Pretty Persuasion (12 page)

She had no idea what she'd do, except that she somehow had to make him lose. The women around him were calling out, their remarks ranging from innocent to outright wicked, so even shouting something provocative would hardly faze him.

Robert positioned the arrow, testing the string with a few tugs. She could give him a shove, but that would be too obvious, and he'd surely be allowed another shot. Pinch him, then? But where to pinch without bringing too much attention to herself?

The string in place, he raised and drew the bow, aiming. She had to do something and do it now. She stumbled forward, pretending to be jostled. Quickly, as discreetly as possible, she reached out and pinched his behind. He jumped and the arrow flew far off target.

The spectators murmured in disappointment. Robert swung around and raked his eyes over the women. His gaze narrowed on her, and she assumed her most innocent expression, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. When he turned and stalked toward the other contestants, she nearly bubbled over with glee.

The Scots devil emerged the victor. The crowd cheered wildly as he bent and gave the May Queen a thorough kiss. She threw her arms about his neck, seeming to return it with gusto. Shuddering at the sight, Georgie started making her way back to the reverend.

A hand locked around her elbow, and hot breath fanned her ear. "That was a cheap trick, Georgie."

Panic swelled, though she felt a ridiculous urge to giggle. "Trick?" she asked, widening her eyes at him.

His eyes flashed. "You robbed me of my prize, which means you owe me a kiss."

"Don't be silly. Oh look, the dancing is about to start." She broke free and hurried across the green.

Robert frowned at her back as she weaved through the throng. She was still an imp but now seemed motivated more by spite than mere mischievousness. And he still did not understand her reasons.

Or perhaps he did. He glanced at Cameron, who was flirting shamelessly with the May Queen. It was probably fanciful to think Georgie had acted out of jealousy. Fanciful, but very pleasing. His mood lifting, he strolled toward the people gathering around the maypole.

Fiddlers tuned their instruments while men and women each grabbed a ribbon from the pole. Georgie stood among those watching. A well-dressed young man, who Robert recognized as one of Mr. Tillyard's sons, approached her, steady purpose in each step.

Robert lengthened his stride to interpose but was waylaid by a gentleman acquainted with his father. By the time he managed to disengage himself, Georgie was conversing with the reverend's son. She smiled but, fortunately, also shook her head quite firmly… until she happened to look Robert's way. The shakes became nods, and soon she joined those forming the outer circle around the maypole. Her would-be beau grabbed two streamers, giving one to her.

The music struck up, and Robert was forced to watch with a mix of awe and frustration as Georgie twirled and skipped, smiling and laughing with the other dancers. Around and around the group went, plaiting the brightly colored ribbons until it looked as if the rainbow had wrapped itself about the maypole.

The dancing seemed to go on for hours. Robert did not participate. He had little desire to make a fool of himself, and he suspected the only woman he wished to dance with would refuse him, anyway. He chatted with those who approached him, and after a while, he let himself be drawn to the benches and tables set out in front of the public house. The ale had a good head and the conversation was merry, yet Robert could not seem to enjoy the moment. Cameron had disappeared, so there was little to distract him, and his eyes were constantly drawn in Georgie's direction.

When she wasn't dancing, she mingled. He wondered if the villagers knew who she was, knew her station. If they did, they didn't seem to care—perhaps because she acted like she didn't care, either. Young people occupied the tables she rested at, and growing aware that the company he kept was far past the first blush of youth, a feeling of being old and dull came over him. It was ridiculous, of course, but as afternoon faded to evening, it became an increasing aggravation.

Hawkers and players packed up, and the old and the very young retired. Darkness crept over them, bonfires were lighted, and the mood rose to new heights. When Georgie danced with the reverend's son for the fourth time—Robert had been counting—he had had enough. At the end of the dance, he bid the men around him a good night and stalked across the green toward Georgie.

It was time for them to leave.

"Phillip kissed me to-day. It was not as wonderful as I had imagined, but certainly not unpleasant, either. Passion is perchance a gift of Nature; though I should call it a Curse, and I am thankful not to be especially plagued by it."

— From the diary of Lady Georgiana Montford, aged 19

"IT'S TIME TO leave," Robert told her, probably more brusquely than called for.

"But it's still early." Georgie sounded breathless and happy, and her eyes sparkled in the flickering firelight. He didn't know what vexed him the most: her current state of exuberance or the resentment he suffered in response to it.

Spotting another callow youth making his way toward her, Robert grasped her arm and pulled her with him.

"Stop it," she hissed as she stumbled reluctantly along. "You're causing a scene."

"It is of your own doing," he said, although he inwardly acknowledged his part of the blame. What demon of tomfoolery had possessed him to set Georgie loose on such a night? He had been courting disaster instead of courting her, which was his main objective, was it not?

No, that was wrong. Friendship was his goal at present. That, and bringing about her recovery. It was still too soon for courtship.

And yet he would not be manipulated. She needed a reminder of her place in their little bargain. "You do as I say or we return to town. I say it is time to leave."

She yanked on her arm. "That was not the agreement!"

"It was implied," he said, knowing she was right but in no humor to admit it.

They reached the stables, yet he continued past, keeping a firm hold on her arm even though she no longer struggled. "Where are you going?" she demanded.

"It is a lovely evening. I want to walk." He said the words with conviction he did not feel, suspecting he was grasping at straws, desperate for he knew not what. Whatever was pushing him to behave this way, a desire for fresh air and exercise was not it.

"Well, I do not," she pronounced. "It must be nearly three miles."

"The perfect distance for an invigorating constitutional."

She dug in her heels, and he was forced to let go, lest he hurt her. "My feet ache."

"Perhaps you ought not to have danced so much, then." She made an indignant noise, and he continued. "We walk or we return to London. It is your choice."

Her face was cloaked in darkness, but he could sense her resistance. Finally, she heaved a sigh and started walking. As he fell in beside her, she said, "I think you're cross because I had fun and you didn't."

"I am not—"

"And because you lost the contest. You even blamed me for that." She
tsk'd
. "I had no idea you were such a poor sport."

He was going to strangle her. He really was. "I had no idea you were so eager to put your hands on my posterior," he said, thinking also that she had no idea how badly he wanted to return the favor.

"I vow I do not know what you mean."

She sounded so guileless, so nonchalant that he wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her until she confessed. Somehow he managed to hold onto his self-possession, not even dignifying her comment with a reply.

It was a perfect night to go abroad. The nearly full moon hung high in the star-sprinkled sky, dimly illuminating the deserted country road. His only points of reference were shades—shades of the hedgerows framing the road, of trees in the distance, and of scattered cottages so devoid of light they seemed abandoned.

Whiffs of fragrant blossoms teased his senses, and only a slight nip in the air reminded him that winter was not long past. The fiddler's merry tune still reached his ears, a fading echo prompting memories of the revelry he had sought. It forced him to wonder why his plan had seemed so brilliant and what exactly had gone wrong. Had he thought she'd fall into his arms out of gratitude for amusements he had granted her? He silently sneered at the notion.

"I ought to apologize," Georgie finally said.

Robert paused, surprised by the sudden declaration. "Wonders never cease…"

She let out a sniff of irritation. "Don't be insufferable. I only apologize when I'm in a good mood, and you're spoiling it."

Ah, Georgie. How generous she was in her regret. How brave of her to check that stubborn pride. And how ungracious it was of him to interrupt her. "I beg your pardon," Robert replied, grateful that the darkness hid his ironic smile.

"I am sorry for the way I behaved at Gretna. It was hardly dignified, and I realize now that I was being unreasonable"—she paused—"even though I certainly had just cause. I also should not have struck you. It was inexcusable. Even though you deserved it. Because, really, you were being exceptionally nasty, and—"

"Has anyone ever told you that you don't know the first thing about making a good apology?" he interrupted, both annoyed and amused by her bumbling speech.

To his surprise, she laughed. "No, but I knew already. Was it really that bad?"

He tried not to smile. "The beginning showed promise, but you bungled when you said it was inexcusable and then went on to the purported excuse."

Another quiet sigh sounded in the darkness. "I'll remember that in the future."

Robert paused. "I accept your apology, and I would make one of my own. My behavior was not superior, either. I have to admit I went beyond what was strictly necessary, provoking you on purpose."

A moment's silence, and then she asked, "Why?"

He briefly pondered the question, then realized he was unable to put a name to the urge that had possessed him at the time. "I am not certain why. But I'm not proud of it. So I would beg your pardon."

"Very well. You have it."

Though it was probably unwise, he couldn't resist adding, "However, I still think you ought to be grateful that I prevented you from marrying that fop."

She burst out laughing again, but it was shriller, almost maniacal, sending a chill down his spine. It ended with a choked noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

"Georgie?" he asked cautiously. "You're not crying, are you?"

"N-no." Her voice broke, and the words came out between gasps and hiccoughs. "Of course not. Why would I cry when I'm in a good mood?"

Damnation. Why could one not be taught what to do with a crying woman? That knowledge would surely have been more useful than the other subjects of his costly education. There had to be something…

"I'm relieved to hear it. If you were crying, I'd have to stop being nasty."

An odd, strangled sound came from her throat, as if she were trying not to laugh. More likely, though, she was not at all amused. Pulling out his kerchief, he gently took her arm, putting a halt to their stroll. She accepted the kerchief when he pressed it into her hand. As the sniffs and hiccoughs slowly died away, he seized her hand and squeezed in comfort. He would have embraced her, but that seemed too much like self-torture, even if she should welcome it, which he doubted.

And she was crying over the loss of that bastard Rossemore. He hated that she cried at all, but perhaps even more, he hated that she cried for another man. Not that he wished to be the reason she cried, but—

"Robert," Georgie said suddenly, her voice still shaky, "do you think I'm stupid?"

The question took him by surprise. "Why on earth would I think that?"

She sighed. "I feel stupid. I was so wrong about Phillip. I thought we knew each other better than any other. It never crossed my mind that he might be a fortune hunter. But does that make me stupid or merely vain? Both, probably."

She started walking again, and as he followed automatically, he was only aware of their skin touching where her hand still lay within his own. Not a limp hold, either; she clutched his hand as if her life depended upon it. Their gloves had been lost sometime during the day, and her bare hand felt small and soft, wrapped by his larger, coarser one. With awareness came a jolt of sensation, a strange excitement. Not lust; he knew lust, and it was never this mellow, nor as disturbing. No, this was a simple, almost innocent, pleasure.

"When you said I ought to apologize for not being grateful…," she continued, hesitating, "I laughed because it seemed absurd. But then I realized I
am
grateful. And that makes me feel stupid as well. I don't think that…"

As she trailed off, he wondered why she was confiding in him all of a sudden. It confused him, and flattered, besides, even though he suspected the darkness allowed her to imagine she spoke to someone else. "What?" he prodded softly.

"When I imagine never seeing him again… When I think of him being lost to me forever, I am so relieved! So that makes me wonder: did I really want to marry him? Or did I want to marry the idea of who I thought he was and the advantages it would bring me?"

Her voice shattered and Robert waited silently while she drew deep breaths. When she continued, her voice was shaky. "Maybe I did not care about him after all. Maybe I drew an image in my mind of the perfect marriage, like a package neatly wrapped and tied up with a silk bow, producing a likeness of him that was entirely wrong. And now that I see him more clearly, I do not feel the loss of him, of his person, at all. And how flighty does that make me?"

Robert tried to grasp her confession and its implications, wondering if she wanted answers and knowing he didn't have any. The feeling of helplessness pressed in on him until he wished with all his heart that he were at liberty to take her in his arms and offer what comfort he could. But he didn't dare be so familiar with her yet.