Rogue Grooms

by Amanda McCabe

  “Not here?” he said, stunned. “Has she gone out driving, then? Or perhaps to Hookham’s Library? If I could just wait for her . . .”

  “I do not think that would be a good idea.”

  “Oh, please, Lady Elizabeth!” Alex found he was not above begging. Not any more. “I must see her. I must—must tell her how very sorry I am, how wrong I was.”

  “Yes. Georgina told me of your little—contretemps last night. You were very naughty.”

  “Then, you know how very desperate it is that I see her, talk to her.”

  Elizabeth sighed, and he could see her relenting. Some of the frost in her gray eyes melted as she looked at him. “I can see that you are very sorry.”

  “I am! More than I can say. I should never have said such things. But my blasted temper—oh. Do pardon my language, Lady Elizabeth.”

  She waved away his apologies. “I myself often say blast, and worse. I fear it is quite appropriate in these circumstances.”

  Alex felt a chill, as if a cold wind had suddenly blown down the chimney and extinguished the fire. “Has she said she hates me, then? That she will never forgive me?”

  “I am sure Georgina does not hate you. But I fear that when I said she was not here, I did not mean that she was at the park or at Gunter’s. She has gone back to Italy.”

  Alex gaped at Elizabeth. “Italy?”

  “Yes. She would not be dissuaded from such a rash course, not once I assured her that my health was so improved I could have no need of her until the babe comes. Her ship left on the morning tide, and has surely cleared the Thames by now.”

  Alex lowered his aching head into his hands. All of the energy that hope had given him, that had kept him upright, had made him hurry to the Hollingsworths’ house, suddenly deserted him. He felt as drained and flat as Lunardi’s balloon before it was filled. He felt old and weary.

  She was gone. She was beyond his apologies, and his love.

  Or was she? He looked up, a faint hope starting to bloom.

  “I love Georgina as my own sister,” Elizabeth was saying. “But I fear she has a fierce temper, and she often does quite rash things. Such as rush off to Italy. I suppose that is the reason she is so very creative, much more fine an artist than I will ever be.”

  “It is what I love the most about her,” Alex murmured. “Her fire.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Yes. I was sure you were the man for her, despite your bad behavior last night.”

  Encouraged by her words, Alex said quickly, “Lady Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to give me Georgina’s direction in Italy?”

  “Are you going to write to her?”

  “I am going to do better than that. I am going after her.”

  Elizabeth laughed merrily, and clapped her hands. “Oh! How very romantic. She will be so surprised to find you on her very doorstep.”

  “And pleased, do you think?”

  “Very pleased, though she will not admit it at first.” Elizabeth stood, and went over to her small writing desk, searching through the drawers until she found what she sought. “She is in Venice, and here is her address. No doubt she will rail at you when you first arrive—perhaps even throw things, which she has been known to do in the past. You must take no notice. The storm will soon pass, and she will be very touched that you have come so far after her. A woman cannot help but be flattered that a man would go hundreds of miles, just to apologize and grovel! You do plan to grovel, I hope?”

  “Most assuredly.” Alex accepted the paper from her, and tucked it away safely in his coat pocket. That slip of paper was more valuable than gold. “I pray that you are right, that she will forgive me and accept me.”

  “I know that I am.” Elizabeth suddenly went up on tiptoe from her petite height, and kissed his cheek. “I wish you bonne chance, Alex.”

  Alex nodded, deeply moved. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I fear I will need all your good wishes and prayers.”

  Georgina was deeply sorry the moment the English coast disappeared from view.

  What had she done? Oh, what had she done!

  She paced along the ship’s deck, her burgundy red pelisse whipping about her in the stiff wind. She wore no hat, and long strands of hair had come loose from their pins and lashed at her eyes and cheeks. But she took no notice of the wind, or of the crew who hurried around her, or of the maid she had hired for the journey, who shivered against a wall.

  Lady Kate, sheltered in a coil of rope, watched her mistress with anxious black eyes.

  Whatever was she thinking of, to run off to Italy just because she was mad at Alex? Because they had had a quarrel, which had probably been just as much her fault as his?

  She should have stayed to see what he would have to say, once he calmed down. If he ever had anything to say to her again, after that shocking scene at Vauxhall.

  Georgina paused in her pacings, to lean over the railing and look down at the water below. As if there might be an answer to her dilemma written in the roiling gray waves below.

  There wasn’t, of course. There did not seem to be any answers anywhere—not even inside herself. She only had the sickening feeling that she had been foolishly impetuous, for the five hundredth time in her life.

  Georgina sighed and sank down to sit on the coil of rope next to Lady Kate. She had leaped without looking, as she always did! She saw now, horribly clear, what she should have done. She should have understood what using her money before they were wed would cause Alex to feel—and to do. He was such a proud man.

  Just as she was a proud woman. Too much so.

  She also should have stayed in London, so they could have talked and come to a right understanding. This craven running away was not at all like her, and she did not know why she had done it. Not even anger should have made her do something so rash.

  Oh, yes, you know why you did it, a tiny voice at the back of her mind whispered. You were afraid.

  I certainly was not! Georgina protested indignantly.

  You were, the voice insisted. And you still are. You are afraid that you love him, and need him. You don’t want to need him.

  Of course I do not! Georgina cried silently. After all, if she were to need someone, he could die and leave her all alone, with the entire world shattered about her.

  Like her parents. Like Jack. Even like dear old Mr. Beaumont.

  Georgina pressed her gloved hand to her mouth. That was it! That was what had driven her to be so alone for so long. Fear.

  Beneath all her dash, her bravado, she was scared to death. She had seized on her quarrel with Alex as an excuse to leave him, to scurry back to the safety of Italy. A desperate need to escape her love for him, her fear to lose him.

  But she knew now that that was futile. Even if she never saw him again, her love for him would follow her all the rest of her days. It was a love that was stronger than any fear.

  She saw that all too clearly now, when it was too late and a sea lay between them. Even if he came to call on her, he would find she had left, and he would think that she no longer cared. Perhaps he would be hurt, but eventually he would marry someone young and pretty and suitably duchess-like. He would take her to the home that should have been Georgina’s, to be welcomed by the family that should have been Georgina’s.

  He would give her the wedding night that should have been Georgina’s. He would make love to some milk-and-water miss in Georgina’s very bed!

  Georgina pounded her heels on the deck in consternation at the melodramatic scenario she had concocted in her mind.

  Oh, what had she done!

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Venice was delighted by the return of the oh-so-dashing Signora Beaumont. And Signora Beaumont plunged into the revels of Venice with every bit of her former relish, and then some.

  If that relish, that dash, was just a tiny bit forced, well, who could notice? Any hint of melancholy was hidden by exquisite new gowns, a new hairstyle, and plenty of champagne.

  Bianca, the loyal Italian maid w
ho had been with Georgina for years, had kept the Venetian house impeccably in her absence—or what passed for impeccable with Bianca, anyway. Georgina was able to move back in as if she had never been away at all.

  The society of Venice, both Italian and English, welcomed her back as if she had never been away, as well. From her very first evening home, she was pulled into a whirl of balls, suppers, breakfasts, water parties, and casinos. Her old suitors were most eager to renew her acquaintance, and soon the narrow halls and small, high-ceilinged rooms of her house were filled with the color and scent of masses of flowers.

  Georgina had loved this life, had relished the excitement and glitter and noise of it. She threw herself back into it, dancing and laughing as if nothing had ever happened. Every once in a while, in the midst of a merry crowd, she could even feel like nothing had happened. That she was the Georgina Beaumont she had been before she left for England.

  But something had happened. She was not the same, and she never would be again. She had seen a new life, filled not just with the gaiety of balls, but with family and close friends. Quieter, perhaps, more respectable, certainly. It was not a life she would have thought she would crave, when she was younger and more restless.

  Sometimes, in the quiet darkness of her bedchamber at night, she imagined that life. She imagined herself as mistress of Fair Oak, strolling its halls and garden paths with her husband. Lady Kate would run ahead of them, cavorting with Emily and perhaps a few golden-haired children.

  She imagined presiding over suppers and balls for all the neighbors, and painting all their portraits.

  She imagined long, sweet nights in the grand duke’s bedchamber, in her husband’s arms.

  And then, still alone, she would turn her face into the pillow and cry, with the silvery light of a Venetian moon falling across her bed from the window.

  This had to be the house.

  Alex looked down at the address Elizabeth had given him, then back up at the house. It was quite pretty, a narrow confection of gray-pink stone, with wrought-iron balconies dotted with pots of vivid red and pink flowers. The shutters were open to the early summer day, and sheer white curtains fluttered in the light breeze.

  It looked like Georgina’s house. Elegant, warm, and artistically lovely.

  Alex took a deep breath, and closed his fist tightly about the slip of paper. He had faced French hordes on battlefields, faced death by bullet or bayonet or cannon. But he had never been so terrified as he was now, about to face the woman he loved and had wronged.

  He had had many hours to envision this meeting. He had replayed in his mind, over and over, their confrontation on the dark pathway at Vauxhall, until it became worse and worse every time. He berated himself for his ass-like behavior, saw again Georgina’s face in the lantern light, pale and stricken and furious.

  He had nearly turned and gone back to England, at the thought of what she might unleash upon him when he dared to show his face to her.

  But the memory of other times, of happier moments, kept him moving steadfastly forward. If she would only smile at him again, he would gladly walk to Venice, and beg on his knees on her doorstep.

  If only . . .

  The thought of her sun-from-behind-clouds smile sustained him. Alex stepped up to the door and banged the lion head knocker.

  For a long time nothing happened. The door did not open; no one appeared at any of the windows. Alex began to fear that Georgina was far from home, that perhaps she had gone instead to her lakeside villa.

  Then, so abruptly that he almost fell back off the doorstep, the door was pulled open.

  A small, round Italian woman stood there, her dark hair springing loose from her sheer cap. She wore a muslin apron over an extraordinary gown of carmine velvet, and held a bottle of wine in her hand.

  “Si?” she said.

  “I do beg your pardon, er, signora,” Alex said, a bit taken aback. “Is this the home of Signora Beaumont?”

  The woman’s dark gaze flickered over him, taking in his traveling clothes of buckskins and a deep green greatcoat. He resisted the urge to smooth his wind-tousled hair, and wished he had taken the time to shave.

  Apparently what she saw pleased her, though, because she smiled widely. “Oh, si, Signora Beaumont lives here. You bring a gift, no?”

  Alex thought of the small box in his pocket, that held the ruby ring that had been his grandmother’s. He supposed that could qualify as a gift. “No. That is, yes. I bring a gift.”

  “Va bene. If you give it to me, I will put it with the others.”

  Others? “I would prefer to present it to the lady myself. If she is at home.”

  The woman examined him again. “She is at home, but she is working. The Countess d’Onofrio is here for her sitting. I have been with Signora Beaumont many years, and I know better than to bother her while she is working.” She winked. “You know how it is?”

  Alex smiled. “Of course I would not wish to bother her. Perhaps I could just wait in the drawing room until she is finished. I have come a very long way to give her this gift, you see,” he said cajolingly.

  She glanced over her shoulder, then said, “Very well. But you might have a long wait.”

  It felt as if it had been an eternity already. “I do not mind.”

  “Hmph. Then follow me.” She opened the door wider to let him in, then shut it behind him and led him down a narrow, painting-lined corridor. “I am Bianca, by the way.”

  “How do you do, Bianca. I am Alexander Kenton.” Somehow, he did not think it a good idea to throw his title about around here.

  “Well, you may wait here, Signor Kenton.” Bianca ushered him into a drawing room, and pushed the bottle of wine she held into his hand. “I was to take this to the studio, but you may have it.”

  Then the odd little maid was gone, closing the door behind her.

  Left alone, Alex surveyed his surroundings. It was not a large room, but it was bright and airy from the many tall windows. The chairs and settees were of a light carved wood, upholstered in azure and cream. Small objets, boxes and figurines, were scattered on the tables; several paintings in Georgina’s bold style hung on the blue-painted walls. He could also see what Bianca had meant when she said others. There were flowers piled along one wall, gaily wrapped parcels stacked on the pale blue carpet, letters laying unopened on the desk.

  Alex laughed wryly, and turned away from the offerings to where a fire burned in the grate.

  Above the fireplace of white marble hung a portrait of Georgina, a lovely work in a somewhat softer style than Georgina’s own. The folds of her purple satin gown shimmered as if real; the painted smile was Georgina to the life, mischievous and merry.

  Alex moved closer, and saw the “Elizabeth H” signature in the canvas’s corner.

  There, in that room, he felt closer to Georgina than he had in weeks. Why, he could almost smell the sweetness of her rose perfume.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Then he heard soft footsteps in the corridor, a gentle swish of a silk skirt. He opened his eyes.

  He forgot to breathe as the door slowly opened.

  “Why, Alex!” Georgina cried. “You are turning quite white. Are you about to swoon?”

  Georgina had scarce been able to believe her ears when Bianca had told her who was downstairs in the drawing room.

  Her hand had begun to tremble, so she carefully placed her brush down on the palette. “Did you say—Kenton, Bianca?”

  “Si. Alexander Kenton.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  Bianca snorted in affront. “My hearing is excellent, signora! He said he has brought you a gift, but when I said I would put it with the others, he insisted he give it to you himself.”

  “Did he?” A gift. Alex had come all the way from England to give her a gift?

  The mind reeled at the thought of what it could be.

  “Si. I have put him in the drawing room, signora, because he said he would wait for howev
er long it took for you to finish your work.”

  Alex, here! In her very house. It only just began to sink in. Oh, how she wanted to fly down the stairs to him!

  She looked over to the countess, who had been listening to them with the greatest interest.

  The countess made a shooing motion with the ostrich feather fan she held. “Go, cara, go! I will come back another day.”

  “Are you certain, Countess?” Georgina said.

  “Amore is so much more important than any old portrait!” she answered, already stepping down from the dais where she posed. “I must be returning to my caro sposo now, anyway.”

  Georgina laughed. “Then, I will see you again on Wednesday!”

  She tugged off her paint-stained smock, and looked quickly in the mirror to smooth her hair back into its ribbon bandeau, and adjust her yellow silk dress. Then she ran off down the stairs.

  But as she neared the closed drawing room door, doubts again assailed her. What if he had only come to berate her again? To demand that she cease the correspondence that had been going on between her and Emily? To insist again on paying her back the blasted money?

  “Don’t be a goose!” she whispered to herself. “Why would he come all the way to Venice just to quarrel?”

  He would not, of course. That would be silly. His presence here could only indicate something positive.

  Could it not?

  Georgina took a steadying breath, and reached out to push open the door before she could lose her courage.

  It was indeed Alex, standing before her fireplace, looking impossibly handsome with his tousled golden brown hair and his beard-roughened jaw.

  And also looking as pale as the marble he stood beside.

  “Are you about to swoon?” she cried out.

  Alex turned to her, his blue eyes lighting. He started toward her, but then halted abruptly, reaching out a steadying hand to the mantel.

  “Certainly not,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Soldiers never swoon, you know.”

  “Not even at the sight of blood?” Georgina said inanely, feeling thoroughly giddy.

  “Not even then. Though I fear this soldier may swoon at the sight of you.”