The Earl's Wager

by Rebecca Thomas

Swallowing hard against the parched length of his throat, he had the urge for a drink of whiskey. Actually, no—he had the desire to get stumbling drunk. What on earth had he gotten himself into?

  Chapter Seven

  Her arms crossed, Georgia sat in the carriage and gazed out the window, frustrated with herself for bringing up the notion of kissing, not knowing what had possessed her to be so bold. Yes, she adored provoking him, but this time she’d pushed him too far, and she absolutely had no intention of adding kissing to the list.

  The waltz with Will had left her breathless. Not from the physical exertion, but rather his physical proximity. She glanced across the carriage and looked for the shaving cut he’d had before, but it had healed.

  She wondered how sharing some silly lessons with him had changed her perception of him so quickly. He had been Lord Grandleigh, but now he was Will. She wanted to call him by his given name, even if it wasn’t entirely proper.

  While dancing, she’d stepped on his feet not because she didn’t know how to dance, but because she hadn’t expected the shocking, yet exhilarating, thrill of being in his arms. She was taken completely off guard. He’d even been complimentary and appreciative of her suggestions for his stable. During the card game, she’d expertly maneuvered him into playing piquet. He could have gotten angry with her, but instead he only said, You’ve beaten me quite soundly. It was at that moment her heart melted a tiny bit. Most men took offense when she bested them at cards, but Will didn’t. He appeared to take delight in it, almost—although she wasn’t quite sure—admired her for it.

  She’d decided Will was the enemy, but now the enemy had contrived a way to soften her defenses. Had he chosen dancing lessons to get under her skin, make her warm to him, so she’d go along with whomever he endorsed as a husband for her? Perhaps it wasn’t a conspiracy exactly, but she still felt as if she’d been ambushed. She needed to keep her goal at the forefront of her mind—Will Sutton was not going to derail her plans.

  Once they arrived at the dress shop, Will asked Mrs. Marchant to make her some day frocks as well as gowns appropriate for a country ball. They discussed taffeta and muslin, silk and satins, painted cottons and brocades. Georgia began to feel like a dress-up doll instead of a person.

  Finally, Mrs. Marchant asked Will to leave and to retrieve her after an hour’s time.

  As soon as he left the shop, Georgia got straight to information she wanted to know and asked, “How do you seduce a man?”

  “You’ll have the clothes, but you need the proper appearance and look,” Mrs. Marchant said pointedly.

  “What do you mean? What else do I need besides the correct clothes?”

  Mrs. Marchant directed Georgia to a settee in the back room. “By appearance, I mean you need to know how to look at them—at men. First of all, don’t be afraid to hold a man’s gaze. You’ve no reason to look away.”

  “All right,” Georgia said eagerly. She sat across from Mrs. Marchant, holding her hands on her lap. “What else?”

  “Choose your words with care. Listen to what he’s saying and compliment him. Act interested in his endeavors. A man wants to know he is the only person in your world—that he is your world. He wants to protect and cherish you.” Mrs. Marchant nodded. “Let him do that.”

  “I’m not sure I completely understand, but I’ll try.”

  “Tell him your dreams and desires. Tell him you’ve never told anyone else your secrets except him,” Mrs. Marchant continued smoothly.

  “But isn’t that like lying?” Georgia queried. “I’m not sure I want to be dishonest.”

  “I’m giving you information,” Mrs. Marchant said simply. “You choose to do with it what you will.”

  Georgia nodded. This capturing-a-man business required a lot to learn.

  “Your coiffure is too conservative.” Mrs. Marchant pulled some of Georgia’s hair from the knot at the back of her head. “You need it loose. Have a few strands curl along the sides of your face, to soften your features.”

  So far, everything she’d said, Georgia could do. Well, except the lying part. “What else?”

  “Walk with confidence, hold your head up, straighten your back. Any man would be lucky to have you as his wife, and you must believe and show it. You are a prize to be won.”

  “I’ve never thought of myself that way before. I’m not sure I know how to be…be a prize, like you say.”

  “It will take time to change your thinking,” Mrs. Marchant said confidently. “Consider the areas in which you are knowledgeable. You said yesterday that you wanted to be a horse trainer or jockey, yes?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “The horses you train, do they know how fast they are? Do they know they are going to win?”

  Georgia held her lips firm and contemplated the seamstress’s question. “No, probably not.”

  “But with time and practice, your horses get stronger and faster, and more confident, no?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you, too, will know your worth with time and training. The first step is changing the way you think.”

  Some of what she said started to make sense. “Perseus didn’t know he had the heart to run, but I did. I helped him believe he could run and win.” Georgia pointed to her breastbone. “Now I must do the same for myself.”

  “There. You are already making progress,” Mrs. Marchant said with a knowing smile and clapped her hands together. “Seducing a man has more to do with how you view yourself than anything else.”

  “What a fascinating concept. But I don’t know how to kiss. Or rather, I’ve never been kissed.”

  “Well, there isn’t that much to it, but isn’t the Earl of Grandleigh helping to prepare you?”

  Not exactly. “Oh, yes, he’s made sure I know how to waltz, eat, play cards, enter a dining room, and which utensils to use at a dinner party. He’s told me what kinds of things gentlemen like to talk about—the weather, hounds, or something equally boring. I was angry about him tutoring me at first, but he’s not so bad. I know he only means to help.”

  “Kissing is another matter entirely, but once you’ve mastered being confident in yourself, I know you’ll be fine with the kissing side of things as well.”

  “Do you really think so?” Georgia asked. Everything Will had taught her, or thought he taught her, were things she already knew—except kissing—that was different, because she truly didn’t know.

  The dressmaker grinned. “I know you’ll be able to kiss with great expertise someday. Don’t you worry.”

  “I think I want to kiss someone before I marry.” Georgia’s eyes widened—she’d said what she was thinking out loud. “Is that inappropriate?”

  “I kissed several different men before I married.”

  The idea sounded scandalous, but Georgia was determined to embrace the confidence she knew she possessed and discover what it was like to kiss a man. Only, whenever she thought about kissing a man, Will’s face came to mind. “May I ask, what do you know of Lord Grandleigh?”

  “What exactly do you mean?” the modiste asked.

  “From what I understand, his family had come upon hard times and Oliver helped them. Is that true?”

  Mrs. Marchant stacked the fabric in neat piles and put pins in their proper pincushions. “Yes, his family wasn’t well respected for a time, its true. The previous Lord Grandleigh had so many creditors after him, I believe he barely escaped debtor’s prison. Had he not passed on, he surely would have perished in prison.”

  “But that’s horrible.” Her stomach sank at the thought of her father in prison. What a terrible burden for Will, as the oldest and only heir, to bear. “Arabella and Lord Grandleigh are so nice. How could their father do that to them?”

  “He was so distraught over the death of his wife. I’m afraid he never recovered. Some businessmen took advantage of his vulnerability when the younger Grandleigh was away to university, so I doubt he really knew everything that was happening.”

>   Deep sadness filled her soul. As much as she disliked Will, or so she thought, she would never want him to carry the weight of financial burdens. “But things are better now, are they not?”

  “Yes, his debts have been paid, but I fear the ton has a long memory, and in the eyes of many, he should have served time since his father did not.”

  Georgia’s defensive hackles rose. “That’s not fair. It wasn’t Lord Grandleigh’s fault—what his father did.”

  “Yes, but he’s still trying to make amends.”

  “He paid his debts.” Or in this case, she knew that Oliver had paid them. “He doesn’t owe anyone anything.”

  “As I said, the ton’s memory is long. I would imagine Lord Grandleigh is eager to make a good match for himself with a well-titled family of means. That way his status among beau monde will rise, possibly even higher than it was before his father made poor choices. Let’s go back out front. I’m sure Lord Grandleigh will be back any moment.” Mrs. Marchant directed Georgia toward the front of the shop. “But for propriety’s sake, let’s keep this conversation between us, no?”

  Georgia strode toward the entrance and remembered to stand straighter and keep her shoulders back. She had to project confidence, and she would, but her thoughts kept drifting to what the seamstress had said about Will marrying into a family of means. She had a healthy dowry, but she would never elevate her husband’s status in society. Not as long as she lived in England.

  She must not concern herself with Will, because she had to decide who she’d select to marry. While her plan had been someone who wouldn’t live long, having spent time with Will made her start to question her plan. Why had it become so important to her to kiss someone? Granted, she wanted to goad Will into being annoyed with her. She loved ruffling his impeccably somber feathers. Being unpredictable and seeing how he responded to her antics was amusing. Yes, she’d told him she wanted to kiss before she married, but did she want to kiss any man…or Will?

  As the front door opened, Mrs. Marchant said, “You will do quite well at seducing a man and get exactly what you want.” Will entered, and she said to him, “My lord, we’ve finished. Three of the dresses will be ready tomorrow.”

  “I’m anxious for the house party at Lady Laurel’s.” Georgia rubbed her gloved hands together and said to the modiste, “I’m thrilled to wear one of the dresses you’ve made for me. And I appreciate your insight into…well, into what to expect at the party.”

  “Haven’t I given you enough preparation for the party?” he asked as he guided her toward their carriage. “Do you feel ill-prepared? Perhaps we should talk more this evening? We haven’t much time.”

  “My lord, you seem more worried about this party than I do,” she said.

  “You thanked Mrs. Marchant for her insights. I thought perhaps I haven’t been doing my job.” He held out his hand for her to take as she stepped up.

  “I think I would feel better if we went over a few more things tonight after dinner, because I have questions.” She took his hand briefly, and a frisson of warmth spread through her. The touch ended in less than a second, and she was left wishing it was longer.

  “I will stay for dinner this evening, then.” Inside the carriage, he tapped on the roof to proceed. “You can ask me any question you’d like. In fact, you can ask me now. We don’t have to wait until this evening.”

  She peered at him across the coach. She wanted to ask him about the ton and what it felt like to have some of the members scrutinize him—all because of something his father had done. But that would be too personal.

  Instead, she could ask him who might be in attendance at Lady Laurel’s, and if there was someone in particular she should meet. Privately, she wondered if another gentleman in attendance would be interested in teaching her how to kiss. But still, the idea of kissing anyone other than Will didn’t enthuse her.

  Chapter Eight

  Oliver had warned him that Georgia was a hellion of the first order, but this was to the extreme, even for someone like him, who grew up with a rebellious sister. In theory, Will should be the perfect tutor, but reality was oh so different.

  Unfortunately, his current issue concerned answering her kissing questions with delicacy. Although relieved she hadn’t pressed him on the subject since their dance lesson this morning, he was convinced it was only a matter of time before she brought the conversation back around to this uncomfortable topic. Her body so close to his as they waltzed had nearly driven him over the brink, but coupled with her desire to learn how to kiss… Well, it was more than a gentleman like himself could take. And still remain a gentleman.

  She sat across from him in the carriage, gazing out the window, her blue eyes locked on something in the distance, her lips parted slightly… Oh, yes, he could certainly teach her a few things about kissing. Only, if he allowed his mind to wander, he envisioned so much more than kissing.

  If he were being completely honest, he imagined his hands moving to other places besides her waist while they danced. Tasting her skin when his mouth touched her throat. Nuzzling and caressing her, then pulling back on the bodice of her dress to reveal the straps of her chemise. His tongue would trace her full breasts until his mouth found the shadowy edges of her taut aureole. Then he’d tickle the tip as she gasped with pleasure.

  Almost as though she’d been reading his mind, she poked out her tongue and swiped it across her bottom lip.

  Good God—he needed to get her married off, and quickly, before he considered kissing her himself, never mind all the other things he imagined doing to her. These impure thoughts didn’t sit well with him—Oliver would never tolerate him kissing his ward.

  Hell, he wouldn’t tolerate kissing Oliver’s ward. Will gulped and flexed his jaw.

  Georgia turned her gaze on him and asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “Perfectly.” As he shifted on the bench, he noticed that some of her hair had fallen out of her coiffure. He wanted to reach across the expanse between them, coil his fingers around a strand, and test the silkiness of it. He abruptly leaned against the window. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have a feeling you don’t like tutoring me,” she murmured.

  “That’s not true.” Her sudden lack of self-esteem bothered him. She’d been so confident when he’d met her after the race, then with cards, and dining—even dancing. This wasn’t like her. “You’ve been a quick study.”

  She continued to stare out the window, watching the fields pass.

  He searched for the right words to cheer her. “You’re intelligent and willing—a good companion. And agreeable most of the time.”

  She crossed her arms smartly over her chest. “You make me sound like a hound instead of a woman. Is this part of you tutoring me in proper conversation with gentlemen—to speak of hounds?”

  “Not at all.” His lips twitched; he almost smiled but not quite. “At least that wasn’t my intent. You don’t remind me of a hound.” Far from it.

  He sat straighter on the bench seat, panic settling in his bones that he might entertain the idea of teaching her about kissing after all. To reassure her that he very much enjoyed teaching her, of course. Build up her self-esteem. Nothing more. No, she was nothing like a hound at all, merely a warm-blooded woman. With soft curves, pillowy lips, and an enchanting smile.

  Her measured gaze turned on him, her eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, the sides of her generous mouth turned up, and she laughed.

  So afraid he’d offended her, he blew out a nervous breath, happy that he hadn’t. She never took herself too seriously, and he realized he was laughing right along with her.

  “Will.” She laughed some more. “The look on your face was priceless!”

  “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “You English-born gentlemen are so staid. But in all seriousness, when you spoke of me being like a loyal, willing, agreeable companion, it did make me think of our four-legged, furry friends.”

  Relieved she had no idea
what he’d really been thinking—about allowing their bodies to rub together as they danced, about her lips molding to his when he showed her exactly how un-staid a gentleman could be—he shrugged. “I suppose I can see why you’d think that.”

  “I know you only think of me as your pupil to tutor, not a friend, and certainly not a woman.”

  The sunlight streamed in from the window, casting shards of light across her rosy cheeks. Oh, if she had any idea.

  “But it will take more than an offhand comment to offend me,” she quipped. She tipped her face toward the sun, basking in its warmth, and for one disconcerting moment, Will felt a sharp stab of…something.

  He’d gotten wrapped up in her kissing questions. That’s all. Any man would. It’s not every day a man gets asked about kissing by a young lady. She drove him to distraction—nothing more. Whatever that something was, it would pass. Hopefully soon, so he could get back to the business of preparing her to find a suitable husband.

  They pulled toward the Autumn Ridge estate, where torches lined the graveled driveway. Two large support columns stood on either side of the front entrance, where they stopped. “I will fetch your dresses from London in the morning and bring them to you before the party. It’s late. I’ll escort you inside before I take my leave.”

  The footman opened the carriage door, and Will stepped outside first. He extended his hand to Eloise and Georgia as they departed.

  “Go inside, Eloise.” Georgia stepped closer to Will, her skirts brushing against his leg. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Eloise bounded toward the servants’ side door.

  Georgia glanced around. “I don’t know why she insists on calling me that. I’m not a lady.”

  “She’s being respectful,” Will replied. As he’d sent the coach and driver to the stables, they were completely alone with only some torches for light.

  “I’d prefer a little less respectfulness in my life.”

  He chuckled. “You’re a quandary to me, Georgia. Truly, you are.”

  “I don’t mean to be, but I do think we should go over a few more dance steps. A quadrille, perhaps?” Her pale-blue eyes peered up at him intently. “I want to make sure I’m completely prepared for the party tomorrow. Confidence comes with preparedness, wouldn’t you say?”