Pretty Persuasion (14 page)

Tomorrow, we picnic
, the missive said.
Be downstairs by ten.

Georgie crumpled the paper and hurled it across the room. He was the most impossible, the most infuriating man. Pacing in front of the four-poster bed, she considered marching down to the master's apartments and let him know she refused to be bullied.

And bullying her he was, but why? The Robert she knew did not find perverse pleasure in acting the tyrant. Had he really changed so much?

It seemed like half a lifetime since she was thirteen and fancied herself in love with him. He'd been her whole world back then, and being his wife was the only future she'd imagined. But during his absence, she'd begun to abhor the notion of becoming just another society wife. There was something outright dismal at the thought of marrying according to her parents' expectations, having the required children, and then spending the rest of her life doing nothing worthwhile except the occasional charity work. With that realization had come her plans of traveling, and Phillip's betrayal had proved it was the only dream that really mattered to her.

So she and Robert had both changed, then—a reversal of priorities. Now it was he who wanted marriage, family, and an ordinary life.

Sighing, she walked up to the window and leaned against the frame while staring out into the darkness. Heaviness settled like an iron blanket over her chest. What to do? Marriage had been her sole means of fulfilling that goal soon enough to suit her inclinations. But what were the odds of her finding another man who'd even countenance the idea, let alone support it as fully as Phillip had? Especially since she couldn't even trust that
his
encouragement had been in earnest.

Better, then, not to marry at all. To suffer the stigma attached to the state of spinsterhood—the sympathy, the insinuations of disappointment, the speculations upon which of her flaws had proven deadly as she failed to snag a husband—than to tie herself to a man and let herself become caged.

She'd never have a family of her own, of course. But that was a small sacrifice, all things considered. It simply was not all that important to her. Not anymore.

And she certainly could achieve her dream without a husband. The Davenport Legacy—the tradition, started two centuries before, that passed the estate of Astley Park from mother to eldest daughter upon her twenty-fifth birthday—would ensure her the funds to do as she pleased. She might have to wait until that day to go, for she could not imagine that her parents would ever give their blessings to the venture.

But five years was not so long to wait for a lifetime of independence. In fact, in the grand scheme of things, five years was nothing. A mere fraction of her life, a small hurdle that could be easily jumped.

Of course, as Robert had stated truthfully at Gretna, her mother could change her mind if she wished. That she might do so had not seemed unreasonable then, but now it did. Georgie was certain nothing short of murder would make her mother break the tradition; she valued the independence the estate had brought her too much to rob Georgie of the same advantage.

She felt encouraged to the point of elation as she put out the candle and crawled into bed. It was such a relief, such a comfort to have it all sorted out, to have such a clear course of action. Snuggled under the blankets, however, it did not take long before a familiar sense of dread crept upon her. She lay there, tense, as she imagined returning to London and facing the inevitable confrontation her elopement and future plans would provoke.

Her mother's face drawn in disappointment, her father's stony and uncompromising… She couldn't do it. Not yet. She needed more time to regain her confidence, to rebuild her faith in her future and herself.
Robert's unnerving company, whatever his disposition, was vastly preferable. He was just one man, and whatever power he held over her could be overcome, as long as she didn't start bawling and blabbering and treating him as a confidant, she thought with a small shiver of self-disgust.

And kissing him. That would not happen again. It had simply been an experiment. An exciting one, for the thought of it even now made her feel as if her skin were too small, made her breathless and restless. Turning onto her side, she fluffed her pillow, as if she could punch the agitation out of her body.

Yes, it had been an experiment. The fulfillment of a juvenile fantasy, and a singularly forgettable experience at that. And with that paper-thin reassurance, she somehow managed to relax enough to fall asleep.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny. Georgie awoke sleep-fogged and wound tight with the memory of disturbing dreams. Blurry images cropped up, of Phillip making love to her while her mind was screaming for him to stop but her body was acting with a will of its own. Of Phillip becoming Robert, of her feelings being so jumbled she could not tell panic from pleasure or shame from desire.

And then she had been in the maze, crouching as she spied on the couple entwined on the ground, except she saw herself in Lady Ferrers's stead, clutching Robert between her thighs. The grinding, the moaning, the mad frenzy—she loathed and longed for it with equal fervor.

Squeezing her eyes shut on the memories, Georgie flopped onto her stomach and muffled a growl of frustration against the pillow. After several minutes of agonizing, she was forced to admit that she wanted Robert Balfour. Lusted after him so intensely she could not trust herself with him. Not when a look, a touch, or a simple turn of phrase could turn her knees to jelly and make her self-control go up in smoke.

She could not avoid him, not while they remained at Kingsworth, but realizing it was pure lust eased her disquiet. Knowing the nature of the danger gave her the power to fight it—a simple task for one not ruled by passion, such as she.

And with that conviction, she leapt out of bed, refreshed and ready to show Robert their nocturnal tumble in the fields had left her wholly unmoved.

ROBERT STOOD BEFORE one of the large mullioned windows in the square entrance hall, slapping his gloves absently in his palm as he waited for Georgie to honor him with her presence. He stared down the drive, which stretched far and straight before it curved slightly and wound between the stone pillars framing the wrought iron gate.

Bittersweet nostalgia had settled over him as his carriage had rolled up that drive, as he saw the house again for the first time in years. A perfect summer home, Kingsworth held mostly pleasant memories, but the manor itself disturbed him in subtle ways. It was a unique structure, two hundred years old and built in the style of a Florentine villa, an idea one of his ancestors had brought home from Italy.

In his youth, the house had become a symbol of his desire to travel, to see the world. But a Grand Tour had not been part of his plans, and he had ended up on Barbados in his quest for a different adventure. And so he had learnt that "different" did not necessarily mean "good."

It had been mainly a consequence of his own naiveté, but his father had to take his share in the blame. The late earl had shown a not entirely guiltless ignorance of the truth, and he was not at all averse to the idea of Robert undertaking the journey.

"Slaves are better off in a civilized, Christian society than gadding about scantily clad like the barbarians they were on the Dark Continent," his father had said, and it was a belief he no doubt embraced because it was inconvenient for him to do otherwise. The idea had kept Robert's ancestors content absentee owners for nearly two centuries. He was not the first to visit, but he apparently was the first to mind that a portion of the family's coffers was being filled in such a way. Or, at least, the first to mind so much that he would rather forego the profits.

Elysium was the plantation's name, a title that at first glance seemed fitting because of its paradisiacal location. Robert had arrived knowing next to nothing about the running of a sugar plantation and with little intention of learning, either. But that had changed.

He soon found that as possessions, the slaves weren't even valued. Too many of them died from being overworked and underfed, from disease and inhuman living conditions. And anyone who rebelled in even the smallest way was subjected to vicious punishment.

The missives he sent in an attempt to convince his father to sell were at first troubled, then angry, and had proved fruitless. The earl thought Robert was suffering from misconceptions due to his ignorance of the operation, and eventually even suggested that Robert was overstating the situation.

If anything, he had understated it, especially in his account of the plantation's manager.
Chadwick.
The thought of the man still turned his stomach, still made every muscle within him tense with unbridled fury. He had known none other who filled him with such hatred, such an intense urge to commit acts of violence.

Suppressing a shudder, he forced his mind away from the troubling memories and focused instead on the verdant landscape outside the window. Like his principal estate, Holcroft Park, Kingsworth felt like home in only a distant sort of way. He was not yet comfortable enough in the role of owner and master to even occupy the master's bedchamber in any of the houses that now belonged to him. It simply disturbed him too much to sleep in what he still considered his father's bed.

He checked his watch. Only five past ten. Her tardiness was yet slight, but he still felt a flash of irritation. He supposed it was to be a daily routine, wondering if she would defy his wishes. If she didn't show, he'd be forced to make good on his threat to set out for London, since Georgie, regrettably, was the kind of woman who'd not hesitate to take advantage of the smallest hint of indulgence. He would not be led around by the nose, and it'd best serve her to realize it sooner rather than later.

Ultimately, he could not afford to let her know that she had reduced him to this—a creature plagued by the carnal cravings of a randy youth, yet one with enough experience to know exactly how much trouble he could get himself into. He could spend a whole day endeavoring to win a smile from her, a laugh, even a single word not laced with scorn, and if that wasn't the path toward stark, raving madness…

What was a man to do when dealing with a woman as unpredictable as Georgie? If he hadn't already been lying flat on his back, he'd have been knocked over by a feather, so surprised was he when she kissed him the night before. His fantasies, vivid though they were, had done no justice to the actual feeling of Georgie in his arms—warm and pliable, as eager to touch and taste as he, proving that the undercurrent of attraction between them existed beyond his imagination. He grew hot and uncomfortable at the memory, then chilled when he recalled her subsequent curt demeanor.

We're even now.
He didn't have to wonder how she would behave when she finally decided to show. She'd be indifferent, even cheerful, as if the burning kiss had never happened—as if there was nothing between them except a broken promise and unfortunate, circumstantial proximity.

He caught a movement in the corner of his eye and turned to see her skip down the stairs, wrapped in the ethereal glow of the near noonday light from the windows on the floor above. She bounced as if she had springs under her feet, and it was not the dignified movements of the lady she was supposed to be—the lady she probably could be, if she wanted to.

"Good morning," she chimed as she reached the bottom steps. She flashed him a wide smile that left him alternately hot and cold. Hot because, hell and damnation, she had the most dazzling smile. And cold because he suspected her cheerfulness was only skin-deep.

"I trust you slept well," she said, sweeping her eyes over him with such blatancy that he stumbled into confusion.
Think!
He desperately needed a witty reply, something sarcastic, even suggestive—something that would throw her off balance as well.

"Tolerably well," he murmured.

"Excellent!" She beamed and gestured at the door. "Shall we?"

"Certainly." Groaning inwardly at his inarticulate response, he followed her and they stepped into another lovely Yorkshire spring day. He hoped appearances deceived and she was as tormented as he, preferably even more.

HE HAD CHOSEN the perfect spot for a picnic, Georgie acknowledged—a secluded patch of green by the river in the heart of Kingsworth's parkland. When they arrived after a ride even brisker than the morning before, they found two Kingsworth footmen in the process of placing a blanket, pillows, and a large picnic hamper on the ground in the shade of a beech tree.

She cast a measuring glance Robert's way. Had he picked the location intentionally? It would keep them out of the sun, allowing her the bliss of shedding her bonnet. It was a gesture befitting the Robert of her youth, but now the cynic within her could not help but suspect it a coincidence.

The servants' precipitous departure, however, showed his far more obvious plan to ensure privacy. But then, she could hardly expect any different.

"Where is Mr. Cameron this morning?" she asked, tearing off her bonnet as she lowered herself to the white blanket. She was desperate to keep her tone light, to avoid awkward subjects—so desperate she'd talk for hours about the Scots ogre if she had to. "Or was he not invited?"

Robert sat down across from her, leaned back onto his elbow and rested his arm on one bent knee. "He would have been, if he were around to be invited. I'm assuming he's still celebrating May Day, wherever he is."

"I would have thought he'd be eager to return to town." When Robert gave a noncommittal shrug, an amusing thought struck her. "He's always at your back, isn't he? Watching over you, like a mother hen."

The quelling glare he fixed on her tore a giggle from her throat. Obviously far from amused, he propped himself on his knees and reached for the picnic basket. "Are you hungry?"

"Famished," she replied emphatically, grinning at his rigid pose, knowing he could hear the laughter still in her voice. Really, he was in a very un-picnic sort of mood—curt and humorless.

But, oh my, did he look handsome in his moss-green coat, his pale-green-and-white striped waistcoat, and buff breeches. Accepting her attraction to him gave her the freedom to admire him without a twinge of unease. It could hardly be a sin to look. So she freely enjoyed the sight of his coat stretched taut around his arms as he set the plates for their meal and the muscles of his thighs bunching under the tight fit of his breeches.