How to Marry a Rogue (15 page)

He fought the rising embarrassment at her words but managed to look her in the eye. “Perhaps it was Marie’s way of keeping the room smelling fresh. The chateau does have a closed up smell about it when there’s no one here.” He tapped his finger at the air near her shoulder. “You look nicer in your own clothes. As your new husband, I will see to it you have plenty of new gowns, bonnets, and slippers. Your brother has kept you attired like a child. It’s time you dressed like a woman.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I would love some new clothes. But, Jack, I do have my inheritance. Now that I’m married…” She blushed, gulped, and continued, “we will have control of my money.” She patted his lapels. “There. You could pass for Beau Brummel’s own brother now.”

He was about to jest in kind, but his tongue felt plastered to the roof of his mouth. Although he tried to avoid it, he couldn’t help but notice how her neck sloped down to an obscenely perfect bosom, or that her lower lip puffed out just enough to spur him to thoughts he’d rather not have now.

She continued fiddling with his buttons and adjusting his waistcoat until he realized it was because she was suddenly too shy to look at him. He wanted to take back the entire morning; indeed, their whole conversation that had brought them to this. What in God’s name was he doing with a bride? Only days ago, he’d been anticipating a sojourn into Paris to enjoy a week of debauchery and all manner of scandal-worthy behavior.

He could not go back on his word. He’d saved her so many times in the past that rescuing her was second nature. This was the last in a long string of rescues, and one he could not avoid. She lifted her head and gazed up at him. Trusting, secure. He could give her that, if nothing else.

He offered his arm. “Does Beau Brummel have a brother who fights?” He led her out of his chamber and toward the staircase.

“If he does, I’d wager you could beat him.” She linked both hands around his arm and walked with him downstairs to their awaiting feast.

Chapter Sixteen

“I’ve arranged for our passage home at the end of the month.” Jack picked at his wedding luncheon much in the same way Georgiana was. Beyond a few requests to pass the saltcellar or to inquire if she wanted more wine, he had not said much.

“To avoid any issues with Lady Richmond?”

He nodded. “Better we leave from Calais and have a civil marriage at the British embassy. I do not know the legitimacy of a ceremony performed by a drunken priest on French soil.”

“Whatever you wish.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin and looked expectantly at him.

He tugged at his neckcloth and loosened his collar. Why did the room seem so much warmer whenever those deep blue eyes were fastened on him?

She took a sip of wine, deeper than her previous tastes. “We should also consummate our marriage, so should Jonathan demand our separation, my loss of virginity will make me a less viable candidate for those wretched suitors he’s chosen.”

Jack sputtered a mouthful of wine across the table. Random purple dots absorbed instantly into the white cloth. He choked on his breath and pounded his chest until he’d regained speech.

“I sincerely and utterly beg your pardon?” he asked as calmly as he could.

Georgiana regarded him with a serene, almost angelic innocence, as if she had just asked if he’d like another helping of potatoes. Her lips trembled slightly, but her gaze never wavered.

“I think you heard me, Jack. And given your infamous reputation, which, as you boast, is deservedly earned, the idea should not come as a total shock to you.” A faint blush rose from the crest of her bosom to her throat, finally reaching her cheek.

He watched it in fascination before blinking rapidly to clear his vision. “You are probably correct in your opinion of your brother’s reaction. Even if we did consummate it—” He nearly choked again. “How are we to prove it? He will only have our word. Ought we to save the sheets?” She blanched, and he instantly regretted his crudeness. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “That was indelicate.”

She airily waved his words away. “Not at all. I’m actually considering the prudence of that very thing. I can bundle them up and pack them in my trunk.” She rose from the table, her fingertips pressed to the edge, as if for support. “So…” She swallowed audibly. “Do you have any disagreement?”

He bit back a laugh. She was trying so hard to be mature, and all he could think of was when he’d climbed up a tree and rescued her. He’d been sixteen then, and she eight. Her skinny arms had clung so tightly around his neck, he almost choked. When he set her on the ground, she laughed in his face. “Do it again!” she cried, holding up her arms to make him lift her because Lockewood refused. Come to think of it, there was not much Jack had ever refused his best friend’s little sister. This day was living proof.

“None at all. In fact, your suggestion has another benefit.” He stared directly into her eyes, forcing her gaze to hold. This would be her way out, he decided. Shock her, and she would flee the room—the chateau, if he were fortunate enough, and forget she’d ever brought up the insane notion in the first place.

“What benefit is that?” she asked, as cool as if she propositioned men every night.

“As you said, I am a man of fearsome appetites. Since your arrival has caused me to forego my normal pursuits, I have been—shall we say, lonely. Your arrangement would take care of both our problems. Lockewood will never force you to leave our marriage if he knew you’d been tainted by me, whereas I will not have to look for a French doxy with one hand in my purse and the other on my….”

“I see your point,” she said quickly, loudly.

“Then we have only to decide on the time.”

“The…the time?”

“Why, yes. Do we retire upstairs now? Or would you prefer to wait a few days to better prepare yourself and stir my ardor into a raging fire?”

Her face burned as red as the tomatoes on her plate. “Prepare myself?” She huffed. “It is not an expedition I’m suggesting, but the normal routine between a husband and wife.” She frowned. “Why, is there something I need to prepare for?”

“That depends on your definition of routine.”

“I don’t want to wait. Tonight, after supper.” She chewed her lip, and some of her blush faded. “After the pudding. I smelled chocolate when I passed the kitchens earlier.”

“Excellent suggestion. One tantalization before the other.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze still burning into hers. “Your chamber or mine?”

“Yours. No, mine. Yours is not very tidy.”

“Dressing gowns or
au naturel
?”

She rose halfway from her chair, ablaze with his indignant attitude. He mentally congratulated himself.

“If you are trying to mock me….”

“Never.” He rose from the table and brought a bottle of wine from a sideboard. It wasn’t quite noon, but somehow, the conversation seemed to call for one or both to be out of their heads. He poured two glasses. After a moment’s pause, he gave hers another healthy glug. “I am at your disposal, mademoiselle. Forgive me—
madame
.”

She raised her glass, and the wine sloshed a little. “Should we not have a toast?”

“By all means.” He lowered his glass, as he was about to have a drink, and lifted it in her direction. “To a satisfactory union.”

“
Satisfactory
?”

Had her lips always been the color of ripe cherries? And why was she arching her brow in such a coquettish way, as if to hint that it would be more than satisfactory? His coat suddenly seemed too tight, and his breeches…He’d have to pay a visit to his tailor when he returned to London, to add another inch or two in his waistband. He hadn’t noticed how little room he had in the crotch.

“I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me?” The flirtatious look slid off her face as quickly as it had appeared. “I hardly think…”

“That you will know the difference?” He grinned broadly. “Miss Worldly, sitting so calm and collected as if she propositions unassuming gentlemen of low means every night.”

Her glass hit the table with an audible clink. “I apologize for not being the sort of woman you’re used to. I asked Marie about the gowns in the wardrobe today, and she assured me they were not here before your arrival. I suppose that is why you were too busy to visit me at Lady Priscilla’s.”

Her flushed face unsettled him. Shifting in his chair, he motioned at her with his glass. “You are already meddling into my affairs as I predicted; all your protestations to the contrary. I have not led a saintly existence since arriving in Bordeaux. Would you rather I regale you with the sordid details, or leave the past to itself?”

“Leave the past,” she muttered.

“I hate to remind you, but did you not promise that one of the stipulations of our so-called marriage was my continued freedom in the life I am accustomed to living, as are you free to do as you please without interference from a bothersome husband?”

“Yes, yes.” She appeared quite exasperated, but he could not resist.

“I will remove all those troublesome garments from your chamber on the morrow, Georgiana.” He reminded himself of her precarious position. First, under the thumb of her older brother, and now tied to him for the rest of her life. The thought was positively ghastly. “I would not have you any way but what you are, Miss Lockewood. Forgive me—Mrs. Waverley.”

“And what way is that?” At any moment, he feared she would flee the room. She blinked a few times and he wondered if her eyes glistened from tears or just a trick of the light.

“Sweet and innocent, and utterly charmed by me.”

The joke worked. A wavering smile touched her lips, and she drank her wine when he did.

They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Jack tried to make small talk but quickly gave it up when he realized evening was only a few hours away.

And how long, really, did it take to eat one’s pudding?

Chapter Seventeen

She did not recall leaving the dining room or walking beside him up the staircase. She couldn’t tell if he was walking faster than usual, but they reached the top landing in no time. She’d tugged his sleeve to hold him back in a moment of panic. He placed his hand at the small of her back to guide her toward her chamber. She walked woodenly into her room, which seemed unfamiliar and threatening now his broad shoulders filled the doorway.

His presence dominated the room. He was a head taller and had always seemed so big in comparison to her, but then, she’d been a child when he used to visit. The muscular arms that had swung her around the park or tossed her over his shoulder were now the arms that would carry her to bed. At least, she assumed he would carry her. Wasn’t that how a marauder about to ravish a maiden behaved?

If he suffered any of her reticence, it didn’t show. He sat on the settee, leisurely pulling off his boots. She stood in mute fascination watching him undress as if he were perfectly at home. Although she’d seen him countless times without his boots and certainly without his coat or waistcoat, it was an entirely different thing altogether that he should remove these items in front of her. He glanced up at her and gave her an easy grin, as if he’d been caught doing something naughty. In the flickering lamplight, his skin had taken on a golden hue, and his hair blazed with glinting highlights. She wondered if he were fully aware of his effect on women. His easy grin, sparkling eyes, and the boyish cleft in his chin were irresistible.

Well, irresistible to some, but not her. She unclasped her single bracelet and placed it on the table, unable to follow him in removing more of her garments. She chewed her lip, unsure of what to say. How did one start a conversation with one’s new husband, whose reputation for fast living and ravishment of all kinds far preceded him? She’d feared this moment, just a bit, but annoyance replaced her worry now that he was actually going through with her hastily thought up suggestion. If he were any sort of loyal friend or noble protector, he’d have talked her out of it. Not strode inside her chamber as if he couldn’t wait to take her up on her outrageous, ridiculous…

“Shall we get this over with in the traditional, yet effective way, or would you rather enjoy yourself?”

A rapid blush heated her face. He did have a way with words. He pushed up from the settee, setting his boots aside, an expectant look on his face as he waited for her reply.

“Whatever you’re used to.”

His eyebrows rose in a bemused fashion. “That would entail you with your skirts up over your head, bent over the nearest convenient table.”

Was he trying to shock her? Her belly quivered. “That doesn’t sound very…pleasant.” So why did her mind whisk up a vision of Jack, behind her in some questionable position, as she gripped the old Etruscan desk in the drawing room?

“Then it is to be passion, romance, and kisses?”

She nodded uncertainly. “All of that, but no kissing.”

“Why ever not? I neglected to eat the onion soufflé for your benefit. Besides, I have heard on many occasions my kisses are exemplary.”

“That is precisely why I do not wish to kiss you. Kisses bring feelings, and feelings bring love—a thing which neither of us desires.”

“Good point. You have a very practical mind, Georgie.”

Her arms had begun trembling, and she chafed her skin. “You must not call me Georgie anymore. I am a married woman.”

“What shall it be then? My darling? My sweetheart?” He tugged at his neckcloth. Of course, he would begin removing his clothes. She fought the urge to turn away and gave in to her curiosity. The more of his clothes he removed, the more naked she felt.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He draped his coat over a chair and removed his neckcloth a second later. “Tell me what I may call you. Frankly, this is more conversation in a bedchamber than I’m used to having.”

“Anything but Georgie. It sounds like a little boy’s name.”

“Mrs. Waverley? Will that be allowed?” He unbuttoned his waistcoat, and she realized his shirt did not require elaborate tucks and pleats, but his own physique filled it out.

“Only in public. Mrs. Waverley would sound odd at the breakfast table. What do you usually call a woman you’re about to bed?”