The Rake

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I think I do. I could make you spend time with me, Georgiana. I could even make you marry me.”

  She met his hard, glittering eyes. “If you wish to press your suit in that manner, I will hate you, I will be ruined, and I will return home to Shropshire—as an unmarried woman.”

  After a long moment he blew out his breath. “Damnation. You knew I was bluffing.”

  Her heart resumed beating. “Yes, I did.” Thank goodness she could lie to him, apparently.

  “Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “I’m here riding with you,” she said, gesturing between them, “so yes, I suppose it does. But your keeping your poor behavior a secret can only go so far in gaining my good graces.”

  To her surprise he laughed, the sound rolling out warm and deep from his chest. Edward looked back at them, grinning in response. Georgiana found herself wanting to smile as well, and sternly resisted the temptation.

  “What is so funny?” she demanded.

  “A few weeks ago all my poor behavior got me was a smashed toe and cracked knuckles,” he said, still chuckling. “I seem to be making progress.”

  She sniffed. “Not much. Now take me back.”

  Tristan sighed. “Yes, my lady. Runt, we’re going back.”

  “But why?”

  “Georgie has other men waiting to see her.”

  “But we’re still seeing her.”

  “We didn’t have an appointment.”

  She scowled at him, but he pretended not to notice. This was going to be a problem. Part of her wanted to melt every time he looked at her, and the other part wanted to shriek and throw things. He might have the advantage at the moment, but she would figure him out. She knew better than to trust him, especially when he was supposedly being honest. Perhaps she couldn’t help that she lusted after him, but she would never—ever—fall for him again.

  One of the grooms helped her dismount before Tristan could do so, and she favored the servant with such a warm smile that the poor man flushed and practically ran away, towing Sheba behind him. Drat. Looking like an idiot wouldn’t help her against Lord Dare, either. “Thank you for a pleasant outing,” she said to Edward.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you attend the fireworks at Vauxhall on Thursday?” Tristan asked, dismounting to walk her to the door.

  He could find out easily enough, she supposed, and she wouldn’t be dancing at the Gardens, anyway. “Yes, my aunt and I will be there.”

  “Might I send my carriage and offer both of you my escort, then?”

  Damnation, he was sneaky. “I…can’t answer for Aunt Frederica, of course.”

  Tristan nodded. “If you would please inform her of my request, and that my aunts will be along as well, I would appreciate it. Milly’s been looking forward to the fireworks all Season. She couldn’t go while she was off her feet, so this will be her first opportunity to go.”

  Georgiana clenched her jaw. “You don’t play fair.”

  “I’m not playing, remember? And I’m in this to win.”

  “Very well. I’m certain Aunt Frederica would love the opportunity to chat with your aunts. I’ll inform her of your request. But I’m not happy about it.”

  Bending down, he took her hand in his. “Have a lovely picnic, Georgiana,” he murmured, and released her.

  As she climbed the steps, it wasn’t the upcoming picnic she was thinking of. It was his long-lashed blue eyes and the promises—or lies—they held for her deep inside them.

  “Tristan,” Edward said, as they rode back to Carroway House, “why did you make me come all the way over here? I told you I already went riding with Andrew and Shaw.”

  “Because I wanted to see Georgiana, and I knew she would want to see you.”

  “Why wouldn’t she want to see you? Is she mad at you?”

  Tristan gave a small, grim smile. “Yes, she is.”

  “Then you should send her flowers. That’s what Bradshaw does, and he says all the chits like him.”

  “Flowers, eh?” The more he thought about it, the better it sounded. “What else does Bradshaw send the chits to make them like him?”

  “Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. He said that Melinda Wendell would roll with an ox for a good box of chocolates.”

  He and Bradshaw were going to have a talk about what got said in front of Edward; this was getting out of hand. “Did Shaw say that to you, specifically?”

  Looking sheepish, Edward grinned. “No, he said it to Andrew, when Andrew was trying to get Barbara Jamison to roll with him. I’d like to go rolling. It sounds fun.”

  “When you’re older. And never mention rolling to Georgiana, all right?”

  “Doesn’t she like rolling?”

  Given her response the other night, she liked it very much. “Rolling, Runt, is something only men discuss, and only with other men. In fact, only with your brothers. Understood?”

  “Yes, Dare. Not even with the aunties?”

  “Good God, no.”

  “All right.”

  “Thank you for the idea about the flowers, though. I may try that.”

  “I think you should. I like Georgiana.”

  “So do I.” When he didn’t want to strangle her.

  Arguing with her had practically become foreplay now. Yes, she made him furious, and frustrated. Mostly, though, he just wanted to roll with her. A lot.

  Chapter 13

  Author’s Note: There will be no chapter thirteen. It is my feeling that Tristan and Georgiana have enough work cut out for them without adding unlucky numbers into the mix.

  Chapter 14

  Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

  Or close the wall up with our English dead.

  —Henry the Fifth, Act III, Scene i

  Georgiana Halley was intelligent and suspicious—especially of him—so the way to defeat her was to keep her off-balance. Tristan sat opposite her in his coach, newly washed and sprung, and gazed out the window into the darkness. This was a war, no doubt about it, and it was one he intended to win.

  Of course a complete victory would mean no less than marrying her: She’d set the stakes that high when she’d climaxed in his arms and then left him with a gift, as though he were some sort of cock-bawd. Making her his would leave him the ultimate winner and keep her from escaping him and his bed again.

  The only question was how to go about it. He enjoyed her company, and he desired her body. She desired him, but he wasn’t certain that she actually liked him. Whatever his machinations, he had to convince her to say yes. At least she’d agreed to join him tonight.

  “I wasn’t aware that any boxes were still available for rent at Vauxhall this far into the Season.”

  The Dowager Duchess of Wycliffe, looking even more aloof than Georgiana, had been glaring at him since he arrived to escort them, as if she expected him to expire under her close scrutiny. He needed her there to ensure Georgie’s presence. Other than that, he barely noted her glassy, disapproving gaze.

  Even her underlying implication that she had no idea where he might have gotten the money to rent a box left him annoyed only for a moment. “The Marquis of St. Aubyn had to leave London for the week,” he improvised. “He loaned me his box.”

  “You associate with St. Aubyn?”

  Uh-oh. “I know him.”

  She didn’t seem to count that as a point in his favor. “And so he simply offered?”

  “Yes.” After Tristan had won fifty quid off him at faro. “And of course my first thought was of you and Georgiana.”

  “But I was under the impression that your aunts would be accompanying us,” the duchess said, her tone becoming even more accusing.

  “They are. My brothers are escorting them.”

  Georgiana had refused to meet his eyes since he’d arrived, but he couldn’t help gazing at her. She wore dark blue, with a shimmering silver shawl draped across her shoulders and silver-and-blue clips in her golden hair.

  When he�
��d helped her into the coach, just taking her hand had made his mouth go dry. He wanted to run his fingers over her skin again, wanted to feel her hands on him and feel her writhing beneath him.

  “Georgiana,” her aunt said, making him jump, “tell me about your picnic with Lord Westbrook.”

  “I really don’t think Lord Dare wishes to hear—”

  “Probably not, but I do. Tell me.”

  Tristan didn’t need to be reminded that she had other suitors. He’d been tempted to trail her on her luncheon, just to make certain she wasn’t lying about it or enjoying herself too much. If he hadn’t had to track down St. Aubyn for his box, he would have done it.

  “It was very nice. He brought roast duck.”

  “And what did you discuss?”

  “Nothing important. The weather, the entertainments of the Season.”

  “Has he offered for you yet?”

  This time her gaze met Tristan’s, then slid away again. “You know he hasn’t. Please stop interrogating me.”

  “I’m only anxious for your happiness.”

  “That doesn’t sound like what—”

  Tristan’s jaw clenched. “You expect him to offer for you?”

  “Oh, look, we’re here.”

  The coach turned into Vauxhall Gardens, joining the crush of vehicles already there. His groom pulled open the door and flipped down the steps, and Tristan stepped down to help the ladies out. The duchess came first, still eyeing him as though he had contracted the plague.

  “Why are we here with you?” she asked.

  “Aunt Frederica,” Georgiana warned from within the coach.

  Tristan met the duchess’s eyes. “Because I’m courting your niece,” he answered. “And because I’m very charming and intriguing, and you couldn’t resist my invitation.”

  To his surprise, she let out a short laugh. “Perhaps that’s what it was.”

  “Georgiana,” he said, as the duchess made her way to the path, “are you coming down, or should I join you in there?”

  Her hand extended from the coach, and he gripped her fingers. Even through their gloves, he could feel the pulse of lightning between them. She stepped down beside him, but he kept hold of her hand. “Do you let Westbrook kiss you?” he murmured.

  “That is none of your affair. Let go.”

  He released her reluctantly. “I want to taste you again,” he continued in the same low tone, offering his arm.

  “That’s not going to happen.” She turned her face away, which exposed the graceful curve of her neck to his gaze.

  Tristan went hard. Thankful for his caped greatcoat, he leaned closer to her. “Does Westbrook make you tremble?” he whispered. It took all of his self-control to keep from kissing her ear.

  “Stop it. At once. One more word in that vein and I will kick you so hard you’ll be able to join the boys’ choir at Westminster.”

  “Say my name.”

  She sighed. “Fine. Tristan.”

  He stopped, making her do so, as well. “No, look me in the eye and say my name.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Humor me.”

  With a deep breath that made her bosom heave, she lifted her face to meet his gaze, her eyes soft and moss green in the moonlight. “Tristan,” she breathed, a tremble on her breath.

  He could drown in those eyes. The problem was, she undoubtedly still wanted him to. “That’s better.”

  “Is there anything else you want me to say? The name of your horse, or the multiplication tables?”

  His lips twitched. “My name will do. Thank you.”

  They continued on, hurrying to catch up with the dowager duchess. “I don’t know why you persist,” she said, her voice still pitched low enough that no one in the crowd would be able to overhear. It was a tone they’d perfected over the years. “I told you I would never trust you.”

  “You already trust me, sweet one.”

  “And what in the world makes you think that?”

  “You’ve left several very personal items in my possession, and whatever you pretend to think of me, you know I would never use them against you.” He caught her arm, turning her to face him again. “Never.”

  She blushed. “So you have one redeeming quality. Amid all the poor ones, it’s hardly something to brag about.”

  “I’m beginning to think I should have brought you a fan.”

  “I—”

  “There you are,” the duchess said, taking Georgiana’s other arm and snagging her away from Tristan. “You must rescue me from Lord Phindlin.”

  “You’re an attractive woman, and a widow,” Georgiana told her aunt, all charm again now that she wasn’t conversing with him. “You can hardly blame him.”

  “I think it’s my money he wants,” the duchess commented, glancing over her shoulder at Tristan.

  Bloody wonderful. Now he was just another of the greedy, grasping male multitude.

  “It could be, Your Grace,” he drawled, “that he just has very good taste. If it was only money he wanted, he might have set his cap toward a more…amenable woman.”

  Both of the duchess’s eyebrows lifted. “Indeed.”

  The aunts, Bradshaw, Andrew, and, surprisingly, Bit, had already commandeered the box when they arrived. Georgiana greeted everyone, favoring Milly and Edwina with kisses on the cheek, then sat amid the trio of aunties. Frederica settled in for a chat, ignoring the fireworks and the orchestra in the nearby square. Tristan watched the lot of them with increasing frustration. He knew he affected Georgie; if he didn’t, she wouldn’t bother hiding. As long as she was keeping the duchess between the two of them, though, he couldn’t do much in the way of wooing.

  Tristan gave a brief smile. He’d never thought to put “wooing” and “Georgiana” together in the same sentence. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and as she glanced back at him, heat soaked into his veins. She’d been so angry at him six years ago that all of this might be the beginning of another game; she’d as much as said that he hadn’t learned his lesson. But he’d been playing games of chance for longer than she had. However high the stakes, he would play this one to its end.

  “Wasn’t it the marquis, Georgiana?”

  Georgiana shook herself, tearing her gaze from Tristan and looking at her aunt. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

  Frederica’s brow furrowed, then smoothed again. “Milly was asking about your suitors.”

  “Oh. Yes, it was the marquis, then. Of course.”

  That was at least the third time since Tristan had picked them up that her aunt had mentioned suitors, Georgiana thought, and she didn’t like it.

  She wasn’t going to marry Lord Luxley or any of the others who proposed almost weekly. Even if she had no particular reason for refusing them, she wouldn’t have been interested. Most of them bored her. And the idea that Tristan could be pursuing her with the idea of marriage was simply…absurd. She’d humiliated and angered him, and now he was trying to do the same to her. He expected her to fall for him all over again, just so he could laugh at her and walk away the victor. She could walk across the Thames on the multitude of hearts he’d broken, yet he simply couldn’t stand taking his own medicine.

  The way he kept finding excuses to take her hand or brush her arm might make her hot and shivery, but that was just lust. Her body craved his, but her mind was her own. And only where her mind went would her heart follow.

  “Georgiana, stop daydreaming.”

  She jumped again. “I’m sorry, what is it?”

  “Where are you this evening?” her aunt asked, while Milly and Edwina gazed at her.

  “Just thinking. What did I miss?”

  “Lord Westbrook’s prospects.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Aunt Frederica,” she said, standing and pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “Please don’t do that.”

  “It’s a compliment, to be pursued by so many men.”

  “I feel like a worm on a hook, hounded by trout. Is
it my pretty wriggling that entices them, or the fact that I’m nice and plump?”

  Bradshaw broke into a laugh. “I always thought of myself as a flounder, rather than a trout.” He glanced at his brothers. “What kind of fish are you?”

  “A minnow,” Andrew said, grinning.

  “Shark,” Bit muttered, his attention still apparently on the fireworks.

  Tristan’s gaze shifted to his brother, and Georgiana couldn’t help admiring him for his patience and understanding. He was simply there, if and when Robert needed him.

  “Would anyone care for an ice?” Tristan rose, facing his aunts.

  “I haven’t had a lemon ice in ages,” Milly said, smiling.

  “One for me, too,” Edwina added.

  Everyone wanted an ice, and Tristan stepped down from the box. “Might I have a volunteer to help me carry them?” he asked, his gaze again on Georgiana.

  Andrew started to stand, then sat abruptly when Robert wordlessly clamped a hand on his coattail and yanked him back down. Bradshaw seemed to understand that he wasn’t invited, and of course Milly and the duchess wouldn’t go. Before Edwina could offer, Georgiana stepped around her chair and down the steps. Damnation. Apparently her body and her heart were forming a conspiracy.

  “We’ll be right back,” Tristan said, offering his arm.

  She shook her head, willing her mind back into control. “Not without a chaperone.”

  He said something under his breath that might have been a curse, then looked at his brothers. Andrew would have stood again, but Robert brushed past him. He glanced at Georgiana, and she thought she saw a touch of humor in his dark blue eyes. “Let’s go.”

  Robert kept walking, and she and Tristan had to hurry to keep up with him. “That wasn’t a very subtle attempt at privacy,” she said. “Especially when Bit tackled Andrew.”

  “I didn’t know he was going to do that. I’ll thank him later. He’s a prime chaperone, as well.” He glanced ahead at Robert, a good dozen yards in front of them. “We’ll lose sight of him completely in a matter of seconds.”

  Georgiana chuckled, her hand on Tristan’s sleeve. She wished she didn’t like touching him so much, but she seemed helpless to resist it. “Isn’t it a bit chilly to be getting ices?” she said, when her mind began to wander toward how much she liked touching his naked skin.