He stared at her, certain she had not intended to call him a liar to his face. “Pardon?”
“You didn’t sit there out of concern for me. You sat there out of concern for your society’s rules.”
“They are one and the same.”
“No, they’re not. A man in Texas is a gentleman because of the way he treats a lady. You’re a gentleman because you follow etiquette, more concerned with what others think of your behavior than you are with my feelings.”
“What the deuce are you on about? Did I not just spend the afternoon taking you on a boat ride?”
“Why?”
She was going to drive him to the damned lunatic asylum. “Why what?”
“Why did you take me for a boat ride? Did you desire my company?”
Shifting on the seat did little to ease the tension knotting the muscles in his neck and shoulders. A tightness settling in that had little do with this afternoon’s excursion and everything to do with this afternoon’s conversation.
“Or did you take me because it was expected?” she asked. “Because it was the gentlemanly thing to do?”
He had a strong urge to plow his hands through his hair, to stop the carriage, and walk home. But such a display of frustration would be intolerable. He felt trapped, suffocating, with everything closing in.
“I thought you might enjoy an afternoon of rowing on the Thames. In two days we are to be wed, and that evening, Miss Pierce, I am going to lift your nightgown—”
She’d parted her lips ever so slightly, the tiniest of creases forming between her eyebrows. He saw the mottled blush rising to the surface of her face just before she ducked her head, averting her gaze.
He pushed out a great gust of air, swore harshly, and glared out the window. That conversation hadn’t gone in the direction he’d expected nor wanted. Why should his reasons matter? Why couldn’t she simply accept he’d taken her for an outing? Did she intend to question every aspect of their lives, to search for the motive behind each of his actions?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a quick movement that caught his attention. Her fingers flew over her cheek like the fluttering wings of a butterfly gathering dew. Only in her case, it was the dampness of her tears. Had he ever known any woman who wept so easily yet tried so hard to hide it?
He removed his glove, leaned over, and with his knuckle, captured the tear dangling from her eyelash. She really did have incredibly long lashes. He skimmed his little finger across her cheek, astonished by its softness. He was accustomed to touching lily-white skin. For some reason, he had not expected golden brown to feel like velvet. “You overlooked a tear, sweeting.”
“I’m sorry. I had no right to question you like that. I did enjoy the afternoon. It was very nice—”
He pressed his finger to her lips, full, warm. No lies. He wondered how she’d accept the truth of it. “I don’t welcome the prospect of bedding a woman with whom I have only spent a few hours. I thought you might share the same misgivings. I simply thought it would make things less awkward if we spent a little time together.”
The corners of her mouth lifted, carrying her smile into her eyes, and he realized they were extremely expressive mahogany pools. Dark, rich, covered by a sheen of tears that only served to bring them more depth.
“Thank you.”
The magnitude of gratitude in her voice humbled him.
“It was my pleasure.” Surprised to discover he had, indeed, spoken the truth.
“How was your outing?”
Lounging on a chair in the sitting room, Georgina set aside her book as she heard the concern reflected in her father’s voice. She knew that as much as he wanted her to have her dream of children, he also worried about her.
He was so dear to her, this man who inhabited her farthest memory. He’d worked in the fields beside her before the war had taken him away and given him opportunities to pursue. He’d been her confidant, her advisor, and her tutor.
He sat in the chair beside her. Leaning over, she cradled his ruddy cheek. His parchment-like skin was a part of aging. His eyes drooped as though he was eternally sad. She loved him with an intensity that sometimes caused an ache in her chest.
“Papa, I know you were hoping he and I would get along well, and we seemed to. Something about him reminds me of a stray dog. I can’t really explain what it is.”
“You always did have a soft heart where strays were concerned.”
Yes, she had. She hadn’t expected to feel as though Devon was a stray, though, and until this moment she hadn’t realized he did have that aura about him. A man ensconced in his society who didn’t really look as though he belonged. Was that the reason he diligently followed the rules? So he could feel as though he fitted in?
She wasn’t opposed to rules. They had their place. She simply didn’t think they needed to be followed as stringently as her fiancé did.
“So you like him,” her father announced, cutting into her thoughts.
She cocked her head to the side. “He intrigues me.”
A true assessment of her feelings. She found herself thinking about him constantly. She had this wickedly delightful urge to break through his reserve and force him to run through fields of clover barefoot. To laugh. She’d never heard him release the deep laughter that made a man’s chest rumble and his sides ache. Laughter loud and joyous enough to bring tears to his eyes until they rolled down his cheeks.
Devon Sheridan, Lord Huntingdon, was going to be a challenge. Society would insist their marriage be dull, but Georgina thought perhaps it had the potential not to be.
“I think he’s a good man, Papa.”
“’Course he is, gal. I wouldn’t have given him permission to call on you if I thought otherwise.”
He scrunched up his face. “He’s a bit stuffy, though. But you can ease him out of that. He’s going to fall in love with you, Gina—”
“Papa.” She separated dreams into possible dreams and unobtainable dreams. She took the unobtainable ones to bed with her to carry into her sleep. Devon loving her fell into that category. “I’m sure he’ll like me, but love—”
“Can’t have love without liking, gal. That’s what love really is. Liking someone so much you’d give up every dream you ever dreamed just to see that she touched hers.”
“Is that what you did for Mama?” she asked softly.
“My dreams changed when I met your mother. That’s part of love, too. Always changing but always constant.”
“It can’t be both, Papa.”
“It can and it is. You’ll see, gal.”
He pressed a hand to his chest and released a low groan.
“Are you all right, Papa?”
He nodded. “Something I ate isn’t agreeing with me.” He took a breath and shook his head, as though whatever discomfort he’d been feeling had passed. “I just wish the fella hadn’t been so quick to ask.”
“I’m glad he did.” If either of them spent too much time thinking, they might change their mind. “Doesn’t give me much time to get nervous waiting for the big day.”
“You’re gonna be a beautiful bride, Gina.”
She flung her arms around his neck, hugging him close. What she loved best about him was that he had a tendency to see beauty where none existed.
Chapter 7
S itting astride his black gelding in a secluded spot away from the main thoroughfare, Devon watched with fascination as Gina trotted her horse along Rotten Row.
After hearing of her penchant for riding, a few coins discreetly placed in the palm of the lad who readied her beast had provided him with the time of her outings. It seemed she always rode through Hyde Park at this horrendous hour, the twilight of dawn, when night still hovered and the sun was only just beginning to break through the mist in order to awaken the day.
Unlike the more genteel women of his acquaintance, she avoided the Ladies’ Mile as though she feared it harbored the plague. Neither did her morning ritual include riding a pony—fav
ored by most women—or a mare—for those who exhibited a bit more daring. No, indeed. His Gina preferred a gelding.
And no saddle.
He’d watched in stunned enchantment as she’d stolen into the park, darted a quick glance around, dismounted, and removed the sidesaddle. With a most unladylike grace, she’d scrambled back onto the horse, her skirt hiked up past her shapely calves. At that precise moment he’d realized the woman possessed long, slender legs, legs a man could wrap around his waist three times over. The prospect intrigued him, if only because he’d gone too damnably long without nestling himself between a woman’s thighs.
Obviously under the mistaken impression she was alone in the park, she hadn’t bothered with decency but had left those enticing calves exposed and immediately urged the horse into a canter.
He had the distinct impression she would have selected a stallion as her riding companion if his cousin had any available in his London stables. But Ravenleigh was nothing if he was not cautious. With a house overflowing with brash females, he no doubt thought keeping stallions beyond their reach was his best means of protecting them.
An inane notion. As Devon was well aware, women were their own worst enemy. They cajoled, pleaded, and wept to distraction in order to acquire what they desired, to convince a man they relied on his strength and wisdom wholeheartedly. Yet when those ploys failed, they invariably went behind his back to achieve their goal.
A woman seldom cared whom she betrayed along the way: be it the man who loved her, the children who adored her, or herself.
Or at least that had been his experience before Gina. She did not quite fit into the mold. He wanted to decipher her moods. She was strong, determined one minute, shy, unsure of herself the next.
She hadn’t a clue how to flirt, and he found that aspect of her character charming. He had not expected he would actually like her as he came to know her better. But the possibility lingered before him, resembling a beacon at the edge of a storm, drawing him toward a safe harbor.
He knew the moment she spotted him through the fog. Her body gave a little jerk before she drew the horse to a halt and glared at him, as though his presence spoiled her morning.
He urged his horse forward until he was even with hers.
“You are aware, are you not, that riding at this time of morning could be dangerous?” he asked.
“I have my gun.”
He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d suddenly drawn it on him and fired. “Indeed?”
She lifted a small bag hanging from a sash around her waist. “Derringer. My own personal chaperone.”
“I daresay. I’ve never known a woman who carries a pistol.”
“Not only do I carry it, but I know how to use it.”
“Indeed.”
She narrowed her eyes with displeasure. “Why do you question everything I say?”
“I didn’t realize I did.”
“Indeed?” she snapped with such force that he was certain she’d caused the fog to swirl around her.
“Ah, I see. It’s simply a comment, not an expression of doubt.”
She looked contrite and subtly disappointed. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood.”
“Indeed.”
A corner of her mouth quirked up, and he realized something he hadn’t before. She possessed an incredibly luscious set of lips. A lower lip that was full to the point of pouting and an upper one that would never totally disappear, no matter how tightly she pressed them together in anger. It would always be visible, taunting a man, reminding him of her kiss.
He also noticed she hadn’t dressed in a provocative manner yet she was enticing. The simple cut of her riding habit left absolutely nothing to his imagination. She was shaped like a finely sanded plank of wood. Her hips didn’t flare out nor did her waist dip in. Whatever she wore beneath the clothing was designed for comfort, not to set a man’s blood to boiling. He wondered if, with her, his blood would ever heat to the point of distraction. Or would they simply go through the motions without ever eliciting the passions?
Her breasts were quite small, gentle swells that would fill his palms. Nothing more. But then why would he need more? With her, nothing would be wasted.
Perhaps because of the early hour, she hadn’t bothered to pin up her hair but had braided it in one thick rope that dangled down her spine and reached past her waist. There was so much of it. Little wonder she had trouble keeping it in place on top of her head. He suddenly had an unexpected desire to see it loosened and flowing around her.
During his perusal, her eyes had not left him, but her half-smile had withered and her dark brows had drawn together, as though she feared what he might discover about her. Her brows had a fine arch to them that was easy to miss because her large, brown eyes drew a man’s attention long before her brows did.
He had looked at her for so long simply as a means to an end that he’d overlooked the fact she was a woman. He’d fenced off his desires out of loyalty to Margaret, to her memory. Yet Margaret’s loyalty to him had quickly withered once she’d discovered the truth of his circumstances.
But here sat a woman who wore atrocious gowns because they pleased her father, a lady who had agreed to marry him not for her happiness but for her father’s. A lesson in loyalty that truly served to humble him.
“You’d mentioned that you’d never been kissed.”
“That’s right.”
“Where would you like to experience the first one?”
She stared at him with round eyes, terrified eyes.
“What?” she asked, as though she fought for each breath.
“Your first kiss. Where would you like it to be?”
He could see the blotches of embarrassment sweeping over her face, a flustered hand patting her skirt, her hair, before coming to rest at her throat. She averted her gaze before saying softly, “I guess on my mouth.”
Certain he had misheard, he leaned toward her. “Pardon?”
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and held his gaze. “I’d like for the first kiss I get to be on my mouth.”
He felt as though he’d walked in on the wrong end of a bad prank. “Where else might the first kiss be?”
She swooped her hand from the top of her head toward her feet. “I’ve heard men kiss…everything.”
Indeed. He found that little tidbit of information interesting. He wondered with whom she’d been discussing kisses. Lauren, perhaps. Yes, indeed, these Americans were a delightful surprise on occasion.
“Did you wish for me to kiss you every where?”
“Depends on whether or not you expect me to do the same.”
Chuckling, he cradled her face and stroked his thumb over her cheek. Ever since yesterday he’d longed for another touch of her softness. “Typical of a woman to fear giving more than she receives. I promise you, sweeting, you’ll never have to kiss any portion of me you don’t want to.”
She ducked her head as though embarrassed. As usual with her, this conversation had not gone at all as he’d planned, but he’d found it informative to say the least. And delightful. How could a woman reach her age and remain as innocent as a young girl?
Educating her might turn into an unexpected pleasure.
“Regarding your first kiss, I was curious as to whether you wished to experience it following our exchange of vows or if you wanted me to kiss you before then.”
“Oh.” Horror etched itself into her features. “You were asking when I wanted to be kissed, not where.”
“Yes, I suppose my question was in bad form.”
“Absolutely. I misunderstood—”
“Then allow me to be a tad clearer. Do you want your first kiss to take place at the church or here in the park—at this precise moment?”
Her mouth opened slightly, a soft whisper of breath escaping into the chill of the morning. Her gaze darted quickly around, as though she expected the people of London to have lost their wits and suddenly arrive in the park.
“We’re quite alone, sweeting.”
Her attention snapped back to him. She licked her lips in a provocative manner that caused his insides to tighten simply because he was certain she was unaware of how alluring he found the slow movement of her tongue.
And quite suddenly he discovered he wanted to kiss her with an urgency that might have frightened him if he had been an untried lad.
“I should think your wedding day will be nerve-racking enough without having to worry about that first kiss,” he prodded.
“Is it something I need to worry about?”
For some strange reason the alarm in her voice delighted him. Not because he wished to frighten her, but because she possessed the naïveté to harbor any concerns at all.
“No,” he assured her calmly, “but it’ll be one less thing preying on your mind.”
She nodded slightly. “Then I suppose getting it over with is a good idea.”
“Splendid.”
He dismounted, walked around his horse, came to stand beside hers, and held up his arms.
“What are you doing?”
“Standing would work best, I should think. Horses tend to get skittish if too close.”
“Of course.”
She cupped his shoulders while he wrapped his hands around her waist. Dear God, but she had a tiny waist. He brought her slowly, gently to the ground. She weighed no more than he imagined a billowy cloud on a clear summer day might. She seemed to be proving false all he’d assumed about her.
“Are you certain you’ve never been kissed?” he asked.
“Never,” she rasped in a small, breathless voice.
He could see her chest rising and falling with her short breaths. She was nervous, apprehensive, perhaps even a bit anticipatory. He couldn’t explain what had prompted him to initiate this moment, why he wanted to alleviate her fears. He supposed, like her, he had a desire to get their first kiss over with. He couldn’t imagine marrying a woman with whom he’d had no physical contact whatsoever.
A waltz in a crowded ballroom certainly didn’t qualify.
If they had possessed the luxury of time, he would have taunted her with forbidden kisses behind those fronds for which she seemed to have a fondness. He would have arranged illicit moments in darkened corners and hallways. He would have taught her the advantage of wearing a low-cut gown to a ball. Ah, yes, he would have kissed her elsewhere and made her extremely glad he had.
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