How to Marry a Rogue (31 page)

Her cheeks warmed with a blush. “My nurses always said I was, but I assumed they had to say it since I was their charge.”

He pushed up one elbow, staring down at her with an almost incredulous look on his face. “My nurses made certain I knew how naughty and frightful I was. No, Georgiana, they told you that because it’s true. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“What is beautiful about me?”

He continued caressing her face, and then her ear, pushing back the hair that had emerged from her nightcap. Her eyelids lowered, and she waited, almost breathlessly, for a kiss. Instead, he chuckled, which stifled the burning embers in her heart.

“Fishing for compliments? Ah—let me see…”

She smiled against the fingertip skimming her lips.

“Your mouth is very kissable—puffy and fat. It feels like a little pillow when I kiss it.”

She gasped in amused dismay. “That doesn’t sound very nice.”

“I am not a poet, Georgie. Would you have me compare it to a rosebud, instead?”

“That’s a little more romantic.”

“She wants romance now.” He grinned, and the fingertips on her face slid down her jaw to her neck, where he tickled her lightly. “So much for the marriage of convenience.”

“It is highly inconvenient either of us should have been forced to marry anyone.” She rolled away from him. Confusion swept through her, mixing with an odd sense of despair.

His fingers twined in her hair, and she smiled with guilty satisfaction. She’d noted the heightened look of awareness in his eyes and could tell from the way his voice had grown huskier and his caresses bolder he probably intended to carry out his marital obligations. But if they were still keeping track of whose night it was, for the record, it was hers.

“Your eyes haunt my dreams, Georgiana,” he said suddenly.

Her heart stopped beating.

“I go about my usual activities, and all I can think about is how you…” He seemed to stumble in his search for the right words, and swore softly. “I am a fighter, as you well know. I cannot spout pretty verses such as the ones your brother no doubt has in excessive supply with his bride. But I can tell you what I truly feel.”

She faced him, and this time, moved right up against him. He grunted, then draped his heavy arm over her, pinning her in place, as if he didn’t want her rolling away again.

“What do you feel?”

“I can perhaps show you more than I can tell you.”

“A true Jackian response!” They both laughed, and she pressed her hand to his cheek, rubbing her palm over his scratchy whiskers. “Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you?”

“My broken nose? The scar on my eyebrow?”

She drew on his face with her fingertip the way he had done to her. “Your eyes are very handsome indeed. They aren’t a true blue, but gray—like mist on the moors.”

“You’ve never seen the moors.”

“I read it in a book once.” She explored the crooked spine of his nose. “Mamma told me she thought you’d grow into a handsome man, once you learned to give your heart away.”

That seemed to halt something in him. He frowned slightly, and the hand in her hair stilled. “Your mother was very clever.”

“She loved you as a son, Jack. I’m sure of it.”

“I know. She used to call me Jackie. She was the only one who could get away with it. And”—his mouth quirked into a little smile—“she always kissed me first when Lockewood and I came home for holidays. He complained about it once, but she said…”

He abruptly turned onto his back. She could see the dim outline of his opened eyes from the moonlight streaming in through the windows.

“What did she say?”

A few seconds passed before he spoke. “She said, ‘Jackie doesn’t have a mother to embrace him. You do.’”

A light misting of tears blurred her vision, but she smiled at his shared memory. “That sounds like something she would say. I remember when she died. Jonathan came home at once, and you managed to come with him.”

“I lied and told the head of our house my own mother was ill. He was new and didn’t know she was already dead.”

The urge to stroke his hair overcame her, and so she did, not caring if he moved away. She risked losing little pieces of her heart every time she was near him, but was powerless against the pull he extended on her soul. To her surprise, he didn’t stop her, but faced her again, only this time, he lay a little closer.

“I found you in the library, curled up on your father’s chair like a cat.”

She was surprised at the sudden tears the onslaught of the memory brought. She blinked hastily. “You said, ‘Hullo, little Pudding Face’ and picked me up.”

“Lockewood was with your father and other relatives. They’d seemed to have forgotten you in the confusion.”

“I asked you to take me away. Do you remember, Jack?”

He laughed so softly she was barely aware of it, except that the bed moved a bit. “Yes. I asked you where, and you told me there was a castle in one of your storybooks, and you wanted me to find it. I think the boy in the book was named Jack, and you thought I was him.”

“No, that wasn’t it. I knew you weren’t a prince from a book. I just wanted to go away with you.”

“I wanted to care for you, Georgiana. I think a part of me was waiting for you to grow up, so I could marry you.” He captured her hand that stroked his hair. His lips brushed across her palm, then held her open hand against his face. “I should have asked you to marry me, Georgie,” he murmured. “And not in that silly way you proposed to me, but a proper proposal. You deserve it.”

Her heart filled her throat. She inhaled slowly. “Then ask me.”

He released her hand and plucked the nightcap off her head. “If you’re to share a bed with me, no more nightcaps.” He tossed it over his shoulder.

She stifled a laugh. “I thought you were going to propose, Jack Waverley! Or should I say,
Ambrose
. Your grandfather told me you were named after him.”

“Nobody calls me that and lives.”

“I am still breathing.” A bold recklessness overcame her, and she wriggled as close as she could to him. Her thin lawn nightrail and his fine linen shirt allowed her to absorb the heat emanating from him. He instantly reacted by lifting his leg over hers and sliding his arm beneath her.

“I have another condition, Georgie.” He toyed with her neck ribbon, pulling it free. With a single nudge of his hand, her nightgown slid off her shoulder, which he then kissed. His feather light touch drew a long sigh from her.

“What is it, Ambrose?”

“No more nightclothes. Ever.”

She pulled away to gaze into his eyes. They were glassy in the moonlight, and his mouth looked red and full. She skimmed his lips with her fingertips, and his eyelids lowered. “I shall have to remember your requirements.”

“Please do.”

His words cut off when she parted her lips to his insistent mouth. The rest of the night passed in a blur of murmured sighs and soft moans, gentle kisses and caressing hands, until she realized he had never mentioned the word love, but he wanted her. It was all he protested he was capable of.

Fortunately, she did not believe a whit of it.

****

“You are welcome to visit anytime,” his grandfather said to them a week later as they prepared to leave. The days had flown by, and Jack was surprised he’d actually enjoyed his grandfather’s company. Once they got blame and regret out of the way, they’d actually had a conversation about the state of the
vignoble
. He suspected the old man was pleased with his work in Bordeaux, but would never admit it.

“Thank you, Grandfather. We will.” As they shook hands, the old man unexpectedly clasped his fingers in a tight squeeze. He turned to Georgiana.

“I enjoyed listening to you play. Perhaps next time, you and Jack will play a duet. I seem to recall Jack had a rather good ear.”

“You never heard me play,” Jack said almost petulantly. “I learned at school, with a private master.”

“And who do you think paid for that private master?” he growled. He shook his head and sighed. “We must learn not to quarrel every time we see each other, Jack.”

Georgiana was giving him a miniscule nod of encouragement, and he was forced to relent. “Agreed.”

“Kiss an old man,” his grandfather instructed her, and Jack couldn’t help but smile as his wife leaned into the old man’s embrace and kissed his cheek. “Take care of my boy,” he said rather gruffly and handed Georgiana a small velvet pouch. “You may as well have these. They are part of the family collection. You shall have the rest upon my death, when Jack inherits all that I worked hard to achieve.”

Jack bit his tongue to avoid responding in kind but noticed the corner of his grandfather’s eye twitching in a wink. Stifling a grin, he turned to his wife, whose face revealed the pleasure felt by both of them at the gesture. He had wanted to ask for his mother’s jewelry but feared his grandfather would accuse him of wanting to sell it. Georgiana emptied the pouch into her palm, displaying the blue diamond earrings and gold bracelets Jack knew so well. He had the ruby ring tucked inside his waistcoat and intended to give it to her once they were alone.

“They are beautiful,” Georgiana said in a hushed voice. Her eyes sparkled with tears to match the glittering diamonds. “Thank you.” She kissed his grandfather again and gave Jack a smile that went straight through his heart. “You must come to visit us in town, Grandfather Waverley,” she began, but he shook his head.

“You don’t want an old man underfoot, my dear. Especially when you are setting up housekeeping together, so recently wed.”

“Yes, sir, please come. Perhaps you may attend me at one of my boxing dens and watch me rearrange some other man’s nose.”

Painful silence filled the air around them. Georgiana paled, but his grandfather’s cheeks reddened. For a moment, Jack feared he would have a heart attack, but his grandfather embraced him tightly, laughing so hard he wheezed.

“I will! Jack, I will come and see you.” He wiped the corners of his eyes and motioned them into the coach. “Godspeed and congratulations to both of you! Jack, you remember how to write, do you not? Goodbye, my dear girl! Take care of our boy!”

Jack sat back against the coach cushions with a loud heaving of breath. Georgiana was still laughing, and he handed her his handkerchief to wipe her streaming eyes.

“That went better than I thought it would,” he muttered, kissing her before she could say she’d told him so.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Fancy you, Miss Pudding Face—the owner of her very own home.”

Jack surveyed the newly furnished parlor of Aunt Adele’s Kensington Gardens townhouse. Despite his affirmation the house was her sole possession, legally, it belonged to him. Georgiana had delighted in his solemn presentation of the keys to the property once they were out of the bank and in the new carriage she’d purchased. She’d wanted Jack to share in her newfound wealth, but he politely refused, reminding her again of their original agreement and insisting she need not give him a farthing.

Instead of being relieved everything was turning out the way they’d planned, she was melancholy. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to be married yet so completely independent of her husband.

Since leaving Stoughton Park, they’d settled in Aunt Adele’s townhome. At least, she had. Jack was staying at the Albany. Now, after a separation of a few days while he was purportedly involved with his grandfather’s business ventures in town, they were together again. She’d missed him more than she wanted to admit. She wanted to run to him when he stomped up the stairs to her parlor but didn’t wish to give her new servants fodder for gossip. She picked up an embroidered pillow from a chair and tossed it at him.

“If you are not nice to me, I shall have you thrown out. My new coachman, Roberts, looks as strong as you.”

“Oh, really? As strong as me?” He cocked an eyebrow and peered toward the half-opened doorway into the corridor. “Send the blighter in to have a round. I’ll wager a kiss from your tasty lips I can beat him.”

She shook her head. “There will be no fighting here, my dear husband.”

“In that case,” he began. He stretched out on the settee. “If there is no fighting allowed, what shall be permitted? I am speaking of when you summon me once a week to service your insatiable appetite, madam.”

“Summoned here once a week?” she sputtered.

He bowed his head. “Forgive me. I will come more frequently to indulge you.”

She fidgeted with the teapot so he wouldn’t see her agitation. He’d announced earlier he could only stay an hour due to pressing business, and the time was almost up.

“Indulge my appetites? Ha!” She swept across the room to the window and opened it. A bee flew from its leafy perch and buzzed about her nose. She quickly closed the window and turned around to face him. He looked as if he had no intention of going anywhere.

“You must admit, Georgie: our arrangement benefits you as delightfully as it does me.”

“I would never be so base as to admit it.”

He pulled the pillow from his face and regarded her with a smirk. “But you do admit it?” He rose to his feet and sauntered over to her, while she backed up against the wall. He was too close, towering over her with his spicy scent invading her nose and his fingers toying with the pendant around her throat. She tried to move, but he blocked her by planting both his hands on the wall, trapping her.

“You have no sense of boundaries, Mr. Waverley.” She pressed her hands against his chest, but the feel of his heart pounding against her palms awakened a similar sensation in her body. She glanced up at him and realized the moment she did it was a terrible mistake.

His gray eyes gleamed like silver moonbeams. His lips were full and moist, and slightly parted in a grin. It was not his usual, teasing grin. It was the grin that always appeared right before he…

He didn’t kiss her. She scowled. “Haven’t you got your own home to see to, Jack? I’m sure there are all levels of female servants in your employ who miss their generous benefactor.”

His amusement only deepened. “Why, yes, indeed I do. But my rooms are infinitely smaller and dingier than this place. Besides, I rather like the view in your house.”