by Lorri Dudley
His hand gently patted her own, and then they alighted in front of the Artesian Hotel. Her Aunt Tessa followed on the arm of Mr. Clark, who had ridden with them. Georgia had found him to be an inquisitive man, and he had a way of beholding the person to whom he spoke as if nobody else existed in the world. Aunt Tessa had taken to him like a mouse to cheese.
Torches illuminated the surrounding palm trees and the stone stairway leading up to the grand entrance of the resplendent, three-story stone building. Long terraces graced every floor, each lined with windows and doors framed with large blue shutters. Tastefully dressed people littered each level, clustering in groups as their conversations and laughter carried on the evening air.
As they ascended the stone steps, Georgia’s chin lifted. She felt her old haughty façade wrap its protective shroud around her, and she tucked herself behind its shelter. She knew too well the pain of vulnerability and had no desire to expose herself again.
Her father presented his card, and two butlers swung the doors wide into an ornate French provincial style room. Chandeliers dripping with sparkling crystals blazed overhead. Elaborate moldings, painted white, outlined the ceilings, and panels of gold mirrors graced the walls reflecting the light and merriment of the room. An oversize portrait of Mr. Rousseau hung on the far wall in between the double French doors to the terrace.
The rich notes of the orchestra floated through the air as dancers brushed across imported marble floors, inlaid with boxes of gold leaf tiles. Some danced in the stiff, formal manner she knew from London, while others rendered a relaxed Caribbean style.
As she observed the revelry, the excitement of a new challenge sent a rush over her skin and spread a smile across her face. The music, the laughter, the elegance—if she ignored the humidity and the smell of the sea air, she could pretend she was in London. This was familiar territory.
As their names were announced, Mr. Rousseau excused himself from a pensive fellow and approached Georgia and her father with a wide smile and open hands. “Welcome, welcome to the Artesian Hotel.”
“Rousseau, it is good of you to have invited us. You know the vicar, Mr. Clark, but Tessa, dear, let me introduce you to our host, Mr. Edward Rousseau. Mr. Rousseau, may I present my sister, Lady Teresa Pickering, the Baroness of Phelps.”
“Delighted.” He bowed slightly.
“And my daughter, Miss Georgia Lennox.”
He bowed deeper, but his eyes remained locked with Georgia’s. “I’ve had the pleasure. Miss Lennox and I met in town recently. I must say I was taken in by her charm. It’s refreshing to meet such a beautiful, refined lady.” He turned to Papa. “It would give me great pleasure if Miss Lennox could apprise me of the latest happenings in London while I give her and Lady Pickering a tour of our grand hotel.”
Her father hesitated and scanned the room as if seeking someone before he replied. “Certainly. But don’t tarry too long. I’ll miss their company.”
Georgia tilted her head and shot Papa a quizzical look. He’d been acting strangely. She hoped his fever wasn’t returning.
Mr. Rousseau offered Aunt Tessa one arm and Georgia his other, and guided them into the next room. It too was luxuriously decorated, even more so than some of the salons of London’s well-to-do. Every square inch spoke of wealth.
“This is the blue salon, where our guests can entertain, or enjoy a book or a hand of cards. We’ve imported all the furniture from France. In fact…” He paused beside a gold double-wide high-backed chair tufted with royal-blue velvet fabric that domineered the corner of the room. “This piece was owned by King Louis XIII himself.”
“Wonderfully crafted.” She watched the way her comment brought on a satisfied glint in his eyes.
They crossed the room, and Aunt Tessa questioned him about the craftsmanship of the large marble fireplace mantel and coffered ceiling. Georgia used the distraction to glance over her shoulder to where couples floated across the dance floor.
“Over here we have the billiards and card room for the men. We won’t go in, but I’ll let you peek inside.”
The thick, spicy smell of pipe smoke encircled her as soon as he opened the door. The room was paneled floor-to-ceiling in rich mahogany. Three hand-carved pool tables filled one end with an array of octagonal game tables at the other. Fine gentlemen loitered around each area. She scanned the faces in the room. Only a bearded man with squinty eyes looked up. The others were too engaged in their activities to pay heed to onlookers.
“You’ve already seen the grand ballroom. If you allow me to escort you to the terrace, it leads to our famous pump house.” He skirted along the edge of the dance floor to the exit. “The house was built in 1778 and has welcomed such esteemed gentry as Lord Nelson, Prince William, the Duke of Clarence …”
As he continued to rattle off a list of impressive names, her eyes skimmed the room. Papa and the vicar had settled into a set of chairs over by the entrance, but she didn’t recognize anyone else. She continued to scan the faces of the guests. But then reality hit her, causing her to stumble. She was searching for Harrison.
Mr. Rousseau’s grip tightened on her arm, but he forged ahead. Aunt Tessa continued with her questions and didn’t seem to notice Georgia’s blunder.
Harrison wouldn’t attend a party like this. First of all, his dislike of Edward Rousseau was apparent. Plus, he’d find this environment frivolous and petty, not to mention, intimidating for a schoolmaster.
She forced her eyes back to Mr. Rousseau. The man was dressed to impress the dandy set. He wore a double-breasted dark velvet jacket with gleaming gold buttons. His perfectly knotted silk cravat in a deep, claret red contrasted against the snowy white of his cambric shirt. He would blend into any ballroom in London.
Just like Julien. In London, Julien would make the best match of the season. Here, it would be Edward Rousseau. In a way, the two were much alike, with a self-confidence that bordered on pomposity, an appreciation of finery that teetered on obsession, and a desire to be standoffish and gossip about those who didn’t belong. If Julien didn’t come for her, she could always scoop up the eligible Rousseau. However, a wealthy island gentleman wouldn’t impress her mother or show up her sisters.
Would Rousseau make her laugh? Would he love her even when she grew old and wrinkled? Could Julien do those things?
Would he make her feel alive the way Harrison did? But that line of thought would only get her in trouble.
Two young women hovered nearby, and she didn’t miss their jealous glances as Mr. Rousseau escorted her through a large set of French doors. She should have been reveling in the glory of being chosen by someone held in such high esteem, but tonight, she felt…indifferent.
She tapped her fan against her side. Funny, Julien hadn’t crossed her mind at all in recent days. Especially since she’d started helping out at the school. Her lips twitched at the memory of all the kids surrounding her. The little ones hugged her, and the older ones fought to tell her what they’d done the night before or what they learned.
Miss Lennox, Miss Lennox. Did you know I can count to two hundred?
Miss Lennox. Last night Mama made plum pudding, and we took it over to the vicar’s house.
Their excitement was contagious, and a smile touched her lips. When she wasn’t at school, she was catching up with her father or fishing with Max. The distractions were good for her. Sitting around pining away for Julien wouldn’t get him here any faster. And if he didn’t come or wait for her, then her future was much too grim to dwell upon.
Rousseau’s voice prattled on, “Over there is our garden and statuary. I’ve been told it is similar to the Duchess of Kensington’s private garden. We also sit on twenty acres of the best sugar crops in the world…”
She pictured Julien leaping from the dinghy onto the sandy beach and calling for her. Georgia, I’ve come to ask for your hand. I’ve… He would shake the sand off his Hessian boots with a look of abject horror. Several servants would come running to wipe them down, and Edward Rousseau woul
d fawn over Julien.
Georgia pushed the ridiculous scene from her mind as a light breeze off the ocean tickled the tendrils of hair that framed her face. Rousseau pointed to a Roman-looking structure where the moonlight caught the small ripples off the spring-water pool and reflected hypnotic wave patterns up on the walls. “There’s the spring. Its healing waters are world renown and have been known to cure numerous ailments.” He gestured toward the stairs. “As guests descend the stairs, they behold the best view of the island, the spring with the gardens and ocean in the background.”
Aunt Tessa strolled over to the other side of the balcony and rested her hand on the stone baluster at the top of the staircase. “It is a lovely view.”
Georgia moved to join her, but Rousseau’s grip tightened.
He leaned an elbow on the railing and shifted to watch her face. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Your eyes remind me of its waters, so blue I want to dive into them.”
Georgia fluttered her fan at the compliment and held her smile.
“You look stunning in that dress.”
She glanced down at her new gown in a daring shade of red. She’d initially picked out a safe pale pink, but Harrison’s teasing voice rang out in her head. Pink? Why all the pink? In a momentous decision, like a child handing over her security blanket, she selected the scarlet material.
“The local dressmaker rushed to accommodate me. Most of my gowns were lost at sea.”
He took her hand. “How distressing. I would remedy that immediately. I could dress you in silks and satins. You would outshine all of London.”
I’ve heard those lines before. She drifted toward her aunt, pulling her hand from his and tilting her head just so. Then she laughed gaily over her shoulder. It all came back to her readily enough—the poses, the forced laughter, the practiced smiles. “Mr. Rousseau, such flattery will make me swoon.”
He scrambled to her side and whispered in her ear. “It is much deserved. A woman as beautiful as you should be praised from the moment the sun rises until it sets. You should be surrounded by luxury.”
Aunt Tessa glanced their way and Mr. Rousseau straightened.
What would you say if I told you I baited my own hooks? Georgia’s smiling lips wavered. Since when had her pretense become tiresome? She searched for a new topic. “The Artesian Hotel rivals the finest houses in Bath.”
“I assure you, it far exceeds the finest house in Bath. I’ve made certain of it.”
She lowered her chin and peered up at him through her lashes. “You have exquisite taste. I wouldn’t expect less from a man so impeccably dressed.”
The corners of his lips curled into a smile, and his eyes roved over her body as if about to partake in a feast. However, her usual triumph fizzled, replaced by an odd emptiness.
He held his arm out, and his voice rolled with a husky reverberation. “Come, let me show you our prize-winning garden and statuary up close.”
No. Not there. Her heart clenched. Just the words brought back another memory—the honeyed scent of wisteria in a different garden, Julien’s passionate stolen kisses, and the joy that swelled her heart on that night.
Three Months Earlier
The crisp night air cooled Georgia’s skin as Claremont guided her down the steps and onto the crushed stone path of the torch-lit gardens. Shadows danced in the firelight and added to the nervous fluttering in her stomach. Feminine giggles and whispered voices resonated from within the alcoves of the tall boxwood hedge that lined both sides of the walkway.
Nothing untoward was going to happen. Lord Claremont was respectable and about to be her future husband. She just had to get him alone so he could propose.
Her steps felt measured like the tightrope walker she’d seen at Astley’s Amphitheatre.
Something snapped beneath her gloved fingers. Blast. She’d broken her fan. Her favorite one.
“This seems like a nice spot to talk.” She pointed to a bench situated among potted wisteria vines, somewhat lit by nearby torches.
Lord Claremont hesitated and started toward the darker section of the garden, but Georgia tugged him into a seat on the stone bench.
“Isn’t it a lovely night?” She leaned back on her palms and pretended to peer up at the stars.
His voice purred, “It is you who is lovely.” He trailed his fingertips down the nape of her neck, the smooth satin of his gloves tickling her skin. Her eyes met his heavy-lidded gaze as he murmured, “So beautiful and soft.”
Part of her wanted to lean into his touch. This was it. Anticipation enlivened every pore of her skin, like when she’d been a young girl waiting for her father’s words of approval.
Wait for it. He will say the words.
Julien’s finger stroked her cheek. “Your skin is smooth like cream. Your lips softer than an overripe peach.” He leaned in. “You are the most beautiful woman here. These ladies cannot hold a candle to you.”
She licked her lips. “But, what do I mean to you…Julien?”
“For a kiss, I would give you the sun and the moon.”
His mouth moved closer to hers, but Georgia turned her head. “I don’t need the sun or the moon. I’m looking for something else.”
“Anything,” His lips whispered against her neck. “Anything for you.”
Current Day
Georgia cleared her throat and focused on Rousseau and her present situation. “Actually, I’m quite parched. Perhaps we could partake of refreshments. I’m still adapting to the island heat.”
His expression grew tight. “Of course. This way.” He tucked her hand in his arm. “We can explore the garden later when the night’s cooler.”
The words melted off his lips like a rich sauce, and her stomach turned.
She’d barely been away from London, and already she was losing her finesse. She had to keep it together unless she wanted to return to wallflower status.
She tried to remove her hand, but he placed his fingers overtop hers. Get ahold of yourself. This is your playground.
As they entered the ballroom, the violin held a lustrous last note before the orchestra rested between sets. The dancers returned to their former groups, clearing a view of the room.
Aunt Tessa excused herself to check on Papa and Mr. Clark.
Across the floor, Georgia’s gaze landed on a familiar pair of broad shoulders that made her heart quicken.
Harrison. His powerful frame diminished the rest of the guests until they dissipated in her periphery like fading shadows. She bit her lip to hold back the overwhelming giddiness bubbling up inside. She faltered a step as the imagined shroud weighing her down slipped to the floor, but she quickly regained her footing.
As if sensing her presence, he glanced up from his conversation with the vicar. His eyes locked with hers, and a crooked smile lifted one side of his lips. He dominated the room with his casual elegance, a chameleon of sorts who transformed himself from rural schoolmaster into a prime consort with the upper echelons of society. His charcoal jacket hugged his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His snug breeches clung to his muscular thighs. His smile seemed genuine as he inclined his head before directing his attention back to the vicar.
Georgia swallowed down her riotous stomach, which kept leaping into her chest. Mr. Rousseau followed her gaze and tightened his grip on her fingers. He steered her to the refreshment table and plopped a glass of lemonade into her hand.
“I’m a generous man, Miss Lennox. Unfortunately, on a small island such as Nevis, it is necessary to keep company with all types, even those who’d never grace a ballroom in London.” His eyes flicked in Harrison’s direction. “I know your father admires Mr. Wells, but I do hope you’ll be cautious in your associations with the man.”
He leaned in closer until his lips practically brushed the top of her ear. “I cannot confirm specifics, but I have good reason to believe that Mr. Wells was exiled to Nevis by order of the King George III.”
Only as much as her mother exiled her. Georgia almost
laughed at his insinuation, but bit the inside of her cheek to hold back. She wanted to hear out his ridiculous logic, so she raised her brows and said, “Really? Mr. Wells, the schoolmaster? I noticed the tension between you two. Is that the reason?”
His lips curled into a sneer. “That and the man has stuck his nose into island affairs. He should stay out of politics. He has no idea the labor it takes to run a sugar farm.”
“But doesn’t he too own a sugar farm?”
“I barely consider it worthy of mention. Wells manages several plots of land on the island for a relative in England, but most of the land is still natural terrain. The farm is a small portion, so he can’t comprehend the labor required for a large plantation like Artesian House. Instead, he incites our workers and underhandedly educates the slaves.”
“What is the harm in that?”
“You wouldn’t understand the affairs of men.”
“Oh, but Mr. Rousseau, I’m sure you can put it into simple terms for me.” Sarcasm laced her words, but he didn’t appear to catch on.
“When slaves are educated, they are given the false hope that they may better themselves. The next thing you know, you have a revolt. Such an uprising could stifle our ability to trade, which would destroy our economy and, in turn, hurt our mother country by paralyzing its import of sugar. Could you imagine, Miss Lennox, having tea time with no sugar?”
Heaven forbid. Georgia’s hand tightened around the glass in her hand, and she fought the urge to toss its contents into Mr. Rousseau’s impertinent face. Instead, she replied, “How dreadful.”
He pressed his fingertips together into a pyramid and closed his eyes as if contemplating something extraordinary. His eyes opened and narrowed on hers with intensity. He pointed at her with his palms pressed together. “Perhaps, you could be of assistance, Miss Lennox.”
Her brows lowered. “How so?” She sipped the overly sweet lemonade.
“Your father’s close friendship with Mr. Wells may allow you to be privy to confidential conversations.” One side of his mouth lifted into a half smile. “Perhaps, you could pass along interesting facts pertaining to Mr. Wells. Anything that might discredit him or diminish his influence. Such information would be rewarded with precious goods from London to replace those you’ve lost. It may even pay passage to England, if the information proves savory.”