The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere

by Anna Bradley

  Rich colors bring out the threads of gold in your hair…

  Georgiana flushed right up to the roots of said hair. Threads of gold, indeed. Her hair was brown. It had never been anything other than brown, and never would be anything other than brown, no matter what color she wore. Lord Haslemere was so accustomed to flattering ladies the compliments flew from his lips without a second thought—

  “Are you too warm, dearest? You look flushed.”

  “No, I’m just…” Georgiana trailed off, and threw herself into the chair across from Lady Clifford’s. The back of her gown would be all wrinkles by the time she got up, but her legs felt wobbly. “I detest parties, and I’m terrible at them. I’m bound to make a mess of it tonight. If only Emma were here! She’d do the thing splendidly, and the gown fits her.”

  “Actually, my dear, I was just thinking that gown looks very well on you. The fit isn’t as bad as you imagine, and the color flatters your—”

  “Hair?” If Lady Clifford said one word about gold threads, Georgiana was going to scream.

  Lady Clifford smiled. “I was going to say your skin, but it looks very well with your hair, too. You’ve such an elegant figure, Georgiana. Perhaps we should dress you in silk gowns more often.”

  “Heaven forbid it.” Georgiana forgot the weakness in her legs and leapt up from her chair to check her reflection in the pier glass on the wall opposite the fire. A pale-faced lady stared back at her, her lips tight, and her ordinary—and not at all gold-threaded—brown hair piled on top of her head in a mockery of a fashionable chignon.

  She looked like a spinster playing at being a debutante.

  “I don’t think I…that is, perhaps it would be best if Lord Haslemere went to Lady Archer’s by himself, after all.” He’d tried to discourage her from attending, but Georgiana had been determined to do her duty by the duchess after that dreadful call this afternoon. But now, with her stomach in knots and her bosom threatening to vanish into her ill-fitting bodice, she couldn’t recall why she’d been so insistent.

  “You made a commitment to the duchess, Georgiana.”

  Lady Clifford’s tone was mild, but a glance at her reflection in the mirror revealed her eyebrow was inching up. That quirked eyebrow was a sure sign her ladyship disapproved.

  Well, of course she did. When Georgiana returned from Grosvenor Street this afternoon, she’d confessed to Lady Clifford she’d let Lord Haslemere insinuate himself into his sister’s business, with disastrous results. They’d agreed the best way for Georgiana to make amends was to continue on with the task the duchess had assigned her—finding Clara Beauchamp.

  Now here she was, trying to take the coward’s way out. She turned away from the mirror with a sigh. “It’s just that no one will be surprised to see him there. He won’t attract any undue attention, whereas I—”

  The sound of a carriage pulling up outside interrupted her. Lady Clifford stepped to the window, pulled back the drapes, and peeked outside. “It’s too late.” She let the drape drop back into place and turned to Georgiana with a calm smile. “He’s here.”

  Every one of Georgiana’s instincts urged her to flee up the stairs and not come back down until Lord Haslemere was gone, but her knees had gone all wobbly again, and she could already hear heavy footsteps thudding up the steps toward the door.

  “Oh, dear. Quickly, Georgiana. I forgot to tell Daniel Lord Haslemere was coming to fetch you, and it sounds as if he’s answered the—”

  “What do ye want, Haslemere?”

  “Ah, Brixton. Always a pleasure to see you. I’ve come to fetch—”

  “It’s the middle of the night. Whatever ye want, it can wait until morning.”

  If Lord Haslemere was cowed by Daniel’s threatening tone, one couldn’t tell it from his provoking drawl. “No, I’m afraid it can’t, Brixton. I want Miss Harley.”

  I want Miss Harley? Scorching heat flooded Georgiana’s cheeks at those words, and she felt a strange tug deep in her belly.

  “Fetch her for me, will you?” Lord Haslemere added in a careless tone. “There’s a good fellow.”

  There was a brief, frozen silence, then Daniel growled, “Nay, my lord. Yer business with the lass can wait until morning.”

  “On the contrary, Brixton. The business I have with Miss Harley is much better conducted at night.”

  The sounds of a scuffle followed this shocking announcement, as if Daniel were trying to shove Lord Haslemere out the door, and Lord Haslemere was shoving back.

  Lady Clifford gave Georgiana a little push. “You’d better go now, my love, before they come to blows, or one of them tosses the other down the steps.”

  Georgiana didn’t move. Not because she wanted to see Lord Haslemere thrown down the stairs, precisely, but then again, it might be preferable to an evening at Lady Archer’s—

  “Shame on you, Georgiana.” Lady Clifford took Georgiana’s arm and tugged her toward the entryway. “Come with me this instant, before Daniel cracks open his lordship’s skull.”

  Lord Haslemere didn’t appear to be worried about his skull, or any other part of himself. He and Daniel were standing nose to nose—well, nose to neck, as Daniel was the size of a barouche—each holding the other’s gaze without blinking.

  Lord Haslemere was either very foolish or very brave. In this case, there wasn’t much difference between the two. “Good evening, my lord.” Georgiana insinuated herself between the men before fists could start flying. “Shall we go?”

  “Ah, Miss Harley. Here you are.” Lord Haslemere’s gaze drifted over her, taking her in from the top of her head to the hem of her skirts. “You look ravishing this evening.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his mouth curving in a sensuous smile. “Don’t bother to wait up for us, Brixton. I imagine we’ll be very late.”

  Georgiana’s mouth fell open. Lady Clifford smothered what sounded like a laugh, but Daniel’s fists clenched, as if he were preparing to wring Lord Haslemere’s neck. “Oh, I’ll be waiting for the lass, my lord. Ye can be sure of that. If I find a single hair on her head out of place, ye’ll be answering to me for it.”

  “Not to worry, Brixton.” Lord Haslemere gave him an infuriating grin. “Miss Harley’s hair is safe with me. As for the rest of her—”

  Another ominous growl rumbled in Daniel’s chest, but before he could strangle Lord Haslemere with his own cravat, Georgiana snatched Lord Haslemere’s arm and dragged him from the entryway. “For pity’s sake,” she hissed, when the door between the two men was safely closed. “Why must you bait him?”

  Lord Haslemere shrugged. “Entertainment, primarily.”

  “I daresay you won’t find it entertaining when he tosses you down the stairs. Have you no sense at all? You don’t want to anger Daniel, my lord. I’ve seen him knock a man unconscious with a single blow.”

  Lord Haslemere shot her a dark look, his mouth tight. “He’s too possessive of you. I don’t like it.”

  Georgiana turned to him in surprise. It almost sounded as if he were…jealous? No, surely not. “He’s not possessive. He’s protective, but perfectly harmless.”

  “You just told me he wouldn’t hesitate to throw me down the stairs, and now you say he’s perfectly harmless. Which is it, Georgiana?”

  “He’s perfectly harmless to me. He’d certainly throw you down the stairs.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  He reached for her arm to escort her to the carriage, but Georgiana tugged away from him. “I can make my own way to the carriage. Keep your hands to yourself, my lord, before Daniel tears them loose from the rest of your body.”

  Lord Haslemere snorted. “I’m not afraid of Daniel Brixton.”

  “I begin to think, my lord, you don’t have the sense to be afraid of anyone.”

  “Yet for all my recklessness, as you can see, I’m still in one piece.” He gestured to h
imself with a wave of his hand.

  Georgiana darted a glance at him as they waited for Grigg to set the step and open the carriage door. She looked away again quickly, but it was already too late.

  Once glance was all it took.

  He was still in one piece. One gloriously handsome, disturbingly masculine piece. His dark evening clothes were impeccable, flawlessly fitted to his broad shoulders and lean body, and his spotless white gloves emphasized the long-fingered elegance of his hands.

  But despite this, he was still Lord Haslemere, with his unruly auburn curls escaping from under his hat, and his cravat just slightly askew. Georgiana didn’t care for affectations in dress, but there was no denying that crooked cravat suited him.

  Lord Haslemere handed her into the carriage, climbed in after her and seated himself on the opposite bench. “It occurred to me after I left you this afternoon to check White’s betting book for mention of either Lord Draven or my sister. Scandal and rumors turn into wagers quickly enough.”

  “That was a good thought. Did you discover anything?”

  “Apart from my sister’s name penned onto every page?” Lord Haslemere’s laugh was bitter. “Every lord in London is wagering on her torrid affair with Draven.”

  “Oh, dear.” The poor duchess! It was this sort of thing that made Georgiana despise the ton. “Did Lord Draven take part in any of these wagers?”

  “No. He doesn’t wager at all, it seems. His name doesn’t appear even once in the betting book. I suppose he may have squandered a fortune at Lady Archer’s faro bank, just like half the noblemen in London, but somehow I don’t think so. Draven’s rather a recluse.”

  “Now you mention the faro bank, my lord, there’s something I don’t understand. Lady Wylde said Lord Draven was once an, er…intimate friend of Lady Archer’s, so—”

  “No, that isn’t what she said. She said they were lovers.” Lord Haslemere raised a mocking eyebrow at her, his lips twitching. “Surely you can say the word ‘lovers,’ Georgiana?”

  Lovers, indeed. Why, the odious, teasing man.

  She would not give him the satisfaction of a blush. “Whatever you wish to call it, the point is that Lady Archer may still have tender feelings toward Lord Draven, and may refuse to divulge his secrets to us.”

  “Tender feelings? Lady Archer doesn’t have tender feelings for anything other than the fistfuls of coins her faro bank takes in every night.”

  Georgiana pursed her lips. “Such cynicism, my lord, does you no credit at all. All I mean to say is, she has more reason to be loyal to Lord Draven than she does to help us.”

  “And more reason to help herself than any of us. Lady Archer is a businesswoman, Georgiana. She’ll help Draven only as long it suits her purse to do so. I intend to make it worth her while to transfer her loyalty to me.”

  Georgiana fell silent. It was dim inside the carriage, and she took the opportunity to study him as she turned his words over in her mind. His features were more perfect than any man she’d ever seen. He was every bit the devastating gentleman the ton thought he was. Given his extraordinarily handsome face and the shallowness of London’s fashionable set, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising they’d drastically underestimated him.

  After all, she’d done the same thing herself.

  But she’d been wrong about him, just as nearly everyone else in London was. Lord Haslemere wasn’t frivolous, nor was he dim-witted, or vain. Reckless? Yes, at least on occasion. No man with any sense of self-preservation provoked Daniel Brixton. Careless? Of himself, perhaps, but not of his sister or his nephew, and not of his friend Lord Darlington.

  Not even of her, though he hardly knew her, and would be justified in thinking of her more as his foe than his friend.

  But one thing was certain. Lord Haslemere was no fool, and Georgiana didn’t doubt he’d have Lady Archer right where he wanted her within moments of crossing her threshold.

  There was a certain brilliance to the way he handled people. He knew how to read them, how to see what they tried to hide. It wasn’t the sort of brilliance Georgiana had ever admired—at least, not until this afternoon, when she’d watched him draw one confession after another from Lady Wylde, as easily as if he were pulling fish out of a pond on the end of a hook.

  Perhaps it hadn’t been wise of her to spend so much time locked away with her numbers, avoiding people as she did. The trouble was, people were complicated. Unpredictable. One never knew what they would do, when they’d lash out, or the numerous different ways they’d find to hurt you—

  “We’re here. Welcome to Lady Archer’s notorious faro bank, Georgiana.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and Georgiana peered out the window. They’d arrived in St. James’s Street and stopped outside an elegant townhouse of cream-colored brick, with a pair of soaring columns flanking the entrance. Light poured from the large bow windows on the ground and first floors, and Georgiana could see scores of fashionably attired guests moving behind the glass.

  A shaft of light splashed onto the street, illuminating her face, and Georgiana instinctively drew back to a darkened corner of the carriage. A spray of gooseflesh rose on her neck, and a shiver wracked her body.

  All at once, she felt cold down to her bones.

  “Are you chilled? Here, take this.” Lord Haslemere took up the wrap that had slipped from her shoulders and tucked it back around her before hopping from the carriage to the pavement and holding out his hand to assist her to alight.

  Georgiana shrank away from him, deeper into the safety of the carriage.

  She didn’t want to go in there. The fine people inside would take one look at her and know at once she wasn’t meant to be there, that she wasn’t like them, and they’d stare at her, and snicker behind their fans, and there’d be nowhere for her to go, nowhere to hide.

  Lord Haslemere let out an impatient sigh. “The sooner we go in, Georgiana, the sooner we can come back out again.”

  Georgiana tried to make herself reach for his hand, but instead she found her cold fingers gripping the sleeve of his coat. She pressed the fingers of her other hand hard against her lips and closed her eyes, dreading the moment when he’d demand to know what the matter was. She’d have to tell him, and he’d laugh at her…

  “Georgiana?” He stuck his head back inside the carriage. “Are you coming?”

  “I-I think I’ve made a mistake, my lord. I-I can’t go in there. I don’t know how to…I beg your pardon, but I just…I can’t go in there.”

  She didn’t realize she’d made a small, choked sound until the carriage tilted under Lord Haslemere’s weight. The next thing she knew he was beside her on the bench, his long, warm fingers wrapped around hers.

  * * * *

  He didn’t mean to touch her. Her hand was in his before he realized he’d moved, and words were falling from his lips before he realized he’d opened his mouth.

  So strange that, somehow, he knew just how to speak to her, where to touch her. Every word, every movement was somehow exactly the right one, flowing from him like water in a stream cascading over smooth, damp rocks, or wisps of cottony clouds across a clear, blue sky.

  “Perhaps you’re right, and we have made a mistake coming here. Let’s consider it, shall we?”

  She didn’t answer him, but her fingers curled around his.

  He glanced out the window at Lady Archer’s townhouse, and tried to see it as Georgiana must. “Grand, isn’t it? Far too bright, of course. Every time I attend one of Lady Archer’s faro parties, I always end up with a headache from the glare.”

  She peeked over his shoulder to the townhouse on the other side of the carriage window, then asked hesitantly, “How…why is it so bright?”

  “There are pier glasses crammed onto every available bit of wall. The ton does like to admire itself, you know, but unfortunately it throws the light about until you feel as
if you’ve stumbled into the sun itself.”

  Benedict waited. Georgiana remained silent, but he knew she was listening. “The marble in the entryway is the ugliest I’ve ever seen. Black, with blotches of beige, done in a trompe l’oeil. Lady Archer has the worst taste imaginable.”

  Still nothing from Georgiana, but her eyes—wide, and very green this time—were fixed on him. Benedict went on, hardly knowing what he said. Just bits of nonsense he’d picked up here and there—but all of it was meant to show Georgiana there was nothing inside that townhouse that could hurt her.

  “As for the faro, there will be a great number of green baize tables, a great scattering of cards, and a great many fashionable ladies with towering feathers in their hair and too much rouge on their cheeks.”

  “Rouge?” Sudden color flooded into Georgiana’s face. “Lady Wylde was, ah…she was wearing rouge this morning.”

  “She was, yes. Lady Wylde is a devotee of rouge, and of Lady Archer’s faro tables. She’s likely to be here tonight, no doubt dangling Harrington on her arm. I doubt you’ll have to speak to them. Her ladyship rarely moves once she’s seated at a table, and Harrington, being a proper lapdog, won’t stir a step without her.”

  Ah, a smile, at last! It was a tiny one, but there was a perceptible upward curve at the right corner of Georgiana’s pink lips. Pleasure rushed over Benedict, far more pleasure than he should feel at a mere smile, but before he could chastise himself for being so foolishly, absurdly gratified by it, he was speaking again, trying to earn another one.

  “Lady Trowbridge will be here. Lady Trowbridge is always here, usually lurking in the entryway so she can see who comes in. She’s far more interested in the company than she is in playing faro, a circumstance that drives Lady Archer mad.”

  “Why does it drive her mad?”

  And there it was, the spark of interest Benedict had hoped to see in her eyes. “Because Lady Trowbridge is rumored to have a fortune in gold coins stuffed into every corner of her townhouse. Lady Archer is desperate to relieve her of them.”