The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere

by Anna Bradley

  But if that threat hadn’t been there, if he’d had the luxury of holding her in his arms as long as he wished…what would that be like?

  He dipped his head lower and let her silky hair tickle his nose and cheeks. Georgiana made a soft sound in her throat, and stirred against him. He knew the precise moment when she awoke and realized where she was, and who was holding her.

  She went utterly still, not even drawing a breath. Benedict waited, hardly daring to breathe himself as he braced for an explosion.

  It never came.

  Instead, her fingers curled against his stomach. He felt her back move in a deep breath, and then…then she raised her head from his chest and tilted her face up to his. Her hazel eyes were sleepy, and she had the most adorably shy half-smile on her lips. “I, ah…beg your pardon, Lord Haslemere. I seem to have fallen asleep on top of you.”

  Benedict stifled the groan that threatened to break free, but he couldn’t prevent his shiver of desire as he gazed into those sleepy hazel eyes. He itched to pull the pins from her hair until it spread like a fan over him, and he might run his fingers through it, and bring a long lock of those silken threads to his lips.

  Neither of them said a word as their gazes held. Benedict expected her to squirm away from him at every moment—to leap from the bed and bolt to the other side of the room, far enough away from him that he couldn’t touch her.

  God in heaven, don’t touch her.

  But it was too late. His fingers were already inching closer to her, and then the next thing he knew he was sliding his knuckles down the soft, warm skin of her cheek, his gaze holding hers.

  She didn’t pull away. She didn’t shriek or slap his hand, and she didn’t attack him with a pillow. Benedict curved his fingers under her chin and studied her expression, searching for any sign of distress or hesitation, but all he found was those hazel eyes glittering from between heavy eyelids.

  He dragged his thumb over her bottom lip. “Come here, princess.”

  Her eyes darkened as she did as he bid her, sliding up the bed until her hair caressed his shoulder, and he felt her gentle exhalations against his lips. “Like this?” she asked, her soft, husky voice dragging goosebumps to the surface of his skin.

  “Closer,” he whispered, toying with a lock of her hair, unable to stop the smile that curved his lips when her eyes widened. Not his wicked, seductive smile, but a real one that started deep down in his chest. “Closer, Georgiana,” he crooned, cupping the back of her head and urging her closer, until her lips hovered over his.

  “I can’t get any closer than this, my lord.”

  Benedict was dying to prove her wrong. “Oh, but you can, sweetheart.”

  Then he was kissing her, gently at first, the merest brush of his mouth over hers, his breath catching at the softness he found there, and then a little deeper, a groan on his lips as he caught a hint of damp heat on the tip of his tongue. Dear God, she tasted so good he couldn’t stop himself from delving deeper into her temping mouth. He teased his tongue lightly against the seam of her lips, another groan tearing from him as she parted so sweetly under the tender pressure.

  Benedict struggled to remember they were in a dim bedchamber, in a large, soft bed with no one here to stop them, no one to recall him to his senses before he took it too far. Already their bodies were pressing eagerly together, her arms wrapping around his neck as his tongue became bolder still, dancing along the inside of her bottom lip, and there was nowhere to go from here but deeper, harder, wetter…

  All the reasons Benedict needed to let her go drifted from his mind as his lips clung desperately to hers. God, it was so easy, here in this moment, in this quiet bedchamber to forget everything but her taste, her scent, her soft whimpers in his ears.

  She was intoxicating, and not in a way Benedict had ever known before. Georgiana was nothing like Lady Wylde, or Madame Célestine, or any of his other lovers. Holding her felt different and new, profound in a way he didn’t yet understand. He wanted her, yes—his stiff cock was proof enough of that—but what he felt for her wasn’t simple lust.

  If it had been, surely holding her like this wouldn’t cause this strange tightness in his chest, or the quick, pounding beat of his heart. Lust wouldn’t make him want to pull her closer, hold her tighter, and not only because he desired her, but because he…wanted to protect her?

  As soon as the thought wound its way through his consciousness, the truth of it overwhelmed him, and with it, a wild surge of fear.

  Jane, and Freddy…he hadn’t protected them. He hadn’t seen who—what—Kenilworth really was. He’d tied his sister’s and nephew’s fate to a man who treated them as if they were his possessions, no more important than his fine, bottle-green carriages or his gold-tipped walking stick.

  Because of him, Jane was at the mercy of a monster, and Freddy…

  Kenilworth had put his hands on Freddy. He’d blackened his eye, cut open his cheek. A man like that, a man who’d hurt a child—would he hesitate to do the same to his wife?

  Benedict already knew the answer. The only reason Jane’s eye wasn’t as black as Freddy’s was because Kenilworth could control her easily by threatening their son. Jane would do whatever Kenilworth said to protect those she loved, including him.

  Now Benedict had involved Georgiana in this mess, called her to Kenilworth’s attention. Jesus, what had he been thinking, allowing her to come with him on this mad chase to Oxfordshire, in search of God knew what? The duke’s buried secrets and sins? For Clara Beauchamp, a woman who seemed to have somehow dropped off the face of the earth?

  Benedict had long since grown accustomed to having his own way. He’d been born to doting parents, the heir to an enormous fortune. The ton had turned a blind eye to his worst behavior because of his wealth, with predictable results. He’d been indulged so often and for so long he’d become selfish with others, and worthless to himself.

  But this? No. He’d failed Jane and Freddy, but he still had a chance to do the right thing with Georgiana. She’d fight him, but he had to send her back to Lady Clifford, where she’d be safe.

  He didn’t realize his entire body had gone rigid until Georgiana stilled on top of him. “Benedict?”

  His gaze moved between her eyes and her lips, his stomach aching with want. His worries about Kenilworth, his concern for Georgiana’s safety—all of it threatened to disappear like so many seeds in the wind as long as he was touching her and inhaling her scent with every breath.

  So, Benedict did the only thing he could think to do. He leapt from the bed, out of Georgiana’s arms and raced to the window, as far away from her as possible, praying the throb of desire in his belly would subside before he gave into his weakness, and made her his.

  * * * *

  Georgiana fell face first into the bed as the warm body stretched underneath hers vanished, leaving her with nothing but a mouthful of sheets.

  “This isn’t…we can’t…we have a problem.”

  Georgiana rolled over, gaping at Benedict. He’d retreated to the window and was looking down into the courtyard below, his muscular arms braced on the windowsill and his back tense.

  “A problem,” she echoed faintly, pressing her fingers to her parted lips. His taste lingered there, like sweet summer berries on her tongue. Her head was still spinning, her knees still shaking from his kiss, but if he was at all affected by it, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it.

  But then he’d kissed dozens of women, hadn’t he? Had she really thought this kiss meant any more to him than the kisses he shared with the others? He was London’s favorite rake, after all. It was ridiculous of her to suppose it meant anything to him, and even more so for her to allow it to mean anything to her.

  She raised her chin, determined to ignore the butterflies even now fluttering against her ribs. “We have a number of problems, Lord Haslemere. Which one are you referring to?�
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  “Lord Haslemere?” Benedict turned to face her, leaning against the windowsill and crossing his arms over his chest. “Are we back to that, Miss Harley?”

  Georgiana frowned. There was a hint of a curve at the corner of his lips, but it wasn’t a smile. In fact, he sounded almost angry. She opened her mouth to answer him, but he interrupted before she could get a word out. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now, because I’m sending you back to Lady Clifford this morning.”

  She scrambled upright in bed, the seductive languor in her limbs dissipating in an instant. “No, you’re not. I told you once before, my lord. I don’t follow your commands. My loyalty is to your sister.”

  His mouth tightened. “Ah, but my sister isn’t here, Miss Harley. I am, and I’ve just informed you of my decision. Ready yourself. You leave for London in the next hour, whether you like it or not.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  He shrugged, as if what she wanted didn’t matter one way or the other to him. “I’ve made up my mind.”

  Georgiana stared at him, baffled. Less than five minutes ago they’d been wrapped around each other in bed, and now he was looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. What had happened between now and then? She hadn’t the vaguest idea what she’d done, and…oh, dear God, was her lower lip wobbling?

  “Are you…crying?” Benedict stumbled toward her, his face a mask of horror. “Georgiana, please don’t—”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Georgiana snapped. “I never cry.”

  Benedict had shouted at her, yes, and nearly tossed her over the side of the bed in his haste to get away from her, but she absolutely refused to collapse into a flood of tears over it.

  No, just…no. She might not have any experience with men, least of all rakes, but she had her pride. She imitated Benedict’s—that is, Lord Haslemere’s—shrug, and looked him in the eye. “Very well, my lord. If you wish for me to return to Lady Clifford, then I’ll go.”

  Benedict’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “If I wish it? That’s it?”

  “Well, it’s a bit of an inconvenience. It would be much easier for me to leave for Oxfordshire from here rather than London, but since you command it, I suppose I haven’t any choice.”

  He stared at her for a moment in frozen silence, then without a word he was across the room, his hands grasping her shoulders. “What the devil do you mean by that, Georgiana—”

  She wrenched herself free of his grasp. “That’s Miss Harley, my lord. I think it’s best if we keep our distance from this point on, don’t you?”

  “If you think you’re going to wander off to Oxfordshire on your own, straight into Kenilworth’s clutches, you’ve very much mis—”

  “Don’t be silly. I won’t be on my own. Daniel will come with me.”

  “No, he won’t. Kenilworth will have sent men after Jane and Freddy. Brixton will remain with them as long as they need his protection.”

  Georgiana tapped her lip, as if considering that. “Lady Clifford, then. Of course, Kenilworth’s men are likely watching the Clifford School, so there’s a chance we won’t even make it out of London before he realizes we’ve—”

  “Damn it, Georgiana. For such a clever lady, you don’t have any bloody sense at all. Kenilworth is dangerous. He hurt Freddy, tried to kidnap Jane, and nearly killed Draven.” Benedict seized her again, eyes wild, his hands biting into her upper arms. “What do you suppose he’ll do to you if he catches up with you?”

  Georgiana’s eyes widened. This was not the same man she’d met months ago in Maiden Lane, the rake who treated everything as if it were an amusing lark. “I don’t intend to find out.”

  Benedict snatched his hands away from her, a frustrated grunt leaving his throat. “I doubt Draven intended to find himself beaten half to death, either. You have no idea how clever the duke is, or how sinister.”

  There was no question the duke was clever. After all, he’d kept his secrets this long. Nor was Georgiana under any illusions about how dangerous he was. But she was clever, too. She eyed Benedict, considering her next words carefully. “Is Lord Draven’s Oxfordshire estate a large one, Lord Haslemere?”

  He blinked at her. “I don’t see how that matters, but yes, it’s a good-sized estate.”

  “You mean to say it’s one of those sprawling, untidy places, with dozens of outbuildings spread out over the grounds in every direction?”

  “Most large estates are.”

  “It’s not an easy place to spy upon, then?”

  He blew out an impatient breath. “Easy enough if one has a regiment at their disposal. What are you getting at?”

  “Oh, nothing of any import, I’m sure, but it occurs to me that Lord Gray—are you familiar with Lord Gray, my lord? He’s married to my dear friend Sophia. No? Well, that doesn’t signify. The point is—”

  “Yes, please do get to the point, if you would. We’re wasting time.”

  Georgiana gave him a sweet smile. “Why, of course, my lord. I beg your pardon. The point is, Lord Gray happens to have a hunting box in Burham, in Buckinghamshire.”

  Benedict went still. “Burnham? That’s less than—”

  “Less than an hour’s ride on horseback from Lord Draven’s estate in High Wycombe, yes. One might get about quite easily between them. Stealthily, too, and the duke isn’t apt to go poking about Lord Gray’s hunting box, is he?”

  “No. I don’t suppose he is,” Benedict allowed, grudgingly enough, in Georgiana’s opinion. “But I doubt Lord Gray will appreciate your poking about there.”

  Georgiana waved this objection aside. “We needn’t go anywhere near the hunting box. The gamekeeper’s cottage is adequate for our purposes.”

  “Gamekeeper’s cottages generally come equipped with a gamekeeper, Miss Harley. What do you intend to do with him? Toss him out the window?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Lord Haslemere. Lord Gray rarely uses the hunting box now. He pensioned the gamekeeper off long ago.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “And how would you know that?”

  “Why, from Lady Gray, of course.” Georgiana looked down her nose at him. “It may surprise you to know this, Lord Haslemere, but not all ladies are preoccupied with fashions and gossip. We do occasionally talk of other things.”

  “Gamekeepers? That’s what you talk of?”

  Georgiana shrugged. “Among other things, but I fear you’re missing the point, my lord. I can either accompany you to Burham, or you can command me to return to Lady Clifford, and she and I will go to Burham together, and you may do as you wish.”

  Benedict gave a humorless laugh. “It seems you’ve thought of everything. I suppose we’re off to Burham, then.”

  He was still angry with her—she could tell by the edge to his voice—but he didn’t offer any more arguments, and Georgiana let out a silent breath of relief. If they could get along with each other, the next few days would be far easier for both of them. “Very good, Lord Haslemere. I’m ready to leave when you are.”

  There. If she could be cordial, then so could he. Cordiality meant no more arguing, and no more raising their voices.

  And no more kissing. That was entirely too cordial.

  Certainly, no more kiss—

  “I’ll leave you to, er…” His gaze roved slowly over her. “Tidy yourself, while I go and see Madame Célestine about getting a carriage for us. Wait here until my return, if you please, Miss Harley.”

  He strode to the door and vanished into the hallway, leaving Georgiana choking on the ill-tempered retort that rose to her lips. Why, the consummate arrogance of the man! She’d just solved their most pressing problem, and still he presumed to order her about, as if she were a hunting dog he’d commanded to heel.

  With an irritable whirl of her skirts, Georgiana abandoned her place beside the bed and marched to the window. It was early still. The carr
iage drive below was deserted, and the rooms that had been filled with laughter and the low murmur of conversation last night had gone silent. No doubt Madame Célestine and her ladies were exhausted from their efforts the night before, and had tumbled into their beds at first light.

  That thought gave rise to another, this one far less welcome. Had Benedict gone to consult with Madame Célestine in that lady’s bedchamber? Georgiana’s shoulders moved in a quick shrug before the thought could take root. What did it matter to her where he’d gone? Lord Haslemere might do as he wished, and he had said he and Madame Célestine were…

  How had he put it? Old friends.

  Georgiana snorted. Friends, indeed. Madame Célestine wasn’t the sort of lady a man chose to make his friend. It was far more likely she’d been his mistress, and that they were renewing their intimate acquaintance even now.

  If the only emotion surging through her body had been anger, Georgiana might have managed it easily enough. But this stinging ache, this sharp, pointed thing lodged under her breastbone was a great deal more complicated than just anger.

  She sank down onto the edge of the windowsill.

  He’d rejected her. He’d kissed her passionately, stroked her face, and begged her to come closer, then he’d fled the bed as if the devil were after him, and gone off to frolic with his old friend.

  It was…not humiliating, no. Not hurtful, either. It might have been both of those things if she cared whether or not Lord Haslemere desired her, but she didn’t, and she’d wasted quite enough time thinking about it.

  She rose and crossed the room to the basin, making use of the cold water to wash, then did what she could to tidy her limp, soiled dress. A wasted effort, as it happened, as the dress hadn’t taken kindly to being slept in the night before. She donned her stockings and shoes, then sat down on the side of the bed to await Lord Haslemere’s return.

  And wait, and wait, and wait…

  It was coming up on nine in the morning according to the small clock on the mantel, and still Benedict didn’t return. Georgiana tried to distract herself, first by straightening the coverlet, then by arranging the dozens of small pillows into a neat row against the headboard. What might a courtesan need with so many pillows?