The Gentleman Thief

by Deborah Simmons

Once certain he had her attention, Ashdowne took the edge of her glove in his teeth and tugged, watching her eyes widen and her lips part on a startled breath. Tugging gently, he slowly revealed an inch of pink palm and then another. He took his time, as if he were undressing her body for his viewing, and found that the ritual heightened his own excitement, as well as Georgiana’s.

  Her delicate fingers followed as he edged the glove down to the tips and tossed it aside. With a groan, he pressed his mouth to the center of her palm as he tried to rein in his burgeoning passion. The delicate scent of Georgiana filled his nostrils, and he licked the tender skin on the inside of her hand, creating little circles. Moving on, he traced her fingers with his tongue, finding each tip and each indentation between.

  Finally Ashdowne looked up, catching her gaze with his own, and took one small finger into his mouth. He sucked on it, watching her blue eyes glaze over as she blinked in an endearing manner. His own groin jerked in response, but he held himself still, his only movement the suckling of her fingers, the only sounds in the quiet grove that of their shallow breathing. Slowly, tenderly, he bit at her tiny nail, and she gasped and swayed, her legs giving way.

  Ashdowne moved forward to catch her and press her back against the smoothness of his cloak spread upon the grass. He felt light-headed, aroused beyond anything he had ever known, and he had done nothing but lavish attention on her hand. With a low sound of straining impatience, he rose over her, eager to ply the rest of her body.

  But something stopped him.

  Hovering over her, his weight on his arms, Ashdowne stared at her beautiful face and paused. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, and her head was thrown back, so that he could not mistake her desire. But her eyes were closed.

  “Georgiana. Look at me,” he whispered.

  Her lashes fluttered open to reveal a glimpse of hazy blue depths before drifting shut once more. Ashdowne remained prone just inches from her lush form, his groin throbbing painfully, every part of him screaming for release, for the pleasure to be found here, with her. He had but to lower himself and…

  Instead, he rolled away and groaned, throwing an arm over his face. It would be so easy to take her, or even to satisfy them both and still leave her a virgin, but he felt a fraud, as if he had somehow robbed her of her choice in the matter. As absurd as it seemed, he wanted her to greet his lovemaking with her eyes wide-open, welcoming, wanting him no matter what. No matter all that stood between them.

  With another groan, Ashdowne realized that he was just as mad as Georgiana! First he had begun to understand her, which was alarming enough, and now he was thinking like her, in bizarre convoluted ways that made no sense to anyone with wits! Muttering a curse, Ashdowne sat up and rose to his feet to stare unseeing at the panorama of Bath below.

  “Ashdowne?” He felt her hand tugging at his sleeve, but he did not trust himself to face her. What would he see in her eyes? Dazed passion? Rebuke?

  “Just the hand, remember?” he said as lightly as he could manage. “I was only to touch your hand and nothing else.” He turned then, with a casual grace he had long ago perfected, his expression bland.

  “Ashdowne?” Whatever she was going to say was lost to the wind, as the sound of horses reached them. They both swung toward the path, where a pair of hack horses pulling what looked like some sort of converted cart came into view.

  “There you are!”

  Ashdowne recognized the cries but couldn’t believe his ears—or his eyes. Barreling toward them were Georgiana’s sisters in a ramshackle conveyance, driven by her brother Bertrand.

  Ashdowne spared a moment to send up thanks that he was not right now under his companion’s skirts, deeply embedded in her gorgeous body, while he stared in amazement at the vehicle that came to a halt. Georgiana’s sisters, sporting matching parasols and frothy gowns, waved and giggled and fluttered their fans in greeting.

  “We’ve been looking all over for you!” Araminta, the rather strident one, scolded. “Luckily, Miss Simms said you headed this way.”

  “Mother sent us to fetch you!” Eustacia said, with a sidelong glance at Ashdowne that was intended to be beguiling but fell far short.

  Bertrand, as usual, said nothing, having no doubt expended his meager supply of energy to search for them when he could be lounging in the Pump Room.

  Georgiana, looking unrelated to any of them, glanced toward them and then back to Ashdowne, as if torn, until he nodded toward her family.

  “You are obviously wanted,” he said, noting the new blush that pinked her cheeks at his soft words. Despite his frustration, Ashdowne had to admire her mother, who obviously had more sense than her gregarious husband. She was a wise woman not to trust him with her daughter, and Georgiana was wise not to give herself to him.

  “Well, I suppose I must go,” she said, though she looked less than enthusiastic about joining her siblings. When she leaned close as to impart some fond farewell to him, Ashdowne drew in a sharp breath.

  “I was hoping we might find Mr. Jeffries and see if he had shed any new light upon the case,” she confided.

  Ashdowne stared at her, astounded that after what he considered a most momentous morning, all she could think about was the damned case. His pride flinched, along with the rest of him as he acknowledged his place in Georgiana’s world. But she was eyeing him expectantly, so he arranged his expression accordingly.

  “Meet me in the Pump Room after luncheon, and we’ll see what we can do,” he said. She nodded furtively, and he smiled. “Try not to get into any trouble without me,” he added, touching her nose in a gesture of affection that was all he trusted himself to do.

  She nodded again, and after several minutes of good-byes, Ashdowne waved as he watched the Bellewethers disappear down the hill. In the ensuing silence, he sighed, turning around to take in a view that had somehow lost its luster. Finally he moved to retrieve his cloak from the grass only to spot an errant piece of kid leather. He stooped to pick it up, rubbing the material between his fingers lovingly.

  Georgiana’s glove. Tucking it into his pocket, he climbed into the curricle. He would return it to her later this afternoon, he told himself, but he knew he would not. Although he had never been the sentimental sort, he was deuced if he was going to give back the glove. He frowned, once more unable to sort out any thoughts but one.

  He was doomed.

  It seemed to Ashdowne as if he had finally begun to concentrate upon the correspondence from his bailiff when Finn knocked, although the manservant had been told not to interrupt him. Knowing that the Irishman disapproved of the boring business that came with the marquis’s title, Ashdowne suspected some manufactured emergency.

  “This better be good,” he muttered as he bid the majordomo enter.

  “A woman to see you, milord,” Finn said, his face impassive. “I put her in the drawing room, pending your instructions.”

  Ashdowne, who had spent entirely too much time thinking about Georgiana, didn’t hesitate, but surged to his feet. He had warned her about coming to his residence, but she never heeded him. Never. The frustrations of this morning still simmering, he was beginning to think a lesson was in order. His jaw set, his face grim, he stalked toward the drawing room, pausing at the threshold to prevent her escape as he issued his threat.

  “Bertrand had better be in there with you, or you’re a dead woman,” he said in a deliberately low voice. He never shouted, and he was not given to displays of temperament, but Georgiana could surely try a saint.

  Only after the words had left his mouth did Ashdowne see the disarray in the room before him. Boxes and trunks littered the floor, a maid stood to one side, and the woman whose back was to him gasped and whirled around. To his horror, he saw immediately that it was not Georgiana, but a female with a taller, more slender form and dark hair.

  Biting back an oath, Ashdowne recognized Anne, his dead brother’s wife. She stood staring at him, brown eyes wide, lips trembling, looking for all the world as though sh
e might faint dead away. Knowing Anne, such a fit of vapors was a distinct possibility and one which Ashdowne hurried forward to forestall.

  “Anne! I beg your pardon,” he said, but as soon as he took a step toward her, she stumbled backward, as if he were somehow frightening. Unfortunately, his brother’s wife seemed to view the entire world as rather terrifying, and Ashdowne, despite some effort, had been unable to convince her otherwise.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, as the realization that she had undertaken a journey on her own struck him full force. Anne had never traveled until Ashdowne, weary of her continued presence at the family seat, had pushed her off to visit relatives in London—to disastrous results. Upon returning home, she had sworn never to leave again, yet here she was, appearing on his doorstep without notice.

  And regretting it, apparently. “Oh, I knew that I should not have come,” she whispered in her thin, reedy voice. And before Ashdowne could garner any explanation, she burst into tears and ran from the room, leaving her maid to glare at him while he frowned in annoyance.

  Admittedly, since his assumption of the title, he had not been the carefree, reckless charmer of his youth, but he had never caused any other female to run, crying, from the room. Yet, this was not the first time Anne had fled his presence. At first, he had taken her mourning into consideration. Finally he had simply grown weary of her fragile sensibilities and packed her off to London—much to his later regret.

  Now he knew better than to expect Anne to behave in anything but a fearful manner, and he heaved a sigh as her maid hurried after her. Instead of catching up on his correspondence, it looked as though he would have to spend the morning coddling his gentle but exasperating sister-in-law. It was one of the more onerous of his duties as marquis.

  “Well?” Finn asked, appearing in the doorway.

  Ashdowne shrugged and sent the Irishman a hard look. “You could have warned me,” he said. Glancing at the clock, he hurried toward the stairs. He was to meet Georgiana in the Pump Room soon, and no matter what happened here, he wasn’t about to be late. There was much still to be resolved between them, including the wretched investigation into Lady Culpepper’s theft.

  Chapter Twelve

  Georgiana was trembling. She paced the confines of her room, trying to concentrate but failing abysmally. And although she had changed her gloves several times since returning home this morning, she kept staring at her quivering fingers as if the errant digits no longer belonged to her.

  They belonged to Ashdowne.

  And it didn’t seem to matter that she had never believed in such romantic nonsense. Despite all her fierce denials, Georgiana felt giddy and warm and light inside, all the so-called symptoms of a woman who had succumbed to the sort of emotional upheaval to which her sex was prone. It didn’t take someone of Georgiana’s special abilities to deduce that her hands weren’t the only part of her the handsome marquis had claimed.

  He was perilously close to stealing her heart.

  And that was a theft Georgiana had no interest whatsoever in investigating. She was a practical young woman, one who made it her business to examine all the pertinent facts, and the facts in this case pointed to only one thing: Ashdowne was a marquis and, as such, far above her reach. This absurd attraction between them could only lead to her ruin, and she must put a stop to it.

  But knowing wasn’t the same as doing, and Georgiana dithered and paced, undecided as to what step to take next. One moment she was determined not to meet him at the Pump Room, yet the thought of forgoing his company left her bleak. She really didn’t want to see him, but, paradoxically, she couldn’t wait to see him. She didn’t need him…except to continue living and breathing. And worst of all, she never dithered! Ashdowne was turning her into a woman, complete with the most distasteful attributes of her gender: illogical, emotional and romantic.

  To Georgiana’s mind, ladies were essentially witless creatures who fluttered their fans and concerned themselves with flounces and new gowns and such unimportant fare. Always more interested in the male world of cogent thought, Georgiana didn’t want to be like that. Why, the very notion of turning into her sisters made her cringe in horror.

  And yet she couldn’t shake this feeling of euphoria that had seized her. The truth was she loved being with Ashdowne. He listened to her. He made her laugh. He played her body like a finely tuned violin. With a maudlin frown, Georgiana sank down in a chair, plopped her chin in her hand and contemplated just how much being a woman appealed to her after all.

  Now the face and form she had long decried seemed a blessing, a wonderful instrument of pleasure in the hands of the marquis. And that most female part of her, her heart, heedlessly held sway over her head. So, despite her formidable brainpower, her long moments of pacing and rumination were all for naught, and with a sigh of surrender, Georgiana let the errant organ lead her toward the Pump Room for her meeting with the man who would steal it from her.

  She didn’t have to look for Ashdowne long, for word of his grand presence in the company reached her ears as soon as she entered the building. Georgiana knew a moment’s irritation, for why could the man not be more circumspect? If only he would wear a disguise, as she had suggested! If only he were anyone other than a rich, handsome nobleman…but then he would not be Ashdowne, and her interest would undoubtedly not be engaged. Oh, fickle heart that was the downfall of her gender!

  Dismayed at such feminine whimsy, Georgiana made her way through the crowd, but often paused to listen, as was her wont. This time, however, she was not too pleased by what she heard, for it was Ashdowne they were discussing at length: Ashdowne and his sister-in-law.

  His sister-in-law? Ashdowne had said nothing of his relative’s imminent arrival this morning when he had been toying with her fingers! Tugging at her glove, Georgiana realized that the opportunity for conversation may not have presented itself. But still, why had he made an appointment with her when he was engaged by his sister-in-law?

  Georgiana’s unease was not improved by the gossip that flitted around her. Over and over she heard turbaned matrons admire what a lovely couple they were: Ashdowne and his brother’s widow! And much was made of how he might have comforted the grief-stricken woman at the family seat they shared.

  It was all supposition and innuendo from disgruntled mamas and their daughters, Georgiana told herself, and certainly none of her business anyway. And yet, when she caught a glimpse of the two of them, her newly discovered heart thundered its dismay, for Ashdowne’s sister-in-law was beautiful. Tall and slender, with dark and silky hair caught up in an elegant style, she moved with a delicacy and grace that made Georgiana feel like the worst sort of clod. The abrupt awareness of her own deficiencies only made her more clumsy, and she knocked into a chair, neatly toppling the occupant’s wig.

  Frantically she tried to upright the outraged gentleman’s coiffure while not drawing Ashdowne’s notice. Luckily for her, the marquis seemed focused solely on his lovely relative, and Georgiana watched him lean close to whisper something that drew a shy smile from the lady’s lips. Georgiana’s own mouth quivered perilously as she fought against the absurd urge to cry. She never cried!

  But she had never felt this awful, wrenching envy before. Ever since engaging her assistant, Georgiana had known a possessiveness that made it nearly impossible for her to share his company with others. But her giggling sisters and the simpering Bath ladies who chased his title were one thing, while his elegant sister-in-law was something else entirely.

  This woman obviously was not after his title, and she didn’t giggle. Indeed, she exhibited such a serene, refined demeanor that Georgiana felt too loud, too busy, too dowdily costumed and too uncomfortable in her woman’s body. And not only did this lady seemingly possess everything that Georgiana lacked, she was Ashdowne’s relative! She had a past with him that Georgiana could not claim, a family tie that would never be severed.

  Although she knew she should pity the poor widow and be glad that the two rem
aining family members could share their grief, Georgiana harbored a spiteful and petty dislike for the marchioness that made her despise her femaleness once more. This riot of inappropriate emotions that took control of her was worse than lowering. It was untenable.

  And so, instead of moving toward the marquis and his lovely sister-in-law, Georgiana turned aside and headed from the room. She did not want to face them, to let Ashdowne see this horrid, twisted creature she had become, or to extend a cordial greeting to his brother’s wife when she felt nothing but antipathy for the woman.

  She straightened her shoulders and went looking for Mr. Jeffries. It was time she quit letting her heart do the leading and turned her attention back where it belonged: on the case. A good brainteaser was just what she needed to rid herself of these female weaknesses, and the Bow Street Runner might well have some new information. If they put their heads together, surely they could solve the theft, Georgiana told herself, without her assistant’s help!

  After all, she had begun her investigation without him, she mused, as she sent a note round to Mr. Jeffries’s apartments. She had not even wanted to take him on, for he had been one of her suspects! She was reminded that, with Whalsey and the vicar out of the running, the only name left on her original list was that of the marquis.

  The thought was a bit unsettling, Georgiana realized. But, of course, the notion of Ashdowne as the thief was too ludicrous now even to entertain, and so she simply must begin again, looking at the case with fresh eyes. As much as Georgiana hated to admit it, she was out of ideas, and Mr. Jeffries, for all that he seemed a bit slow, might well shed some light where she saw none.

  She did not have long to wait, for the Bow Street Runner himself responded to her query, and Georgiana, waiting outside the Pump Room, felt cheered by the sight of the shabbily dressed investigator. She waved happily, and he nodded in greeting, his brown eyes curious as he approached.

  “You sent for me, miss?” he asked.