Once Again, My Laird

by Angeline Fortin

  Poor Crowley wasn’t going to be pleased.

  “Good morning, sir,” she greeted with a polite nod, aware the park—while not packed with people at such an unpopular hour—teemed with those who might spread gossip.

  “Good morning, my lady. Tell me, do ye always talk to yer horse as if it can understand ye?”

  “Are you saying he cannot?” she shot back, stroking Crowley’s neck lest he be offended. “Personally, I often find the company of my horse and dog—any animal really—to be far superior to that of most people I know.”

  His lips twitched a bit. “I cannae say I disagree. I’ve often found a silent ear the most compassionate.”

  “Crowley is an excellent listener.”

  “Crowley, is it?” Mal stepped forward to rub the horse’s forehead and give him a scratch under the strap of his brow band, earning approval in the form of a tossed mane. “Good chap, are ye?”

  He produced a small lump of sugar from his pocket and fed it to Crowley. The sight of him treating her horse so kindly made Georgiana’s vision blur. One could tell much about a person by how they treated animals. And he’d treated her dog well, too, despite the fact that he referred to the dog as a ‘wee rodent.’

  “Blast it, lass, are ye weeping?”

  “Absolutely not,” she denied, blinking rapidly. He drew an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Georgiana dabbed at the corner of her eye, secretly glad that he refused its return. “It’s simply that I love animals and appreciate your kindness toward them. I apologize for being such a ninny. Father thinks I’m far too sensitive and emotional.”

  “And are ye?”

  No condemnation, only curiosity. She liked that about Mal. They hadn’t known one another long, but he didn’t consider her a complete cabbagehead like so many other gentlemen did purely because of her youth and beauty. As if attractiveness negated intelligence. Or emotion disallowed sense.

  “Probably,” she admitted, hoping her faith in his character wasn’t misplaced. “Still, I’d prefer to be thought of as tenderhearted or compassionate rather than emotional, as that seems a somewhat childish trait.”

  “I can well see ye’re no wee bairn.” His eyes warmed and Georgiana felt her cheeks to the same.

  With a glance back at Jimmy, Mal cleared his throat and offered her his arm. As one, they strolled together down the lane, leading their horses with poor Jimmy lagging behind. Aside from the personal nature of their conversation and his hot looks, she was already flouting etiquette by keeping his company for so long, but Georgiana couldn’t seem to give a fig for the threat of rumor and harm to her reputation. He’d called on her each morning for each of the ten days she’d known him, however those short visits made it difficult to speak with any intimacy. Her father’s chilly reception and overbearing presence made it even harder. Well, she liked Mal even if her father did not. If breaking the rules allowed her more time with him, then so be it.

  She’d taken to long walks each morning and afternoon, testing Bluebell’s stamina until her tiny Pomeranian started to flee at the sight of her leash. She’d attended more social functions than she usually cared to and visited a variety of shops for a new length of ribbon or a book just so she might meet him by chance. Or in most cases, by design. Sometimes Bernie’s or Georgiana’s maid came along for propriety’s sake, but more and more often, they were finding brief moments to be alone.

  Short chats had evolved into long talks. She’d learned so much about him already. About his life and friends, the pair who’d he’d finally introduced her to the night before. But there was so much more to learn. And she wanted to know it all.

  “Are ye attending the Morrison rout tonight? ’Tis said to be the event of the Season.”

  “Not if I can help it,” she answered before thinking and winced, seeing his surprise. “I must be honest, Mal. I prefer to refrain from such large crushes if possible.”

  “Yet ye attend them. Several this week alone.”

  To see you, she thought but couldn’t bring herself to admit aloud.

  “My Father insists. How else am I to catch a husband if I do not dance and flirt?”

  “Ye do both adroitly.”

  “Not with everyone.”

  Mal took the admission with a flash of a smile. Lopsided, with the hint of a deep dimple in his cheek. She grinned back and opened up more fully to him.

  “In truth, large doses of conversation or socializing often level me exhausted. My first thought upon entering a ballroom is usually to wonder how long I must stay before I can politely make my excuses. There is so much narcissism in society, such fakery. The effort to be among it often leaves me weary in body and mind, which could be why I enjoy Crowley’s and Bluebell’s company over the human variety.” Realizing the inadvertent slight she’d given, she rushed to add, “That is not to say I don’t enjoy companionship. I do sometimes. Occasionally. When there is genuine interest or knowledge to be had to support the effort.”

  “And me? Am I worth the effort?”

  His look was so cocksure, Georgiana took perverse pleasure in thwarting him. “I’m still trying to make that determination.”

  “Hmm, a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.” His lips quirked. “Whose company am I in competition with?”

  He might have been fishing for a denial, but she chose to answer him honestly. “I enjoy spending time with my literary friends or with Bernie. She’s honest and caring. My neighbors in the Crescent.” She pointed up the sloping grassland to the semicircular Georgian structure dominating the northern border of Barton Field. “At No. 14, there’s Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu. I adore her literary salons, but unfortunately they’ll be ending soon as she’s removing to London. You said last night you enjoy reading. If you’re free, you could come to the last one? Friday afternoon?”

  “I do enjoy a good book, though nothing too dry, mind ye. I prefer a tad of wit in my readings.”

  “You might enjoy meeting Mr. Anstey then. He’s getting on in years but still turns a humorous phrase.”

  “Sir Christopher Anstey?” Mal stopped and gaped down at her. “The poet?”

  “You know of him?”

  “Very well.”

  Mr. Anstey’s noted success with The New Bath Guide had provided him and his family with enough cache in Bath society to make his acquaintance acceptable to the Duke of Wharton, if somewhat regrettable when it came to his seventeen-year-old daughter. He hadn’t been wrong in his accusation. Her neighbors had made a true bluestocking out of her over the years, a lover of literature and poetry.

  “I own three volumes of his New Bath Guide. His satirical take on society is without compare. He’s your neighbor?”

  “He lives next door to us at No. 4.” The light and excitement in his gaze elicited a commiserate burst of joy in her heart. “You like poetry?”

  “Would it make me less of a man if I admit I do?”

  “Not at all. Maybe we could convince Mr. Anstey to let you read from his other works,” she offered. “They aren’t published as yet, but I’ve found them to have the same element of humor.”

  “If ye could make that happen I might be compelled to try my hand at a bit of poetry for ye.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  Mal dipped his head to hers and his voice lowered to a whispered brogue. “Did ye get my message last evening?”

  Her cheeks heated and Georgiana peeked at him shyly through her lashes. A growing number of suitors had sent fervent sonnets to her beauty from since her come out, but Mal’s short letters held a ring of honest affection. An acknowledgement of what was growing between them.

  “I did. And the rose you sent with it. Thank you.”

  “And?”

  “It was prettily done,” she allowed.

  “That’s it?”

  She inclined her head indifferently and his lips curved in a playful moue. “If I try my hand at poetry, maybe those might elicit a more favorable response.”

  She offe
red a vague shrug. “Possibly.”

  He laughed aloud, the sound ringing with pleasure. “Ye’ll do nothing to stoke my confidence, will ye, Georgie lass?”

  Georgiana tried to bite back a smile but failed. “It’s already bloated enough, don’t you think?”

  His grin widened, revealing the deep slash of his dimples. “Coll and Lindsay were right. What a minx, ye are.”

  “Not with everyone.”

  The implication that it was only he who changed her so seemed to please him. His pleasure compounded hers.

  “Shall we ride together whilst I meditate upon my ability to impress? Or derive some inspiration from my bonny muse? Besides, yer horse seems to be chomping at the bit.”

  Glancing at Crowley, she joined in his laughter. “He is chomping at the bit.”

  “Shall we spare him further suffering?”

  She nodded and Mal came closer to help her mount, or so she thought. Shielded between their horses, he bent his head and brushed a light, quick kiss over her lips. With a start, she raised her fingers to her tingly lips and stared up at him.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I met ye.”

  “Have you?”

  A rueful smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Nay, that is no’ all the truth. I’ve been wanting to do this.”

  Georgiana gasped as his lips covered hers again, firm and more insistent. Hot and hungry, as if he meant to devour her. Her head fell back, eyes closed. A moment later, his lips were gone. Dazed, she gaped at him. His eyes were turbulent, darkening even more when she licked her lips, hoping to savor every last taste of him.

  * * *

  The gesture, at once innocent and seductive, did nothing to lessen the arousal tightening his groin. Her cheeks were rosy on this crisp spring morning, her light smattering of freckles blending into her pinkened nose. Now her lips were full and red as well. She was an impossible temptation. Mal fought back the urge to kiss her again. “Och, Georgie lass. Ye dinnae ken what ye do to a man.”

  “What is that?”

  He groaned aloud and prayed for strength. He hardly knew what he was doing any more. Pursuing a lass he couldn’t touch. The daughter of a duke who’d made no attempt to hide the fact that he disapproved of Mal’s very presence in his home.

  That should have been the end of this…whatever this was between him and Georgie. Something so powerful, it wouldn’t be denied. And he ardently wished he might be able to. He didn’t like it and it had no place in his life, or with his goals. If it’d been nothing more than lust, he’d have walked away without a glance back. Frustrated, perhaps, but he could easily slack his desires on another willing and accessible female.

  It wasn’t so simple, though. Och, he hadn’t expected to enjoy her company so much or to develop such an attachment to her. He’d always considered courtship a part of his distant future. A wife, a vague concept to tend him through his dotage. The life he desired as a man and a soldier had no place it in for a woman, and in his logical mind, he devoutly wished these blasted inclinations to perdition. He’d spend a night convincing himself to let Georgie go and in the morning find himself trailing after her like a bitch in heat. A randy hound helpless against the instinct to hunt. Coll and Lindsay had taken to taunting him mercilessly for his pursuit of Georgie. Damned if he didn’t deserve it. He was proving himself a heartsick fool.

  Yet he couldn’t stop. He’d continue to take the jabs from his friends and even his own inner mockery, because the more he had of Georgie’s company, it never seemed enough. She claimed her animals were good listeners but she was as well. He’d found himself telling her everything. Things he’d never told anyone, not even Coll or Lindsay. Hopes. Dreams. Troubles and woes. That time he was eight and his favorite hound died. How he’d cast up his accounts following his first taste of battle in Minorca when he’d joined the fighting in the West Indies two years past. Granted, she never said anything specific to encourage him, but something in her bonny jade green eyes communicated trust, confidence.

  Just as something about her inspired a level of lust difficult to contain. He hadn’t yet determined what it was about her that gave him such pause. She was beautiful, aye, but he’d known women who were equally exquisite. Neither tall nor petite. The curves straining against the tight velvet jacket of her riding habit would no doubt make for a plentiful handful, but she wasn’t overly voluptuous. For certain, the dramatic color of her flaming locks might snare a man’s attention but alone were not excuse enough to hold it. Nay, he couldn’t pinpoint it exactly.

  Whatever the reason, he was more than willing to explore the possibilities.

  With pleasure.

  She jumped as he clasped his hands around her narrow waist and boosted her into her saddle. While she hooked her knee through the horn of the sidesaddle, he steadied the stirrup. Guiding her booted foot, he slipped his fingertips under her skirts and grazed her calf above the boot top. She flinched again.

  Innocent lass. He wasn’t yet certain if she understood what she felt. What her shallow breaths, dilated pupils and charming blush revealed. What the untutored passion on her lips signified. She wanted him, too. He longed for the chance to explore the depths of her desire.

  Mal leapt into his saddle and gathered up his reins. “Are ye ready for a run, lass?”

  Georgie peered over her shoulder at the groom, who was showing his first sign of spirit since he’d met up with her.

  “Can ye trust him no’ to tattle on ye?” he asked. “Or for that matter, trust yer maid if I were to pass a note or two more through her? We can’t have them clyping on us.”

  She nodded. “They can be trusted. Does that mean you’re planning to write me again? I’ll be expecting a comprehensive ode to the color of my hair by the morrow. I’ll have you know Lord Sandhurst quite turned my head with his.”

  A rush of humor tinged by something akin to jealousy tightened his jaw. “Did he now?”

  “It was quite rhapsodic.”

  With that, she gave Crowley a light tap of her heel and the spirited gelding launched forward eagerly. Mal watched her go with a grin. She had an excellent seat, sitting straight and tall in the saddle. The trim fit of her periwinkle blue riding jacket hugged her shoulders and the narrow line of her back. Her long, ivory skirts fluttered as she picked up speed, providing him more than one glimpse of her slender calves.

  Aye, she was a mystery he was willing to unravel.

  With a kick to his mount’s flank, he set off at a canter to catch up with her, slowing when he reached her side. She smiled, merry yet with open challenge.

  Aye, he was more than willing.

  “Georgie lass, has anyone ever told ye, ye’re a fair baffling witch?”

  She arched a brow at him, her mien suddenly all too knowledgeable. “Not in my hearing. Why, have you heard something?”

  Her provocative laughter trailed behind as she spurred her mount into a gallop. With a rush of anticipation, Mal chased her across the greens of Barton Field.

  Chapter Six

  No. 3 of The Royal Crescent

  Bath, England

  Late June 1821

  “Mama?”

  The sound of her daughter’s unexpected call startled Georgiana. A blast of worry propelled her off the chaise where she’d lazed away the afternoon reading.

  “Maisie?” She set aside her book and dragged her long skirts out from under her monstrous Old English sheepdog, finding her feet as her daughter rushed into the drawing room.

  “There you are,” Maisie exclaimed, launching herself into her mother’s arms.

  Georgiana hugged her fiercely then pulled away. “There’s nothing wrong is there? The baby?”

  “I’m quite well,” she said with an airy laugh. “You see, Leighton, I told you I’d find her on my own.”

  Georgiana’s new butler, his expression one of consternation, hovered in the doorway. She gave him a nod of dismissal. Shoulders drooping in relief, Leighton left with such haste she couldn’t
help but be amused. He would soon discover that her daughter was a force of nature not to be deterred.

  “Darling, what are you doing here?”

  Maisie took off her bonnet before fluffing her dark curls in front of the mirror over the fireplace. “Is there something wrong with me wanting to visit my mother?”

  “Nothing at all. I simply didn’t expect a visit after a few short weeks apart. Moreover, you shouldn’t be travelling excessively in your condition. It’s a long ride from Brighton.” She went to the corner and tugged the bell rope. “Is Ardmore with you?”

  “Of course, he’s seeing to…er, the horses.” Her daughter pursed her lips. “You know how he worries over his cattle.”

  Georgiana frowned. The Earl of Ardmore might worry excessively over his position, the cut of his coat, or the fall of his cravat, but he’d never been one to dwell on the condition of his livestock.

  “Does he?”

  “Mm-hmm,” Maisie hummed noncommittally. “Baird, aren’t you going to come and say hello?”

  Hearing his name, the dog yawned and stretched then jumped down from the chaise and shook vigorously until white and gray hair floated through the air. Maisie dropped to her knees and greeted him as he padded over.

  “How are you, old thing?” she cooed, scratching his floppy ears.

  “He’s not quite yet an old thing,” Georgiana said wryly. “He’s still a pup really.”

  “Oh, he’ll always be an old boy with that gray hair. Won’t you, Baird? Hmm?”

  Baird wagged his docked tail with an enthusiasm that had his entire rear end in motion and backed his massive rump into her lap, his tongue lolling in pleasure.

  “Not that I’m not delighted to have you but what brings you here, Maisie? You’ve only been in Brighton a week.”

  “Actually, we haven’t yet been to Brighton. Something came up.”

  “What? You were looking forward to going.”

  “Oh, just something.” Maisie made a show of petting the dog, clearly avoiding Georgiana’s gaze.