The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere

by Anna Bradley

  Five more minutes passed, ten, half an hour…

  By ten o’clock, the walls of the bedchamber seemed to be closing around her. She paced from one end of the room to the other like a caged animal before finally coming to a halt by the window again, bracing her hands on the sill as she tried to calm her breathing.

  For pity’s sake, where was he? It was a wonder the duke hadn’t found them here by now, given he’d had enough time to check every other place in London while she sat about up here like a discarded handkerchief while Lord Haslemere…did whatever it was he was doing with his friend.

  She huffed and fretted through another fifteen minutes. Benedict had told her to wait here, but Georgiana couldn’t bear to remain in this bedchamber a moment longer. Who did he think he was, ordering her about? Well, she hadn’t obeyed any of his other commands, and she saw no reason to start now.

  Georgiana slipped through the door and made her way down the hallway toward the staircase. Either she’d see Benedict on his way up, or else she’d find him downstairs.

  But he wasn’t downstairs. The parlor they’d been taken to the night before was empty, and there wasn’t any sign of the butler who’d attended them last night.

  There wasn’t any sign of anybody. Not Madame Célestine, not Benedict, and not any of the dozen young ladies who’d been entertaining the gentlemen last night.

  Georgiana crept down the hallway and peeked around the door into a formal drawing room, but it was empty as well, so she turned with a huff and made her way through the elaborate entryway back toward the parlor. Perhaps there was a bell there to summon a servant, or—

  A soft gasp rose to her lips as she paused in the anteroom, all thoughts of Benedict, and servants and bell pulls flying from her head as her gaze caught on one of the scandalous paintings she’d seen the night before.

  She glanced around, but no one was about. The entire house was as silent as a tomb. So she tiptoed closer, seizing her chance to examine the paintings without Benedict gaping over her shoulder. Why these paintings should fascinate her so, she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was simply that such things were so far out of her experience, and…well, she’d always been fond of learning new things.

  Georgiana stepped up to the first painting, blinked, then stepped closer, and closer still, until her nose was nearly touching the canvas. “Oh, my goodness, that looks like…”

  It was. A fair-haired lady with an impressively large bosom was reclining on a gold silk settee, her skirts thrown up over her waist, and she wasn’t alone. A gentleman was on his knees beside the settee, his hands resting on the inside of her thighs, and his face was—

  Georgiana slapped a hand over her mouth, her face bursting into flames. She whirled around, turning her back on the painting, but in the next instant she turned back again for another peek.

  She cocked her head to the side, her brow furrowing. How did the lady get her leg to bend at such an unusual angle? And was the man missing a hand?

  No. There it was, on his…oh, dear God.

  Perhaps she’d better wait for Benedict upstairs, after all.

  But that wasn’t what Georgiana did. She moved on to the next painting, then the next, heart pounding, eyes wide, and her palm pressed to her lips.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Miss Harley is an intriguing creature, mon ami. Not your usual sort though, is she? Wherever did you find her?”

  Benedict rolled his eyes. Why did people keep asking him that? “In my wardrobe, of course. She was hanging next to my waistcoats. My valet was appalled.” A rude answer, to be sure, especially to as devoted a friend as Célestine, but Georgiana wasn’t an errant shoe or a missing cravat, for God’s sake.

  She was a woman. An infuriating, distracting, incomprehensible woman with the most alluring lips he’d ever kissed.

  Damn her.

  Célestine was far from being offended, however. She let out a delighted laugh, and placed a hand on his arm. “Such a sharp tongue, mon chère! It’s not like you, but love makes fools of us all, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Love?” Benedict shot her an incredulous look. “Have you gone mad, Célestine? She’s the most uppity, sharp-tongued chit I’ve ever come across. I’d sooner fall in love with a hissing cat than I would Georgiana Harley.”

  Much to his annoyance, Célestine let out another merry laugh. “Ah, so she is severe with you. But maybe she has reason to hiss. What did you do to earn her ire?”

  “Not a thing.” Benedict’s lips twisted in a sullen pout. “Well, that’s not quite true. I did sneak up on her once and make her drop her jar of preserves.”

  Célestine’s brow furrowed. “Preserves? I don’t understand.”

  “I…well, it’s foolish, really, but it was dark, and she didn’t see me, and when I spoke it startled her, and the next thing I knew the jar rolled down the steps and smashed on the pavement. I also threw pebbles at her window to make her come down and talk to me, and I may have stolen a kiss.”

  Or two. Or two dozen.

  Christ, it sounded rather bad, all taken together. He hadn’t meant any harm, though. He’d just—

  “You want to have your way in all things, my friend, and you’re accustomed to getting it, except, it seems, from Mademoiselle Harley. Oui?” Célestine, who was making no attempt to hide her enjoyment, gave him a sly grin.

  “You don’t have to look so happy about it,” Benedict grumbled.

  “Ah, but I am happy, mon chère, because you need a…a firm hand, shall we say? Mademoiselle Harley will be the making of you, if you allow it.”

  Benedict huffed out a breath. There wasn’t any question he would allow it—had been allowing it since that first day he’d met Georgiana in Maiden Lane, all those months ago. Now he looked back on it, he could see his surrender had been inevitable from the start.

  But his capitulation wasn’t what bothered him.

  A mental image of Freddy’s bruised and battered face rose to his mind, and his hands clenched into fists.

  “Mon ami?” Célestine’s smile faded. “What is it? You look désolé.”

  Benedict shook his head.

  “Come, my lord. We are friends, oui?” Célestine took his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. “We are no longer les amoureux, but you are still dear to me. You may confide in me.”

  “Georgiana Harley is…” Bright. Clever, brave, and beautiful, and he…he was a rake and a flirt and London’s most entertaining scandal. He wasn’t a bad man, no, but he was a reckless, selfish one. He couldn’t think of any reason Georgiana should bother with him. “She’d do better to save her firm hand for a gentleman worthy of her efforts.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “It would be foolish of her to put her faith in me, and Georgiana Harley is no fool.”

  “But my dear friend, your Miss Harley does not agree. She has already put her faith in you. If she had not, she would not be here with you now. Indeed, mon ami, you are more deserving than you imagine. Behave as a gentleman does with your Miss Harley, and all will be well.”

  “A gentleman?” Surely, he could manage that much?

  “Oui.” Célestine patted his cheek, then gave him a gentle push toward the door before crossing the room to ring the bell for a servant. “Now, go and fetch your mademoiselle while I see to your carriage, hmmm?”

  “Yes, all right.” Benedict pressed a grateful kiss to Célestine’s cheek, left her small private parlor, and went around the corner and up the back staircase.

  But when he entered the bedchamber, he found it empty.

  Georgiana was gone.

  He strode toward the window, but she wasn’t on the drive below. Had she decided to return to Lady Clifford, after all? Benedict dropped his forehead against the glass, a strange tightness in his chest. It was what he’d told her he wanted, but he’d never believed she’d actually leave.

  It woul
d be just like her to choose this command to obey.

  But if she had gone, she couldn’t have gotten far. He rushed back down the stairs, but stopped on the bottom step, not sure where to look next. Had she gone to the drawing room in search of him? Or should he go back to Célestine’s private parlor, and see if she—

  Huff.

  Benedict stilled, his head jerking toward the entryway. What the devil was that? The noise was too soft for him to make it out for certain, but it almost sounded like…a muffled gasp.

  The skin on his neck prickled with warning.

  Maybe Georgiana hadn’t chosen to leave at all. Maybe the duke had discovered where they were hiding and sent one of his villains to snatch her up. Even now some blackguard might be dragging her outside, his paw clamped over her mouth, stifling her desperate screams. Benedict hadn’t seen a carriage in the drive, but that didn’t mean the duke’s men weren’t prowling about.

  He didn’t pause, but charged down the hallway toward the front door. He couldn’t have explained what it was about that sound, but his heart had rushed into his throat when he heard it, and it was lodged there now, pulsing with dread.

  When he reached the anteroom off the entryway, it stopped altogether.

  Georgiana wasn’t being attacked. She wasn’t being dragged across the floor, or kidnapped, or silenced with a paw over her mouth. There wasn’t a villain to be seen.

  She was alone, standing in front of one of Célestine’s paintings, her hand over her mouth and her eyes as wide as tea saucers.

  Ah. No wonder she’d gasped.

  Benedict knew the paintings well. They were titillating, but any pleasure he’d gotten from them paled in comparison to the pleasure of watching Georgiana gape at them. She looked like a naughty schoolgirl caught hiding an erotic novel under her pillow. “Do you see something that intrigues you, princess?”

  “Oh!” Georgiana jumped, then whirled on him, her hand pressed to her chest. “For pity’s sake, you nearly scared the life out of me!”

  “Only because you know you’re doing something wicked,” he drawled, leaning a hip against the doorframe.

  “Nonsense. I’m merely looking at the, ah…” Georgiana drew herself up with a prim frown. “The art.”

  “Ah, yes. The art. Forgive me, Miss Harley. I didn’t realize you were such an aesthete.” Benedict sauntered across the room to stand beside her. “Which one is your favorite?”

  “I don’t have a favorite,” she muttered, her cheeks flaming.

  “No?” He gestured to the painting in front of her. “You seem preoccupied with this one. It is impressive, isn’t it? The lines, the colors, the, er…position of the subjects.”

  “I don’t…I wasn’t…I have no opinion on the painting at all, Lord Haslemere.”

  Benedict couldn’t help smiling at that. “That’s a vivid blush for a lady who has no opinion.”

  She lowered her gaze to the floor, guiltily biting her lip.

  “No, that won’t do. Look at me.” Benedict caught her chin in his fingers and raised her face to his. “Arousal is nothing to be ashamed of, Georgiana.”

  She glanced at the painting, then back at him, her expression hesitant. She looked as if she were unsure whether to trust him, and Benedict cursed himself. The last thing he’d meant to do was make her believe her desire was shameful.

  “Shall I show you my favorite?” He took her hand and led her to the other side of the room, stopping in front of another painting. This one depicted a gentleman on his back on a settee, his lover atop him, her skirts hiked up and her legs on either side of his hips. He was gripping her waist, and her head was thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream.

  “Look at her expression.” Benedict drew closer, his lips mere inches from Georgiana’s ear. “She’s taking her pleasure.”

  She said nothing, but a shiver swept her slender frame as she stared at the painting.

  He turned her face back to his and stroked his thumb gently over her lower lip. “Do you understand what it means to take your pleasure, Georgiana?”

  Georgiana stole a look at him from under her lashes. “I-I think so.”

  Benedict smothered a groan. “Can you guess why this painting is my favorite?”

  She shook her head, swallowing. Benedict caressed her throat with his thumb, fighting the urge to close his eyes at the glide of her warm skin against his fingertips. “Because it’s about her pleasure.”

  She gazed up at him as if mesmerized, her eyes a deep, dark green—darker than he’d ever seen them, and glimmering like emeralds.

  “A gentleman always makes certain his lover takes her pleasure first. A gentleman takes as much of his pleasure from her release as he does from his own.” A hot, deep ache unfurled in Benedict’s lower belly as he hovered his lips over hers.

  “Are…are you a gentleman, Lord Haslemere?” Georgiana’s voice was soft, hesitant, but her eyes held his, and her lips parted.

  Was he? Benedict hardly knew who he was anymore. He knew only that he wanted her—yearned for her with a longing that stole his breath away. He settled his hands on her hips, squeezing gently as he urged her closer, and his lips took hers.

  * * * *

  “I told you to behave as a gentleman does, Lord Haslemere. Is this how you follow my advice?”

  Georgiana and Benedict sprang apart as if someone had lit a fire between then, and turned to find Madame Célestine standing in the doorway, watching them. She tutted, shaking her head. “Come, my lord. You and Mademoiselle Harley must go. Take my curricle. It won’t be recognized.”

  Georgiana gathered her wits with an effort, and shook her head in protest. “We can’t take your curricle.”

  “Hush. You can, and you will.” Madame Célestine took Georgiana’s hands in hers. “Not to worry, Mademoiselle Harley. Your chère ami is my old friend, and one does not turn one’s back on an old friend.”

  Georgiana searched Madame’s Célestine’s blue eyes, and saw only friendliness and concern there. “You’re very kind.”

  “Mais oui, of course I am.” Madame Célestine gave her a sly wink. “And in return, you will take good care of my friend, Mademoiselle?”

  Georgiana glanced at Benedict. His auburn hair was standing on end, his clothing was wrinkled and soiled from his brawl with the coachman the night before, there was a livid cut on his forehead from the scuffle with Kenilworth’s footman, and still…she’d never seen a man more handsome than he.

  The thought made Georgiana’s heart lurch in her chest, and she swallowed as she turned back to Madame Célestine. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Ah, Mademoiselle, that is all any of us can do.” To Georgiana’s surprise, Madame Célestine leaned forward and pressed an affectionate kiss to her cheek. “And you, my lord. You will behave like a proper gentleman, yes?”

  Benedict cleared his throat. “I’ll do my best, madame.”

  A tiny smirk rose to Madame Célestine’s lips. “Hmmm. You will have an exciting trip then, I think. Goodbye!”

  With that, Madame Célestine sashayed across the room and disappeared through the door. Georgiana waited until the sound of her footsteps had faded before turning to murmur to Benedict, “She’s rather remarkable, isn’t she?”

  He nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on Georgiana, his eyes dark and compelling. “She is, yes. I have a weakness for remarkable ladies.”

  Georgiana’s cheeks heated once again, but she didn’t know quite what to say in answer, so they waited in silence until Madame Célestine’s coachman brought her curricle into the drive. The top was pulled up, to prevent their being recognized.

  “Shall we, Miss Harley?” Benedict offered her his hand.

  She took it, and he led her out to the drive and helped her into her seat, then climbed into his own seat and took up the ribbons. A moment later they were off in a shower of gravel, wi
th Madame Célestine’s house retreating from sight behind them.

  Georgiana didn’t expect she’d fall asleep, but between last night’s excitement and the drama of her confrontation with Benedict this morning, they were only an hour or so into their journey before her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted off.

  She woke with a start when the curricle hit a rough patch of road.

  “All right there?” Benedict glanced down at her, a tentative smile on his lips. “There was no avoiding that jolt, I’m afraid.”

  Georgiana blinked up at him. He was very close, nearly on top of her, and—

  No. Oh, dear God, he wasn’t nearly on top of her. She was nearly on top of him.

  Again.

  Her head rested on the warm, solid curve of his shoulder, where she must have slumped against him when she grew drowsy. Judging by the afternoon light, she’d been asleep for at least an hour, and lounging on him the entire time.

  She scrambled upright and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I beg your pardon, Lord Haslemere. I shouldn’t have been…why didn’t you wake me, or at least nudge me over to my own side of the bench?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t mind it.”

  She cast him a wary look. My, he was being awfully gentlemanly about this, wasn’t he? Her lapse in propriety gave him the perfect opportunity to tease her, but aside from the satisfied grin hovering at the corners of his mouth, he held his tongue. He had promised Madame Célestine he’d behave himself. Perhaps he’d meant it.

  There was no reason that thought should make her heart sink, but there was a heaviness in her chest she’d never felt before. She couldn’t explain it, but it felt like…disappointment? No, something deeper than disappointment, sharper than that. Something that had sunk into the edges of her heart and was dragging it down into her belly.

  “If you look to your right, you can see glimpses of Cliveden House through the trees. The Duke of Buckingham built it for his mistress, the Countess of Shrewsbury.”