The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  She simply stared at him, disconcerted at his abrupt change of front, unable to believe it had been so easy to arrest his advances. She couldn’t detect from his demeanor whether he’d recognized her. She thought not. She hoped not.

  Georgie rose and shook out her skirts. “Then if you’ve finished importuning me—”

  Steyne held out both hands, palms toward her. “Oh, no, my dear,” he said in that soft, hateful voice, “I’m not done with you yet.”

  With an ironic bow, he left the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.

  The room seemed to reverberate in time with her heartbeat. Georgie collected her wits, and hurried for the door.

  On the other side of the oak panels, the key turned in the lock with a loud click.

  Georgie rattled the doorknob, knowing it would be hopeless. What in Heaven’s name was the wretched man up to now? A quick glance around showed no other possible means of escape. She had better search the room for weapons.

  She discovered nothing of practical use in the sparsely furnished chamber—not even a fire iron with which to brain her host should he try to ravish her.

  The minutes dragged by; she realized how foolish it had been to suppose she could rescue her sister from this kind of peril. Ten to one, Violet enjoyed the festivities, happy as a lark, watched over by her companions. While Georgie was imprisoned in a boudoir by a lecherous marquis with a grossly overblown opinion of his charms.

  Fools rush in, indeed. Hadn’t Marcus always complained of her impetuousness? It seemed she still hadn’t learned her lesson.

  The key turning in the lock made her stiffen, her heart bounding into her throat.

  Georgie moved as far from the bed as she could manage. Not that it would make any difference to Steyne, but it made her feel better. She snatched up the Chinese vase from the mantel, tested its weight. Too delicate to do any damage and probably priceless into the bargain. She set it down again.

  But the tall, dark-haired figure who entered was not Lord Steyne.

  It was his cousin, her former fiancé. Marcus Westruther, Earl of Beckenham.

  He stood there for what seemed an age, silhouetted against the doorway. She couldn’t see his features clearly in the shadows but she didn’t have to. They were as sharp and clear in her mind’s eye as they had ever been in the flesh.

  The shock of seeing him again suspended her faculties. Her lips parted but no sound came out.

  Emotion flooded her chest, a swirling mass of reactions that could not be separated into constituent parts. The strength and tumult of her feelings made her light-headed.

  What could she say to him? She’d avoided a meeting between them for years, and now, to see him in such fantastical circumstances … Could anything be more disastrous? She dreaded to imagine what he’d think if he discovered her identity.

  Ought she simply tell him the real reason she was here?

  Could she trust him? Instinct told her yes. He was the most solidly dependable person she’d ever known.

  But why on earth should he help her, even if she told him her troubles? He’d washed his hands of her years ago.

  She’d rejected him as a husband, dealt a severe blow to his pride, made them both the talk of the Ton. As far as Beckenham was concerned, there could not be a more unforgivable crime than that. He was a man who prized honor and loyalty above all other qualities.

  So she waited in the silence. She would follow his lead.

  Her awareness of him was so heightened that the slight tilt of his head as he studied her made her heart zing about her chest like a firework. She heard nothing but her own breathing. The unruly hitch in it seemed to echo in the silence.

  He moved into the room, then closed the door. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

  His deep voice resonated through her body, stirring the embers of a fire that had long lain dormant. Yes, but never in my wildest dreams did I think you’d be here.

  She didn’t answer. Oh, God, it was awful and humiliating and … and wonderful to see him. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since that dreadful night when she released him from the engagement. Almost by tacit agreement, she lived in Town while he’d largely kept to his estate. She’d heard he attended Lady Cecily Westruther’s come-out ball in London last season, but of course she hadn’t been invited to that auspicious event. Most pointedly not invited.

  And now here he was, with her. In a quiet bedchamber in the midst of a raucous, licentious party. But it didn’t feel as if they stood in any kind of oasis here. It felt like the eye of a storm.

  Her mouth dried as he reached up a hand to loosen his cravat, flick it open, and pull the long strip of linen from around his throat. Then he walked over to the washstand, where a pitcher of water and a basin stood as if ready for guests.

  “Take your clothes off,” he said to her over his shoulder. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Chapter Two

  The room spun. Georgie put out a hand to steady herself against the mantel. She could not have heard correctly. Surely, she could not.

  But she didn’t ask him to repeat his words, because she knew very well her ears hadn’t deceived her. He’d just told her, bluntly, to undress. Because he thought that they … that she … Georgie’s face flushed with scalding heat.

  After Steyne’s advances, she ought not to be so shocked. But this was Beckenham. Beckenham, who had never once gone beyond the line with her, even when they were safely betrothed.

  She’d heard whispers about him over the years, stories rarely told to maiden ladies of Lord Beckenham’s reputed prowess in the bedchamber.

  Affront at his high-handed manner warred with burning curiosity. Temptation spiked within her. Tonight, she might discover whether the rumors were true.

  Heedless of her reaction to the peremptory command, the earl stripped off his superfine coat and tossed it carelessly onto a chair.

  Such a casual gesture. As if for him this encounter were the most mundane of occurrences.

  A disorienting sensation came over her, as if the world swung upside down on its axis. Could it be true that Beckenham did this sort of thing all the time? He didn’t have the reputation of a rake. Indeed, she’d never suspected Beckenham capable of taking sin in his stride.

  He continued to undress. Those large fingers unfobbed his watch and set it on the washstand, then went to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. She quickly shut her eyes. But listening to him remove his clothes was almost as tantalizing as watching him.

  Silk slid against cambric. A hush of cloth and a soft clack of buttons as the waistcoat joined his coat …

  She opened her eyes again, hussy that she was, helpless to stop herself. She saw that he had indeed shed his waistcoat and was deftly undoing the ruffled cuffs at his wrists. He pushed his shirtsleeves up strong forearms before plunging his hands into the basin of water.

  The intimacy of standing here in a bedchamber with the Earl of Beckenham as he performed his ablutions made Georgie ache for what might have been. If only she hadn’t been so rash, so stupid. If only he’d loved her. If only he’d understood.

  She knew a corrosive, blinding hatred for those women who had enjoyed him.

  He belonged to her. He always had.

  He splashed his face—once, twice, and dried it with a towel. Then he pulled his billowing shirt over his head in one deft movement. She ought to look away, but she couldn’t. She was too awestruck by the solid, beautiful strength of his back and shoulders as he vigorously rubbed at his torso with a wet flannel.

  Things were moving too fast for her reason to catch up. Dimly, she knew she ought to leave, and do it now, before this went any further. But threading through such self-preserving logic was a dark thrill of excitement. And a deep, powerful longing that had been inside her, suppressed, unacknowledged, ever since they’d met.

  Georgie remembered—oh, how well she remembered—the firm, smooth texture of Beckenham’s lips against hers. He’d set her alight until her entire body was in
candescent with longing for him. She’d burned to make him lose that awe-inspiring control. Yet, throughout their courtship, his kisses had been gentle, unthreatening. The air of danger that clung to him tonight was foreign to her.

  Perhaps he reserved his true passion for females of quite a different sort?

  The thought stiffened her spine.

  Instead of explaining herself, or even making a hasty exit, she drawled, “My lord, such stories of your expertise abound. Yet, I find that tonight, you lack finesse.”

  For a fraction of time, he froze. Then he laid the flannel down. Slowly, he turned. The gleam of candlelight slid along his bare skin.

  His dark eyes glinted. “Is it finesse you want, sweetheart? I thought you were here for something quite different.”

  She scarcely heard him. She couldn’t speak. What lady wouldn’t lose her self-possession when faced with a shirtless Lord Beckenham?

  She noticed everything about him. The breadth of that imposing chest with its sprinkling of dark hair, its flat brown nipples. The muscles in his arms, the taut, hard stomach.

  And he was wet. She didn’t know why that made a difference, but it did.

  She dragged her attention to his face. Beckenham had a nose that on another man would seem large. On him, it resided in easy proportion among the rest of his strong features. Brown eyes that could warm to chocolate, but now glittered like jet. He had dark hair and a long face with two deep furrows bracketing his mouth. His jaw tensed as the silence stretched between them.

  Another thought occurred to her. Obviously, he hadn’t expected her to be here. He hadn’t recognized her thus far. Who, exactly, did he think she was? Or didn’t he care?

  Her throat constricted. She didn’t want to think of him with someone else. Even now, the notion sliced through her like a blade.

  “Madam?” he prompted, moving toward her. “Do you tell me I am wrong?”

  She couldn’t find it in her to reply. And he wasn’t wrong, she realized. That was the Devil of it. She so badly wanted him to kiss her, her lips throbbed with the need. She wanted—oh, all sorts of things. Things she didn’t even know how to express.

  Most of all, though, she wanted to teach Lord Beckenham a lesson—with what justification she did not know. She had wronged him, not the other way around.

  She played with fire, no doubt about it. No matter how much she’d teased and flirted in the days of their courtship, he’d never lost his temper, nor his iron control. He had always been stern, even forbidding, but he’d never made her feel unsafe.

  Tonight there was an edge—a sexual edge—to him that seemed alien to his character. Or at least, to what she thought she knew of his character.

  How well had she known the Earl of Beckenham, after all?

  Perhaps all the whispers behind fluttering fans were justified. That in the bedchamber, Lord Beckenham had no equal.

  Inwardly, she shivered. Could the gossip be true?

  Georgie did not feel safe, standing here alone in a dimly lit room with the Earl of Beckenham.

  But she could not walk away.

  * * *

  When Xavier told him an unknown woman in this house had claimed his protection, Beckenham hadn’t believed it for a moment. Another of Xavier’s stupid games. He’d snatched the key his cousin dangled from his fingers and charged off to release the female from her temporary prison.

  He hadn’t bargained on Georgie.

  The instant he saw her, he’d known. The knowledge had fallen on him like an avalanche, held him frozen in the doorway, gaping like a fool.

  What the hell was she doing here? Was she part of an elaborate plot of Xavier’s devising?

  And why had she claimed Beckenham’s protection tonight—if indeed she had done so? His whole body tensed. If Xavier had forced his attentions on her, Beckenham would tear him limb from limb.…

  But no. Georgie did not seem to have suffered at Xavier’s hands, or anyone else’s. She was composed, even if her beautiful breasts rose and fell a little too rapidly. That reaction was not surprising, given her predicament.

  Still the same Georgie, even in disguise. The lace mask covered all of her face except the glitter of her eyes. Even her wide, sinful mouth was obscured, the scallops of her lace mask edging around that determined chin.

  She’d powdered her hair—a crime against nature, but understandable in the circumstances. No lady would wish it to be known she was here tonight. Particularly an unmarried one. That scorching hair would have identified her immediately.

  What a foolish risk she’d taken, attending this bacchanal. He ought to persuade her to leave, escort her to her lodgings. But his gentlemanly instincts didn’t stand a chance. They were like a child’s toy sailboat against a raging ocean of anger and bitterness and frustration and desire.

  His gaze lowered. That lush, rounded body still gave him sleepless nights.

  Something about the way she stood there, so mysterious and alluring and … and confident, damn her, made him furious. In this house, at this party. God. It made him want to tear the world apart.

  Through all that farce of an engagement and its aftermath, he’d clung to his original vision of the girl he’d known all her life. Her presence here tonight turned that vision on its head.

  As he watched her, she put up a hand to touch the soft skin behind her ear. It was a gesture so typical of the old Georgie that his rage and desire flared until they forged a steely purpose.

  Clearly, Miss Georgiana Black was here at this scandalous gathering because she wanted a man to seduce her.

  Let that man be him.

  He gave no indication that he knew her. If she wished to behave like an aristocratic harlot, let her discover how harlots were treated by the fine gentlemen who frequented parties like this. With deliberate crudeness, he told her to undress.

  Say something, damn you!

  He waited for her to put him in his place and stalk from the room. She knew who he was, even if she thought her own identity secret.

  She said nothing. From offense? Shock? What? Her silence drove him mad.

  He bought himself time by washing, but his hands shook and his body hardened like an adolescent’s on his first encounter. Now he’d set foot on this path, he could barely breathe for wanting her.

  And then she spoke. You lack finesse.

  She indicated her wish for a polite seduction. He didn’t feel polite. But he was intelligent enough to realize she hadn’t said no to the seduction part, just to the manner of it.

  So she’d heard about his reputed skill as a lover, had she? Some primal part of him relished the idea. He was on his mettle now, even as he knew this encounter would not be at all like those others. Those women were as pale and insubstantial as ghosts when compared with the vibrancy of Georgie Black.

  Water cooled his bare skin, but inside him the flames licked higher. His mouth dried as he walked toward her. So many fantasies. So many times during their courtship he’d held himself in check because she was a virgin and he was an honorable man. They’d be married soon and then he could have her every night if he wanted. And every morning, noon, and afternoon, too.

  Those dreams had been shattered when she broke their engagement.

  But tonight …

  Oh, yes, he thought grimly. Tonight, he’d make every one of them come true.

  * * *

  “You haven’t undressed,” he said in a graveled voice. “Shall I do it for you?”

  Georgie’s mind whirled as her pulse beat hard and fast. Things were moving too quickly for her. If she didn’t stop him soon, it would be too late.

  She shook her head. “No, I—”

  “But first, a kiss.” Slowly, he reached out and slid a fingertip between the edge of her lace mask and the line of her jaw.

  “Don’t,” she cried. Her hands flew up; she gripped his bare wrist to stop him revealing her face. If he discovered who she was, she couldn’t imagine what he’d do.

  Would he be furious, scornful? Pe
rhaps he wouldn’t be at all surprised. She didn’t know which reaction would be worst.

  But she couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk him seeing her and walking away.

  “Such vehemence.” Beckenham’s head angled slightly as he studied her. Then he brought up his other hand. His fingertips traced her jawline; his thumb stroked beneath her chin. “I won’t take it off. I’ll simply…”

  Gently, he peeled the lace upward, exposing only her mouth. “There.”

  Cool air washed over her parted lips. She swallowed hard, released her grip on his wrist.

  He slid his fingers into her powdered hair, cradled her head in his palms. A shiver ran down her spine.

  He bent toward her until his words feathered over her lips, warming them. “The unknown is always more exciting, don’t you agree?”

  Before she could reply, he took her mouth, commanded it as no man had ever done before.

  Her heart seemed to swoop down to her toes, then zing back up to start a frantic beat in her chest. This was no polite expression of affection but a carnal act of possession. She felt the warm, wet slide of his tongue, the thrust of it into her mouth. She gasped, but a rush of excitement swept her shock away.

  Almost without her volition, her hand slid up to caress his nape, urging him closer still. His body was damp. He tasted of wine and smelled of the soap he’d used—a faint citrus scent she knew would remind her of him for the rest of her life.

  With a groan, he lashed one arm around her waist and pulled her against him.

  He kissed her deeply, hard, long.

  His palm skimmed up her side; then his hand closed, firm and possessive, over her breast.

  Georgie gave a soft, helpless moan. She ought to stop him but the feel of his hands on her was so sublime, she wanted it to go on forever. He tugged at her bodice, pressed kisses to the swells of her breasts, bit them gently, made her dissolve in his arms, whisper an incoherent plea.

  Her desire for him was dangerous, mindless, visceral. She knew she needed to stop his emotionless assault before he went too far, but her rebellious body demanded more.