The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  An honorable man would not seek a different wife with a view to escape.

  He couldn’t bring himself to accommodate the notion of proposing to Georgie again, so he focused on finding her, on seeing to it that she was safe.

  He rounded the fountain, refusing certain favors from the importunate nymphs for the second time that night. That’s when he caught sight of her, hurrying toward him down the steps, the skirts of her gown caught up in one slender hand.

  His heart gave a hard jolt. But no, she wasn’t heading for him, but toward the chaise that stood waiting on the drive between them.

  As if turned to stone, he watched her until she was obscured from his sight by the carriage that stood between them. She entered the carriage and settled herself against the squabs.

  The vulnerable line of her throat made his chest contract with a painful longing. He had a crazed impulse to run after the carriage as it moved forward, to open the door and swing himself inside. He’d resolved to see her home, hadn’t he?

  But when the chaise rolled past, it revealed another familiar figure, one he’d hoped never to set eyes on again.

  Lord Pearce, the blackguard, raising his hand to Georgie in farewell.

  Chapter Four

  Violet rolled her eyes. “We were with Lord Pearce for mere minutes, Georgie. He barely spoke to me. Besides, he is quite old, you know.”

  Georgie snorted. “Yes, he must be all of thirty-five.”

  “Well, that seems old to me,” said Violet.

  “Did—did Lord Pearce mention me?” said Georgie, trying to sound offhand.

  Violet shrugged. “He said he was one of your beaux. Oh, and he mentioned your hair.”

  Oblivious of the way Georgie stiffened, Violet’s gaze flicked up to Georgie’s crown, where her abundant curls piled in an ordered riot of astonishing brilliance. “He is right, of course. It’s magnificent.”

  Georgie repressed a grimace. Her cursed hair was the source of more trouble than Violet could imagine.

  “He’s quite charming for an older person, isn’t he?” said Violet idly. “One can see why he has such a dreadful reputation. Mrs. Makepeace told me all about him.”

  “Speaking of reputations,” said Georgie a little more sharply than she intended, “it was badly done to go to Steyne’s house with the Makepeaces. You must have guessed how it would be.”

  Violet’s countenance seemed to sparkle. “Indeed, I guessed.” She clasped her hands together. “And it was beyond even my wildest imaginings. I shouldn’t think anything I might see during my London season could compare. But how foolish to suppose the Makepeaces would not take good care of me, Georgie. Mrs. Makepeace wants me for her brother-in-law, so you may be sure she kept me safe from other men.”

  “But not, I take it, from Harry Makepeace.”

  “Oh, pooh! I can deal with Horrible Harry any day of the week.” Violet gave a tiny yawn. “It was prodigiously entertaining, though, G. You should have seen how lavish—and how lewd—Steyne’s party was.”

  Georgie gave a small shudder. She’d not told her sister that she had indeed seen for herself. That episode was best forgotten. “I can only guess. And beg you not to repeat a word of what you saw to anyone—most of all to your mama.”

  “You must think me a complete cod’s head. Of course I won’t.” Violet rested her chin in her hand and gazed at Georgie intently. “Have you ever kissed a man, dear sister?”

  A sudden surge of memory flooded Georgie’s mind. Last night. That endless searing kiss …

  She cleared her throat. “Good gracious, why do you ask?”

  “Did Beckenham kiss you?”

  Georgie’s breath exploded from her. “What?”

  “When you were engaged, I mean. Did he kiss you?” Violet frowned. “I quite thought it was permissible for betrothed couples to kiss.”

  “It is. I mean…” Georgie sighed. She’d never spoken to anyone about intimacies between her and Beckenham. Georgie answered honestly. “Yes.” A sweet stab of pain shot through her. She swallowed hard. “When we were betrothed, we kissed.”

  Violet’s stare seemed to pin her to the wall. “You did? What was it like?”

  “Well, er…” Georgie struggled to recall past the blaze of passion last night had brought. One word came to mind.

  “Pleasant,” she said finally. Rather an understatement, but Violet didn’t need to know that. She forced a laugh. “But then, it was all so long ago, I’ve quite forgotten.”

  Yet she had not forgotten the hot, firm press of Beckenham’s lips upon hers last night, the deep, sensuous thrust of his tongue. She’d never guessed passion could be so dark, so all-consuming as the emotion that had gripped her in that bedchamber last night.

  “Did you ever kiss Pearce?” asked Violet.

  “Oh, good God no,” laughed Georgie. “I led him a pretty dance but I never let anyone kiss me except Beckenham.”

  “What about afterwards?” persisted Violet. “After you jilted him.”

  “Violet, don’t be vulgar,” said Georgie. “The proper expression is that we decided we wouldn’t suit.”

  Another eye roll greeted that statement. “Whatever you say, G. But did you kiss anyone after you gave Beckenham his congé?”

  Her sister was like a dog with a bone. Rather belatedly, Georgie wondered whence these questions emanated. “Did a man kiss you last night?” she demanded.

  “No,” said Violet. “But I expect perhaps someday one might wish to, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, undoubtedly.” Georgie eyed her sister, all blue eyes and flaxen curls. “My advice is—”

  Violet heaved a heartfelt sigh. “I know, I know. I should not let any man kiss me unless we’re engaged.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” said Georgie. “My advice is that if you don’t wish to find yourself speedily betrothed to the man in question, don’t get caught.”

  Violet’s pretty mouth was agape. Then she broke into a peal of laughter.

  Georgie reached forward and affectionately tapped her sister’s cheek. “I never said I was a saint, my dear. I don’t expect you to be, either. But I do expect you to be clever.”

  She took her sister’s chin in her hand. “And I think you know that dallying with Lord Pearce in any shape or form is not at all clever. His brand of vileness is beyond the understanding of a lovely girl like you. He would ruin you if he could. Do not grant him the opportunity to try.”

  * * *

  It was almost noon when Beckenham went down to breakfast. He expected to encounter a great deal of detritus from last evening’s party, including several languishing, unclad bodies on the way.

  He’d reckoned without Martin’s ruthless efficiency. The place was spotless and silent, but for the chimes of a hallway clock and the muted cry of gulls.

  The welcome scents of breakfast pleasantly assailed his nostrils. Cooked meats, eggs, fresh bread. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of the repast Martin arranged for him the previous evening.

  A series of images flashed before his mind’s eye. Georgie, soft and firm and round. Responsive, willing, pliant, searingly sensual. That low, husky voice trembling with emotion, begging him not to go.

  And Pearce waving good-bye to her with that smug, knowing smile on his face.

  Pearce’s presence and the familiarity of his gesture to Georgie had set off an explosion of conjecture in Beckenham’s head.

  What was Pearce doing back in England after all these years? Did he intend to pursue Georgie once more?

  As he approached the breakfast parlor, he heard masculine voices and hesitated, listening. He was in no mood for polite company. But he identified two voices, both well known to him. One was Xavier. The other was another cousin, Andrew, Viscount Lydgate.

  “Good God, Andy,” drawled Beckenham, taking in his cousin’s elegance. “Your sartorial splendor is quite blinding this morning.”

  Lydgate rose and strode toward him. “Beckenh
am!”

  The blond Adonis gripped Beckenham’s hand and wrung it, clapped him hard on the back. “By Jove, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He cast a humorous look back at Xavier. “Quite a party last night, wasn’t it?”

  Xavier, who was dressed for riding, bent a penetrating stare upon Beckenham. “Yes. Quite. But our cousin didn’t partake of the, er, more public amusements, did you, coz?”

  Beckenham’s jaw tightened. “As you say.”

  The glint in Xavier’s deep blue eyes abraded Beckenham’s conscience. Did he know? Had he guessed Georgie’s identity?

  Beckenham felt the lively curiosity of Andy’s regard.

  “Speak plainly,” Beckenham said, bracing himself. “Don’t keep the boy in suspense, I beg, or put him to the trouble of nosing out the truth.”

  One of Lydgate’s most tiresome habits was an uncanny ability to discover secrets other people would prefer to keep hidden. The girls used to call him the Idle Intelligencer when they all lived together with the Duke of Montford.

  “Very well, then,” said Steyne with a slight bow. “Our estimable cousin had a close encounter with a shady lady last night.”

  Lydgate grinned. “So did I. Most delightful it was, too.” He glanced from one to the other. Beckenham’s nerves vibrated like the tines of tuning fork. “And this is remarkable because…?”

  Xavier’s gaze locked on Beckenham’s. The tension became a churn in Beckenham’s stomach. He was almost certain that Xavier hadn’t recognized Georgie. His cousin had denied knowing her the previous evening. But at least now he’d know. That choice piece of information was so rich, Xavier couldn’t possibly resist the urge to torment him with it.

  Xavier’s thick lashes veiled those midnight blue eyes. He touched his mouth with a napkin and set it aside. “Only because Beckenham cut me out for the privilege of spending time with the lady in question.”

  Relief poured through Beckenham like a sluice of cool water. Gruffly, he managed, “Not so remarkable, in fact.”

  But Lydgate’s openmouthed astonishment said otherwise. He addressed Xavier. “And you … let him?”

  Xavier merely shrugged. “It was the shock, you see.”

  Did Beckenham imagine it, or was there irony in the gaze Xavier leveled at him?

  Damnation! He imagined veiled meanings that weren’t there, because he felt guilty. He should not take his cue from Xavier on this. He should discover where Georgie was lodging, march over there, and ask her to be his wife. He would do it and receive her inevitable rejection as a penance for his sins last night.

  “But you must be famished after your, ah, exertions, Becks.” Xavier indicated the grand array of chafing dishes set out on the sideboard. “Have at it, why don’t you? Martin ordered what he thought you would like.”

  One of Martin’s uncanny talents was to anticipate a guest’s every desire and whim, so Beckenham wasn’t surprised to find several of his favorite dishes.

  He filled his plate, then sat down with his cousins at the table. The slow churn in his stomach had subsided a little but he couldn’t quite reclaim his appetite.

  “Becks is bride hunting,” Xavier said to Lydgate.

  Lydgate choked a little on his ale, set the tankard down. “No! Damn me but you’re full of surprises this morning.” He straightened in his chair, eyes widened. “Not the Shady Lady?”

  “Most definitely not,” agreed Xavier. “Beckenham wants a quiet, dutiful bride who won’t give him any trouble. Someone biddable, no doubt.” The last sentence was said with something of a sneer.

  Beckenham focused on his plate. His wish for a bride seemed to belong to another century.

  With an effort, he hauled his mind out of the quagmire of his encounter with Georgie. “I wouldn’t have put it quite so crudely.”

  “Women,” said Lydgate darkly, “are nothing but trouble. If there’s one out there who isn’t, I haven’t met her.”

  Beckenham didn’t agree. “You will admit that your experience of virtuous ladies is limited.”

  Xavier’s lips curved in an unpleasant smile. “Lydgate’s right. It is a wife’s duty to make her husband’s life as hellish as possible, as far as I can see. The docile ones are usually hiding their claws until the wedding band is securely upon their pretty fingers. The beauties are vain and far too demanding, the bluestockings are dead bores.… Need I go on?”

  Lydgate tilted his head. “Never knew you were such a misogynist. I love women,” he said on a sigh. “I can find something to admire in the worst of them. That’s my curse.”

  “Yes,” Beckenham said. “Your total lack of discrimination was a factor in my decision to ask Xavier’s advice rather than yours.” He cocked an eyebrow at the marquis. “You cannot recommend even one lady to me as a suitable bride?”

  Xavier curled his lip. “I leave the matchmaking to our former guardian.”

  “Why haven’t you asked Montford?” said Lydgate.

  “I’m not interested in shoring up the Westruther dynasty.” Beckenham shrugged. “Besides, Montford washed his hands of my affairs after the debacle with Georgie Black.”

  That was the only time Beckenham could recall thinking the duke was a complete cloth-head. Any reasonable man could see Beckenham had no choice but to accept his congé with good grace. Montford had thought otherwise, mocking him for his stubborn pride. Which just showed how skewed the duke’s thinking had been. Montford deplored vulgar scenes and scandal; he ought to have been wishing the fiery-haired termagant good riddance.

  No matter how well-matched their inheritances, the Earl of Beckenham and Georgiana Black were wholly unsuited to be husband and wife.

  “At all events,” said Beckenham, “I refuse to have Montford’s Machiavellian fingers dabbling in my marriage.”

  Lydgate regarded him with patent envy. “At least the two of you no longer have ties to him. I’m still waiting to come into my fortune. That won’t happen until my twenty-fifth birthday. And a more clutch-fisted—” He broke off, his sculpted mouth tightening. “But never mind that. What qualities do you wish for in a wife, Becks? Perhaps we may start there.”

  Inwardly, Beckenham cursed. If Lydgate made this his project, he wouldn’t let up until he saw Beckenham leg-shackled to the perfect woman. Despite his vagaries, Lydgate was as much of a romantic as any of the female cousins. He would try to orchestrate a love match and drive Beckenham insane in the process.

  Xavier tossed down his napkin and rose from the table. “Lydgate, the thought of you playing Cupid is almost as nauseating as the thought of Beckenham with a biddable wife.”

  “Are you going for a ride?” said Beckenham, hoping for an excuse to escape. And, if he must be honest, hoping to put off his interview with Georgie. As well give her his head for washing.

  “Already been,” said Xavier briefly. A slight smile of perfect understanding touched his lips. “Excuse me. I have business that cannot wait.”

  He went out, leaving Beckenham to eye Lydgate warily.

  His cousin looked like a Greek coin. His gold locks perfectly ordered in the windswept style, his nose as straight as his perfectly white teeth. A hard chin and strong jaw spoke of determination. The blue eyes—a lighter, sunnier blue than Xavier’s—glinted with speculation.

  Lydgate had his elbows on the table, his chin propped in his hands. He stared at Beckenham intently. Beckenham could only imagine the thoughts running through that fertile, quick mind.

  “There’s more to the story of the shady lady than either of you will admit, isn’t there?” Lydgate said softly.

  The attack was so unexpected, Beckenham drew breath with a betraying hiss.

  Before he could speak, Lydgate held up a hand. “No, don’t lie to me.” His tone had turned serious, with an edge to it. “I don’t pry into your business. If you don’t want me to know, so be it.”

  Beckenham relaxed slightly. “The lady in question—”

  “—Is a lady,” Lydgate cut in. “That much, I’d deduced. Fear not, cousin. I w
on’t try to guess at more than that.”

  You could trust Lydgate on occasion. This, Beckenham decided, was one of them. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it, old fellow.” Lydgate tapped his tankard with one finger, his forehead creased. “Leave the question of your bride with me. I’ll come up with a short list of possibilities and see that you get the right invitations over the summer. At a house party you have better opportunity to see how the young lady conducts herself in a natural setting, where she’s comfortable. The season can make the loveliest girl appear a ninny if she’s not properly schooled.”

  House parties. Beckenham nearly sank his head into his hands. Dear God, not that. But if he must hunt for a bride, it would be better than doing the London season, he supposed.

  “Even so, you’ll want to do the season before you decide, just to be sure you don’t miss any of that year’s crop of debutantes,” continued Lydgate as if he’d heard his cousin’s inner prayer.

  Beckenham groaned. “That’s months away.”

  Lydgate eyed him balefully. “If it were up to you, the girl would be delivered to your doorstep, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.”

  With a gleam of humor, Beckenham said, “The idea has its merits.”

  His cousin balled up his napkin and threw it at Beckenham’s head, then raised his eyes to the frescoed ceiling. “How can one work with such a boor?”

  “Work” seemed to be the operative word. But Beckenham saw the force of Lydgate’s argument. Finding his countess was a task that required careful thought and strategy. If one had to spend the rest of one’s life in a lady’s company—and in her bed—one ought not approach the matter cavalierly.

  He couldn’t help reflecting on the life he would have had if Georgie had not thrown him over. What if every night were like the last, only it didn’t have to end so abruptly, so painfully?

  He shut down that line of thought. Regardless of their combustible passion in the bedchamber, they were wholly unsuited in every other way. He ought to thank her for being farsighted enough to set him free.