Will considered himself a very skilled card player—he was clever, thoughtful, even ruthless, and brought a lot of skill to the table.
She was better.
The smooth line of her forehead crinkled in thought, then her eyebrows raised in silent assessment. Piquet took some strategy, and he realized quite quickly that she was more than she appeared. Clearly, there was a reason she wanted to play this particular game, and he’d willingly walked into her trap.
“It’s your turn, my lord.”
“You’ve played piquet.” He realized that her thoughts ran deep, and he wanted to know exactly what she was thinking, surprisingly not just in cards, but in many things.
“Well of course I have. I wouldn’t have suggested playing otherwise.” Her pert lips turned upward at the edges.
“You failed to mention what a good strategist you are.”
She shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”
No, he certainly did not. He’d assumed he’d coax her along, explain the game, and show her how resourceful and skilled he was, but he’d jumped to the wrong conclusions about her. “Who taught you to play?”
She studied her cards. He could almost see her mind clicking along with an intense precision. “My mother.”
“Of course.” He nodded. “Your mother was British.”
“She wanted me to know things about her homeland, and besides, I love playing cards.” Her voice sounded so genuine and true.
He swallowed hard, understanding that he’d become a bit of a cynic in regards to the marriage mart. He’d made far-reaching assumptions about many women who were looking for a husband. In fact, he’d made too many suppositions about Georgia, and he vowed to stop. Certainly, he hadn’t expected her to know anything about building stables or playing cards, not to mention horse racing.
He wanted to know more about her, he couldn’t deny it, especially on those subjects that excited her. Her eyes glowed with enthusiasm when she talked about things she enjoyed. He’d thought of her as merely a project—a means to get his own quality racehorse, but she’d become more to him, someone he might like to call a friend. Only his sister had been a comrade to him, otherwise no other woman had filled a place of friendship in his life. “I wanted to mention how much I appreciated your insight into the addition I’m having built at Black Pine Hall. I hadn’t thought of some aspects of the design until we talked yesterday.”
After discarding, she glanced up. Smiling, her eyes glimmered with light and acumen. “You’re very welcome.”
Her clear blue gaze locked with his, and he couldn’t look away. He could get lost in those eyes. She tipped her head to the side and said, “It’s your turn.”
He looked down at his cards in disgust. “You’ve beaten me quite soundly,” he replied smoothly.
She laughed, and he delighted in the sound of it.
“Are you hungry? Should we break for cheese and fruit?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That way I can lick the wounds your card-playing prowess has inflicted upon my person.”
“You exaggerate, my lord,” she replied coyly, but then nodded. “Let’s eat. I’m famished.”
He inwardly smiled. Georgia’s expressions and emotions were so visible on her face. She didn’t hide anything. The left side of her mouth tilted up the tiniest amount when she was thinking. Despite himself, he looked for this small thing. She strode purposefully to the sideboard and filled a small plate with food then plopped a grape into her mouth. Eyes flared, she spun around and, after chewing, said, “I’m supposed to wait until we’re sitting down to eat, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but it’s all right.” Stacking the cards and setting them to the side, he waited for her to sit before he sat beside her.
“Where has my taskmaster gone? Aren’t you supposed to make sure I’m to do everything properly for the party?” She lifted a square of cheese and put it in her mouth.
He should correct her—tell her to use her fork for the cheese, but instead he just watched her. A touch of envy struck him.
Her simplicity, her honesty, her willingness to follow the rules even though she clearly didn’t want to was invigorating. She remained true to herself even in the confining environment called England. “Yes, well, maybe I’m not such a good tutor after all.”
“Of course you are. I’ve purposely goaded you, but you haven’t lost your temper with me once.” She blinked several times before biting down on another piece of cheese.
A pang of something hard hit him in the chest. The way her lips moved as she chewed stirred something in him. He couldn’t divert his gaze. That smart mouth of hers was so sweet, so plump and rosy. He’d begun to comment on his temper—that he’d been unable to control it many times—but due to the pure sensuality she exuded as she relished her food, he couldn’t breathe.
Finally, he cleared his throat and answered hoarsely, “Yes, you should wait until you are at the table, and everyone is seated, before you take your first bite.”
“I forgot,” she murmured, scrunched up her shoulders, then proceeded to put another grape in her mouth.
The punch to his rib cage he recognized not as sympathy, like he’d previously believed, but something more. Something much more. Overheated, he suddenly needed to remove his waistcoat. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
She dropped another grape on her tongue. “My lord, are you all right?” she asked between chews. “I’m afraid your face looks red. Should I call a doctor?”
“No!” He pulled at his cravat. “Yes, I’m—I’m fine. Just a little warm.”
“All right. If you’re sure.” Raising a delicate eyebrow, she chewed her grape and then her cheese.
“I’m sure.” He observed her mouth—no, actually he scrutinized it. He began to imagine how her lips might feel against his, how supple her skin would be—what would be her taste? Right now, she’d taste like grapes and cheese. Would she kiss him chastely or with passion?
Would the tiny crease on her forehead disappear or get deeper when he kissed her?
“My lord, are you sure you’re all right?” she inquired again, leaning across the table between them. His eyes dipped down to her cleavage, the view too easy to catch. He couldn’t resist.
“I should leave,” he blurted. Panic rose within him. This isn’t the way things were supposed to be. He was the teacher; she was the pupil. The instructor didn’t feel desire for the student. This was completely wrong.
He departed toward the drawing room’s exit.
“Wait,” she called out. “Aren’t we supposed to finish eating and play another card game?”
He was acting like a complete imbecile. He stopped and spun around. “I apologize. I just remembered something I have to take care of. Forgive me.”
She raised both her brows. “All right, but I don’t think you’ve set a very good example of how these dinner parties are supposed to go.”
“I’ll have to make it up to you,” he said over his shoulder as he left. “We’ll meet at our regular time tomorrow.”
“I think you are more of a rule breaker than you let on,” she called back from behind him.
Perhaps she was right. All he knew was he needed to get away from her so he could think—he needed to reassess his tutoring plans and perhaps take another approach. But what approach could he take where he wouldn’t wish something more was between them? The idea of it was preposterous.
…
The next morning, when Will returned to continue lessons with Georgia, he was determined to stifle his interest in her. He attributed his momentary weakness to the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman in a long while. Also because he delighted in seeing his sister so happy in her marriage. Maybe it was time for him to consider a wife of his own, and the party at Lady Laurel’s might be a new beginning not only for Miss Duvall, but for him as well. If he was going to continue the Sutton lineage he needed to have a child, otherwise his holdings and all the improvements he planned to make at Black Pine Hall would pass
to Arabella’s boy child or a distant relative.
As he waited for Georgia in the drawing room, he gazed out the window and determined to be a better instructor.
“I received word from Mrs. Marchant this morning,” Georgia’s voice sounded from behind him, giving him a start. He welcomed the distinct pitch of her voice, even grew to enjoy the unique timbre of her accent, but he batted down any untoward thoughts of wanting her by reminding himself he was here to be a tutor—to do a job, nothing more.
He moved toward her. “When you enter a room, you might want to say hello first. Or better yet, have the butler announce you.”
She rolled her eyes before saying, “All right, all right. I was hoping we could go to London this afternoon. A messenger arrived. Mrs. Marchant said she needs to see me for more fittings.”
“We could do that, although I had planned a dancing lesson for you today.”
“Could we do both?” she asked, the distinct line across her pale forehead dimpled inward.
“Yes, I suppose. And while we are at the modiste, perhaps she could make some day frocks for you as well?” he inquired, determined to keep his mind on the business at hand, not the way her bottom lip quivered the tiniest bit.
“I’m certain she could, as long as Oliver agrees. This is going on his account, after all.”
“Marsdale won’t mind.” He paced across the room, recalculating the time he’d have with her this morning if they had to make a trip into London. “What kind of dancing experience do you have?”
“I know how to waltz, if that’s what you mean.”
“A waltz would be a good place to start, although I didn’t arrange for any music.” In his grand determination to ignore the interest he had in Miss Duvall, he may have miscalculated when he’d scheduled dancing lessons—dancing would require touching her person.
“We can waltz without music.” Her matter-of-fact, no-nonsense way of approaching things gave his heart a squeeze.
“You’re quite right.” He approached her in measured steps, resolute about not letting the idea of his hands touching her waist send him from the room. “If you’ll place your hand on my shoulder—my hand goes here.” He positioned his hand on her midriff. A pulse of heat stretched up his arm. Immediately, he determined that he shouldn’t have planned for dancing lessons at all. He clearly had not given enough forethought to the idea or how his body would react. And react his body did.
“I said I know how to waltz.” She stood stiffly.
“If that’s so, why don’t you show me?” Logic trumped desire, and he concluded that he would overcome his temporary fascination with her. Somehow. He pressed his hand on the curve of her back.
“There’s no need to drag me.”
“I don’t believe I was dragging you,” he said once their feet began to move.
Georgia stepped on his foot and said, “I beg your pardon.”
“Are you trying to injure me?” he quipped.
“It was accidental, I assure you.”
He spotted a wisp of a smile on her upturned face, he was quite certain of it. They moved around the room in a waltz without music, but Will felt at ease. Although she was small in stature, she fit perfectly well in his arms despite his height. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to spend too much time teaching her to dance, but he enjoyed holding her in his arms just the same.
She pressed her breasts against his chest. His body itched to keep her there, but propriety dictated he inform her she was too close, that an ample amount of space should be left between them. But he didn’t. Despite the manners he knew he possessed but chose to ignore, he let himself feel the heat from her body on his. He relished the softness and sweet lilac smell of her.
Under normal circumstances, he’d never be allowed to be alone with an unmarried, unchaperoned woman, which demonstrated how much Oliver trusted him. Stopping abruptly at that thought, he set her apart from him—he could never violate that trust with his improper feelings. He cleared his throat. “A little more distance between us is more appropriate.”
Blinking several times, she said, “I thought being close, well… It felt quite nice, actually.”
The way her blue eyes stared raptly at him, he believed her a complete innocent. No malice or artifice tinged her words. “Well, yes, it feels nice, but it isn’t appropriate.”
“Why?” A V shape infringed upon the space between her eyes, but despite this, she remained lovely.
“Because it’s not.” He retreated a step. How was he supposed to explain this? He wasn’t her mother. Women were supposed to teach these boundaries to other women, not an unmarried, eligible bachelor. “Good God.”
“What is it?” Georgia looked behind her, as though someone had entered the room by mistake.
He hadn’t considered the implications of teaching her these things, with him being an unmarried man. “I just realized my job is more difficult than I thought.”
“How so?” she inquired. Her skin flushed pink with exertion from dancing. Her hair was tied back in a severe knot at the base of her neck, but despite this, she was lovely. Even with the less than desirable clothes she wore, she was very attractive.
His groin tightened. He couldn’t do this. He had to tell Marsdale the wager was off. If he danced with her any longer, he’d certainly crack under the pressure of keeping his hands in their proper places.
“For me to explain why we shouldn’t dance with our bodies touching is unseemly,” he said with exasperation. Didn’t she understand his hands wanted to involuntarily pull her hips into his so there would be no distance between their bodies? His random thoughts had become increasingly erratic. All the more reason to pace away and put the length of the room between them.
“When I think back to the dances I’ve attended at home, it seems as if my body touched my partner. But it was quite some time ago,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I was younger, certainly, but… If I want to find the right match, wouldn’t I…shouldn’t I, know how a man’s body feels on mine?”
He stared at her dumbly.
“It’s a legitimate question.” She raised her brows, as though understanding his silence to some degree. “What if I don’t like how his body feels against mine? And when dancing, it’s with several layers of clothing. If I didn’t like the feeling, then I certainly wouldn’t like the feel of… Well, you know what I’m saying.”
Praying for patience, Will stared at the ceiling. The tightness in his groin grew uncomfortably rigid. In the grand scheme of things, he had more patience with women than most men, because his sister had constantly questioned his authority, but this was an entirely new level in endurance. He nodded in her direction. He wanted her to know he did understand her reasoning, but that there was no need for her to repeat what she said, and hopefully his nodding was enough to silence her.
“That is not how you test the potential of a future husband.” He swallowed hard. “No, you cannot see what it feels like.”
“But I just did. And like I said, it felt quite nice.”
He could come up with nothing to say in return, because she was absolutely right—it did feel nice. To him it felt better than nice. It made him want to grind his hardness into her female curves. He wanted to unwrap the coiffure at the base of her neck and run his hands through her chestnut hair.
And those desires could never happen. From her. Or him. They weren’t right for each other. She wasn’t a biddable Englishwoman like he’d always imagined he’d marry. She was completely wrong for him in every way—and she was his brother-in-law’s ward, who’d been entrusted to his care.
“Will? What is it?” she asked.
Contemplative, he left his spot near the window and approached her. “I thought you weren’t going to call me by my given name.”
Her expression sincere, the line across her forehead creased. “I’ve decided if I’m going to ask you personal types of questions, it would be all right to call you Will. If it’s not, just tell me.”
He liked the
way it sounded to hear her say his name, and it bothered him that he liked it. He was in a position of authority with her—she was his ward. Of sorts. “I’m supposed to be your teacher, so, yes, you should feel comfortable asking me anything.”
“Well, then, I do have some questions to ask. My mother died when I was twelve, and it’s not as if I could ask my father, so that leaves you.”
As soon as he’d said she could ask him anything, he knew he’d regret it. He just didn’t think it would be mere seconds afterward.
“I was actually getting closer to Arabella and Oliver and have become more comfortable with them since my arrival, but now with her expecting a child—see I didn’t say pregnancy—I can’t really bother her with all my ‘how to gauge a potential husband properly’ questions. Don’t you agree?”
Knowing the inevitable—that she’d most certainly ask him personal, if not embarrassing, questions regarding marriage, he still heard himself answer, “Yes, I agree.”
He should change his response and tell her to ask Arabella—he should—he knew he should, but there was a curious niggling in the back of his mind that he truly wanted to know what she’d ask. In some obscure way, he wanted to be the one to answer her questions regarding husband-hunting, no matter how outrageous. And when it came to Georgia Duvall, he’d come to expect the outrageous.
“I have no family left and no one to ask, so I’ll get right to it.” She strode across the room with confident steps. “When I find a man I want to marry…I’ll want him to want me.” She gazed up at him with an expectant look on her face. “Shouldn’t I know how to…at least know how to kiss?”
Deafening silence engulfed the room. Will knew his mouth hung open, so he forced it shut. “Many women marry a man without kissing him first.”
Vehemently, she shook her head. “I don’t think I believe you. And even if that’s true, I don’t want that person to be me.” She swung around and paced across the polished wood floor. “I want to see that list of yours, because I want to add kissing to it.”
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