by Anna Small
“How amusing you are.” His teasing fell flat on her ears. She’d always known they’d return, but somehow, their peaceful days and exhausting nights had merged into one ecstatic blur she’d hoped would never end. Once back in England, she had no idea how their relationship would continue. Or if it would continue. There was so much unspoken between them, and every time she wanted to bring up the subject, a tiny voice in the back of her mind convinced her otherwise. The last thing he wanted was a clinging wife. Or, for that matter, any kind of wife at all.
“I’ve informed Philippe and Marie to start packing our things and closing the place. We can ride over to see Aunt Adele in the morning.”
Her head was spinning. She pressed her fingers to her temples and gave herself a little shake. “I had word from her yesterday. She means to remain in France.”
“That’s probably for the best. Her sister is here, and now you are married, her chaperone duties are no longer required.” He chewed his lip, appearing deep in thought, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He laughed suddenly. “Ferocious appetite! Good lord, Georgie! You say the most incredible things.”
“You needn’t act so surprised, Jack. Despite my secluded upbringing, I know what goes on between men and…and women like that Danielle.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. Perhaps she ought not to have discussed the passionate woman who seemed more than willing to satisfy Jack.
“If you are right, and I do have such extravagant needs, what shall I do to quell them?”
“You need to stop fighting and seducing. The next time might cost you more than a bruised cheek.” She couldn’t help but stroke the purple bruise below his eye.
“And how am I to express my over-abundant ardor, Miss Pudding Face? Would you have a parson attend me daily, prattling on with dry, boring sermons until I’m bored into chastity?”
She was very happy to be perched on a stool behind his head so he would not witness the tormenting flames burning her face. “There are…advantages to our being married, you know.”
“Advantages for whom? You would open your bedchamber to me every night, indulging every deviant whim and fantasy I might invent?”
She nearly drowned him with a fresh jug of water. Sputtering, he shook his head like a dog, splashing her with soapy water. As she muttered a suggestion to him while she dabbed at her wet nightrail with a towel, he turned in the tub to face her.
“If you recall last night and nearly every day since we married—” She drew herself up to her full height while trying to maintain her dignity. “—you would know I am not resistant to the idea of sharing your bed.”
He was annoyingly masculine and exceedingly desirable, with the remnants of soapy water dripping down the firm column of his neck. A trail of tiny bubbles slid down the center of his chest and into the pool of water, just above his navel. Something hot and quivery seemed to strike her abdomen and moved lower down until she was tempted to grip the tub. His gray eyes mocked her, even though his tongue swept across his lower lip, as if preparing for a kiss.
“No, you are quite the opposite, Georgie. So much so, I fear your appetite is as—what was the word?—ferocious as mine.” He grinned and held out his hand as if he were negotiating a contract. “I accept your suggested replacement for fighting and seduction. But we have only one point to settle.”
“Which is?” She placed her hand in his, hesitating when he pulled her toward the edge of the tub.
“When does this new agreement begin? Tomorrow or…” He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a light kiss across her fingertips. “Tonight?”
She longed to press her hand to her chest to quell her heart’s rapid pounding but didn’t want him to see how utterly disarmed she was. The low, burning ache had stirred so quickly at his touch she feared she would go mad if he didn’t satisfy it.
Pretending nonchalance, she shrugged one shoulder. “Whenever you like. I wouldn’t want you to suffer on my account.”
“I do not intend to suffer another moment, then.” Before she could stop him, he pulled her straight into his arms and over the edge of the tub. He quickly maneuvered her onto his lap, her back against his chest.
“What have you done? I’m soaked through!” She fought his hands to try to rise to her feet, but it was useless pushing against him. The linen quickly absorbed the bathwater until even her sleeves were wet. She squirmed on top of him until he wrapped his arms about her waist. His lips were against her ear, warm and ticklish.
“Keep moving like that all you wish. Or hold still. The first way is torturing me. The second will allow me to torture you.”
“Torture? So violent, Jack…” She lost her train of thought then, because he’d released her to slide his hands beneath her nightrail and up across her ribcage to her breasts. Her head fell back against his shoulder, and she gripped his wrists. “Oh,” was all she could manage.
“Who has the more voracious appetite, I wonder?” he mused, settling her firmly on his lap and wrapping his arms securely around her. “Perhaps we should be discussing how I may satisfy your decadent cravings, madam.”
She brushed her mouth across his. “Perhaps we are the same, Jack.”
“Then it is only fair you demand of me what I demand of you. We shall alternate nights.”
“What do you mean?” She’d lost all thought of anything that made sense anymore.
“One night will be yours—you may do with me what you may. We can embroider little pillows, or I will accompany you on my violin while you eke sweet music from that ancient pianoforte.” He raised his head to wink at her, a hard feat considering the acute concentrated look on his face. “Or you may summon me to your bed—or bath—and I will be yours to command. Conversely, on my nights”—his hands dropped below the water—“you will be at my mercy, my poor darling.”
“Agreed. But I warn you, Jack. We shall not be sewing when it’s my night.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Their last days in France were a blur of packing and saying goodbye to Aunt Adele. She’d given them a wonderful wedding surprise—the gift of her townhouse near Jonathan and Sophie’s London home. Georgiana waited for Jack to comment about the house, but he’d kept silent, only thanking Adele for her thoughtfulness. She’d wanted to ask if he would live there with her, but the subject never arose during the coach ride to Calais.
He’d been uncharacteristically quiet during the ride, and she’d napped intermittently, putting his silence to the drama of arranging their rushed second wedding service at the British Embassy so they wouldn’t miss the packet ship back to England.
“That’s done it now, good and proper.” The tension in his face eased as they reached the harbor. “No one can dispute the validity of two weddings. Not even your brother, should he decide to go the civilized route of forcing an annulment as opposed to the more obvious route.”
She took his arm as they walked through the crowded dock to their ship. “What is the obvious route?”
His gaze focused on the sea beyond the outline of the ship. “To call me out.” He left her side to speak to the dock master and returned a few minutes later. “We sail in a few hours. Are you ready to leave our dream behind and rejoin reality?”
She slipped her hand in his before he could present his arm. With their impending journey, it seemed their inevitable parting was upon them too soon. She wanted to make the rest of their time together as meaningful as possible.
“I shall miss Bordeaux.” Unexpected tears filled her eyes, but she blinked to clear her vision. “I hope Marie and Philippe will be happy. She told me they hoped to marry one day.”
Of all the things they needed to discuss, she had to bring up the servants. Perhaps she was so maudlin about her own marriage she wanted to find a cheerful outlook in the lives of others.
He glanced down as they walked up the gangplank. “I gave Philippe one of the cottages on the estate, and he is going to start working at the vignoble. I expect they’ll marry by month’s end.”
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br /> “I never would have taken you for a romantic.” She squeezed his hand, her spirits rising when he returned the gesture. A sailor showed them to their cabin, and she turned away to hide her blush when he glanced at her bare hand, not bothering to hide a smirk. Jack had neglected to give her a ring during either of their weddings. Strange how she’d never thought about it before.
“I’m sorry about the size of this cabin. The others were all taken, and we were lucky to secure this.” Jack stooped to avoid knocking his head on one of the low-hanging beams. He pushed one of her small trunks with the toe of his boot, stowing it out of sight beneath the small bed. She would barely fit on the bunk, let alone both of them.
“It will be fine. We have a short voyage.” She smiled uncertainly. He seemed distant, restless. Perhaps he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Jack Waverley was not accustomed to keeping company with the same woman for very long. She drew in a breath, and the dank cabin air assailed her nose instead.
Jack remained by the door. “We’ll be under way soon. I’ll leave you to freshen up. I’ll be on deck.” He closed the door behind him. The stairs leading to the deck above were outside the door and creaked as he ascended.
Did she need freshening? They’d only walked a short distance from the carriage to the dock. He wanted to be alone. Instead of saying so, he made an excuse to leave while appearing concerned for her wellbeing.
Releasing a shaky sigh, she knelt before one of her boxes and opened it. She would unpack a bit before joining him on deck as soon as enough time had passed so he wouldn’t think her too attached to him.
She took her hairbrush and a few other items and laid them on a shelf over the bed. They would reach London early in the morning, so there was no need to unpack. Jack had also suggested they sleep in their clothes, so she didn’t bother finding her nightrail.
She sat on the edge of the bed and sank into the sagging mattress. In a few more days, Jack would deposit her at Fairwood Hall before returning to his previous life. Perhaps he would visit on occasion, to keep up appearances. Many married couples kept similar arrangements, but never had she imagined it would happen to her. She’d always thought she would share her life to the fullest with a man she could love forever. Edward Mitford had seemed to be that man.
She gripped the shelf-like bunk, her knuckles whitening. She should be grateful to Edward. He’d taught her never to give her heart again so trustingly. Marrying Jack was the best thing she could have done. He was no Herbert Richmond, or any of the dandies she’d seen about town, selfish and degenerate. Jack was a trustworthy friend. A man who’d stood beside her family through all their trials. He never faltered, never gave in. His strength and courage were what she’d always depended on.
She could not have chosen a better husband if the Creator himself had molded him out of clay and left him on her doorstep.
What other man would gladly allow her to live as she pleased, without thrusting his own agenda upon her? Even Jonathan, as kind and considerate as he was, would eventually begin controlling Sophie and managing her life to the tiniest detail. It’s what husbands did. She was fortunate to have a husband who didn’t care about her domestication or her money. Who else could say the same?
The ship pitched forward. Fighting a wave of sudden seasickness, she resolved to go topside before nausea forced her to remain below. Memories of their crossing still lingered, and she fought a rise of bile in her throat before stumbling to her feet and out the door of the cramped cabin.
They’d left the warm, soft breezes of Calais far behind. Dark clouds rolled overhead and as far into the horizon as she could see. The waves, perhaps a foot or so high in the harbor, now slapped toward the bow. As the ship lurched forward again, she collided with a sailor.
“Steady, there, miss,” he said, catching her arm.
She glanced up at his young, kind face, and smiled as best as she was able. “Thank you. Will the seas calm a bit, or are we fated to have a rocky crossing?”
“It won’t be too bad, miss.” His gaze dropped to her bosom. A blush warmed her face despite the cold sea spray on the wind. She sighed with relief when Jack made his way across the crowded deck to stand beside her.
“There you are, my dear.” He took her hand and linked it through his arm. “Thank you for assisting my wife,” he said pointedly, and the sailor tugged his forelock and moved on, his smile gone. Georgiana clung to his arm while they made their way to a low bench, somewhat protected by a bulkhead and some barrels on the other side. “Flirting with midshipmen, are we?”
His voice was teasing, but she noticed the firm set of his jaw. Could he be jealous?
“You know how we Lockewoods are,” she teased, although her heart wasn’t in it. “Always throwing ourselves at strangers.”
“So now you’re a Lockewood again? With two weddings, I thought you were as much a Waverley as I.”
His words were teasing, but his eyes glittered the way they had when he found her with Marcel. It was almost comical to see Jack struggle with jealousy.
It couldn’t be. He was merely protecting her from strangers, and, goodness knew she’d had enough problems with strange men lately. She tucked her hands around his arm, at first to soothe him, but then found she didn’t want to lose their closeness. Too soon, he would be gone. She blinked against a sudden stinging in her eyes, unsure if it was tears or sea spray on the wind.
“I am as much a Waverley as you. Your grandfather should employ me, for all the wine I helped to make this summer.”
“Stomping on a few grapes does not make you foreman at the vignoble.” He tapped the tip of her nose. “Though you did look rather fetching in that peasant smock.”
“Thank you.” She hugged his arm impulsively, stopping a second later when she feared he might pull away. He moved closer.
“The weather should turn for the better. I was speaking with the pilot before you came up. I didn’t want you to experience another dreadful crossing like the one we had from Portsmouth.”
He’d gone ahead to gauge the crossing, not to leave her.
Relief flooded her. “I do hope so.”
The sea breeze had disturbed his neckcloth, and she released his arm to straighten his knot, the back of her hand brushing across his jaw. “That’s better.”
“Gentleman Jack,” he murmured, gazing down at her.
She didn’t trust herself to look into his eyes. Her heart was full, and she feared all her fears and worries would pour out of her with his next kind word or look. She lingered over his lapels, smoothing the fabric, grateful for a pretense to touch him.
“You are a gentleman. Fighter or no.”
“I rather enjoy what comes after the fighting. You’ve spoilt me with your ministrations, Georgie. I shall have to keep you close by when I resume my nebulous career.”
Of course, he was teasing. She couldn’t possibly accompany him to such a place. The very thought sent a shudder running down her spine. But something else inside her tingled, especially when she recalled bathing him in the tub and what followed after. His voice was low and soft, even with the noise on the ship and the snapping of the sails overhead. The masculine scent of his skin scent reached her nose, and her fingers tightened on his coat.
“I will always take care of your bruises, Jack.” Her voice cracked, and she winced inwardly. She’d hoped to sound flirtatious and nonchalant, the way he always did, but she failed. “I will always…” What are you doing? It was too late. Surely, he could see every blind emotion, every hope and dream as clearly on her face as if it were stamped in ink upon her skin.
“You will always what?” He slipped his arm around her waist. Though they were a married couple, she didn’t dare embrace him in public. A few sailors were watching, nudging each other and smirking, and she dropped her hands into her lap.
She forced the words from her lips. “I will always take care of you.”
“I am very glad to hear it.” The wicked grin returned. “I meant to ask when we boarded
if your provisions for my fearsome appetite applies on ships, or just on land. Because, if you were to glance down, you would see your presence has stirred me, Mrs. Waverley.”
A rush of heat flooded her face and burned through the rest of her. A small laugh bubbled out of her before she could stop it. “Even with the ship jostling us about and the prospect of that flea-infested bed, you can still ask?”
“If we were on the edge of Vesuvius and it was about to erupt, I would want you. If the world was about to end, and I had one chance to either save my soul or die a sinner in your arms, I would choose you.” His teeth gleamed when he smiled. “You should know me by now.”
He rubbed a circle around the small of her back. They hadn’t shared a bed in the last few days due to his long hours at the vignoble, and she’d found him sleeping on a settee in his dressing room once or twice, having been too tired to climb into bed. She’d missed their closeness, the physical and emotional needs he met just by his nearness. Sleeping in his arms had quickly become a habit she was loathe to abandon.
He awaited an answer. His eyes, gray like the clouds overhead, glinted like metal. A delicious shiver crept into her belly, spreading downward until she wondered if she’d melt into the deck.
“My…provisions stand on land, sea, and the edges of volcanoes. But I do hope you choose your soul over me, should it ever come to that.”
She held her breath, expecting a kiss and preparing to stop him before they created a spectacle for the interested sailors.
“Damn my soul. I’ll take hell and Georgiana Waverley every time.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. She could almost feel the rush of heat emanating from him through his clothes. His hand behind her became restless. He slid it upward, finding a tiny patch of skin between the collar of her pelisse and her knotted hair. She trembled at his touch and feared he would take her out there in the open, on that hard bench with the taste of salty sea air on their lips.