clinging white-knuckled to a thorn bush, her face bloodless with terror, wisps of hair whipping about her head in the breeze. She looked about fourteen years old, halfway between childhood and adulthood.

  Someone crouched alongside him, peered over the side, and recoiled. “Mother of God.”

  Alexander glanced at him: the footman, as white-faced as the girl. “Fetch Greenlow.”

  The footman scrambled to his feet.

  Alexander looked over the side again. He studied the cliff. The rocks at the bottom were still sharp in the foaming waves, but the cliff itself wasn’t nearly as steep as he’d first thought. “Hold tight,” he called down again. “Won’t be long.” And then he said to the boy, sobbing alongside him, “We’ll get her up, I promise.”

  He looked west, and saw that the cliffs grew steeper. Looked east, and found a relatively gentle slope down to the water.

  “Your Grace?”

  Alexander glanced around. The senior coachman crouched where the footman had been. Behind him were his valet, Fletcher, and Georgiana.

  “Greenlow, I want all the reins. Tie them together with a large loop at one end, something I can tighten. It’ll go under her arms.” He touched his own armpits to show what he meant. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” the coachman said, and hurried away.

  Georgiana dropped to hands and knees, peered over the edge, then looked at him, her face pale, her eyes wide. “You’re going to climb down to her?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll climb up.”

  “Up?”

  “It’s always easier to climb up than down,” Alexander told her. “Fletcher, help me out of this coat.”

  He stood and peeled out of his tailcoat, and after a moment’s thought, his waistcoat and neckcloth.

  “Vic, you don’t have to prove anything,” Georgiana said, her tone slightly desperate.

  He looked at her blankly, and then realized what she was talking about: his fear of the dark.

  “I’m not trying to prove anything. I can do this, Georgie. I spent half my childhood climbing cliffs with Oliver and Hubert, remember? And it’s not that dangerous, truly. Look . . .” He put an arm around her shoulders and turned her to face east. “You see that slope?” He pointed. “I’ll go down there to halfway, then come across. There’s quite a wide ledge . . . do you see it?”

  “I see it,” she whispered.

  “Once I’m far enough across I’ll climb up to her. It’s good, rough rock, plenty of handholds. The steepest part is this very last bit, and we’ll use the reins for that.” Both his arms were around her now, his mouth by her ear. “I know it seems dangerous, but once you look at it, it’s not really. I promise I won’t fall.”

  “Vic . . .” Her hand rose to clutch his shirt-sleeve.

  “On my word of honor, Georgie, I’m not going to fall.”

  She blew out a shaky breath. He felt her tension, her fear. “All right,” she said. “Go.”

  Alexander tightened his arms around her for a moment, and then kissed her cheek, not caring what Lord Dalrymple and the servants thought. He released her. “Look after the boy. I won’t be long.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Georgie had spent four years waiting for confirmation of Hubert’s death. She had perfected waiting. But today’s waiting was quite different. Things were happening too quickly, the seconds galloping past. She wanted to slow everything down. She cupped her hands and shouted to the girl: “Someone’s coming to help you,” then turned to the boy. “It’s going to be all right.” She snatched a glance at Vickery, already beginning his descent, then climbed to her feet and ran across to her father, pale-faced and agitated by the carriages. Her explanation was hasty, the words tumbling over one another. He caught her arm when she turned to go, his grip almost frantic. “Don’t go near the edge.”

  Georgie looked up at his face and saw that he was as scared for her as she was for Vickery. She detached his hand and squeezed his fingers. “I’m not going to fall. I promise.”

  Vickery’s words, those. I’m not going to fall.

  Georgie caught up her skirts and ran back to where the boy knelt. Time continued to speed past too fast. She saw things in snatches: Vickery scrambling down the slope, moving lightly and without hesitation, making it look easy; the girl clinging to the cliff, strands of hair dancing about her face; a seagull swooping close, feathers ruffled, bright eyes curious. She glanced behind her. Both teams of horses were unharnessed, the coachmen and footmen working feverishly, laying the long reins out on the road, knotting them together.

  She looked back at Vickery. He was no longer scrambling down the slope, but moving sideways, careful and purposeful, thirty feet above the waves.

  He halted and discarded his boots.

  Someone gave a faint, anguished moan alongside her. Vickery’s valet, Fletcher. “Not the ones by Hoby,” he muttered.

  Vickery peeled off his stockings, rolled up his sleeves, and began climbing upwards, not rushing, choosing each handhold with care. The wind ruffled his shirt, ruffled his hair, dashed the waves against the rocks below, but he wasn’t afraid. She could see it in his body, in the way he moved, the sureness, the confidence.

  Georgie found that she couldn’t watch. She focused on the girl instead. “Hold tight,” she cried. “He’s coming.”

  Someone nearby was praying, the words too low to hear clearly. She glanced around and found her maid, Geddes, crouched there. When she looked back down, Vickery had almost reached the girl.

  Georgie held her breath, unable to inhale, unable to exhale. All she could do was watch in an agony of hope and fear.

  “Miss, I got the reins.”

  Georgie moved hastily aside. Greenlow crouched where she’d been.

  “Are you certain they’re safe?” she said.

  “Your father checked them, miss. They’ll hold.”

  Time sped up again, moving too fast. Greenlow fed the reins down the cliff. Vickery clung to the rocks with one hand and fastened the reins around the girl with the other. He was talking. The wind brought her snatches of his voice, low and calm and steady. Time moved forward again. The reins pulled taut. Georgie heard the coachmen and the footmen grunt with effort, heard a child’s high, thin wail of terror—and then suddenly the girl was on the road, thrashing like a landed fish, shrieking and sobbing.

  “Look after her,” Georgie told her maid, not tearing her gaze from Vickery. She stared down at him, ignoring the babble of voices. He grinned up at her, fearless, and shouted something. The wind whipped the words from his mouth. “—go back—way I came—”

  Someone crouched alongside her with a clink of buckles. Greenlow, with the reins.

  “He’s going to climb down,” Georgie told him.

  Greenlow grunted. “Best he do that. He’s a heavy one, our duke.” He climbed to his feet again, taking the reins with him.

  Vickery moved more slowly on his descent and Georgie remembered what he’d said earlier: it was easier to climb up than down. She watched with her heart in her mouth, barely breathing, noting each pause, each grip, each step. The seagull watched, too, its wings outspread, swooping and soaring in the wind currents. So did Vickery’s valet, kneeling alongside her.

  Vickery finally reached his boots. He tugged them on, looked up and waved, and began scrambling up the slope. Beside her, his valet blew out a deep breath. “Thank the Lord.”

  Georgie watched until Vickery was nearly at the road again, then climbed to her feet and looked around. The coachmen and the footmen were harnessing the horses to the carriages. Her maid and her father�
�s valet were fussing over the two children. Only one person was standing motionless: her father, watching her, his face taut.

  “Vic’s fine, Papa,” Georgie said, going to him and hugging him tightly. “Come with me.” She took his hand and tugged him with her, almost running.

  Ahead, Vickery clambered onto the road. He paused for a moment, hands on his knees, catching his breath, and then straightened, sweating and wind-tousled.

  Georgie released her father’s hand and ran to him. Vickery caught her up in his arms, lifting her off her feet, swinging her around. “Told you not to worry,” he said, grinning. He set her back on her feet, but didn’t release her. Instead he kissed her. He tasted of salt spray. Then he lifted his head and looked at her father. “You should know that Georgie and I are getting married.”

  “I should bloody well hope so after a display like that,” her father said. He looked as if he was struggling between heartfelt relief that Vickery was alive and an equally heartfelt desire to yell at him for kissing his daughter on a public road. Vickery’s valet, his arms full of his master’s clothes, was discreetly studying the toes of his shoes.

  Vickery released her hastily. “Sir—”

  “Damn fool boy,” her father said, and strode across and hugged Vickery roughly. “You took ten years off my life. Now put some bloody clothes on. You’re half-naked.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was late afternoon by the time they reached Liskeard. They left the carriages at the posting inn and walked to the house little Charley Prowse had been taken to twenty-five years ago.

  “That’s it,” Georgiana said, pointing.

  Alexander halted on the flagway and stared across the street, seeing a sizable two-storied house behind an iron fence. Whoever had built it had been wealthy but whoever owned it now wasn’t. The gutters sagged and there were quite a few slates missing from the roof.

  The house looked grim, with its gray stone walls and narrow windows and pointed gables. It also looked empty. All the windows except two were tightly shuttered.