Pretty Persuasion (4 page)

Cameron and Robert exchanged grave looks, a silent communication acknowledging their unspoken agreement to keep the past where it belonged: in the past.

"Right," Tony said after a loaded moment. "I'll be off, then. I just recalled a previous engagement."

Ah, yes. No doubt he had bottles to empty, skirts to chase, card tables to visit, and lives to jeopardize with reckless exploits; Tony was making the most of his leave of absence. Robert tamped down the urge to voice his disapproval. He had done little else the past two weeks, and his words always fell on deaf ears. Right now, there was another matter he needed to address. "Wait."

"What?" Tony stood and grabbed the dark blue coat draped over his chair. Ready belligerence shone in his eyes, daring Robert to say the wrong thing.

"What do you know of a fellow named Phillip? Tall, slim, fair hair. Dresses like one of Brummell's disciples."

Tony drew on his coat, brows lowered in thought. "Nothing comes to mind. Except—it could be Rossemore."

"Rossemore?" The name was unfamiliar.

Tony gave a short nod. "Baron. Hails from Surrey. Excellent horseman. Why do you ask?" He shook his head. "Never mind; I don't care. I bid you a pleasant evening, gentlemen." He turned on his heel and quit the room, all but slamming the door.

Cameron gazed after him with a frown. "And to think he was one of the chief reasons you were so eager to leave that infernal island. I swear, he was in jolly good spirits. Until you arrived."

Robert blew out a sigh. The encounter with Georgie—the deceitful, far too pretty thing—and now dealing with his brother's surliness was giving him a headache. Perhaps he needed some strong drink after all. "I told you he's changed," he said as he got up and yanked on the bell pull. "He has my mother tied in knots, worrying about him."

Cameron let out a noncommittal grunt, and they sat in silence until the butler arrived. Robert bid the man bring him a bottle of rum.

His friend threw him a dry look. "Brought home some mementos, did you?"

"Some habits are hard to break," Robert replied with a shrug. "I suppose I've developed a taste for it."

Any trace of humor disappeared from Cameron's expression. "For what? Rum or self-inflicted torment?"

Robert flinched at the stab of pain his friend's words caused. Cameron wanted him to forgive the unforgivable when all he wanted to do was forget. His butler returned with the bottle and glass. Desperate for some kind of relief, Robert half filled the glass, then emptied it in one swallow. He rarely tried to drown his sorrows—they always proved remarkably buoyant—but tonight, he'd make an exception.

"So, who's this Rossemore fellow?"

Robert refilled his glass. "Unless my brother guessed wrong, Rossemore is the man in whose arms I practically discovered my intended bride this afternoon."

His friend whistled softly. "Not exactly the warm welcome you expected, eh?"

"Not exactly…"

"I suppose it's too much to hope she's ill-favored," Cameron mused with a sardonic smile, "or even the slightest bit bucktoothed."

When Robert cast him a withering glare, he naturally took that as a cue to go on, saying, "A duke's daughter, if I remember correctly, so her breeding is impeccable, as are, no doubt, her manners. Her wits are sharp, but she does not make it a point to display them, and she's in possession of a sweet disposition that would make her husband the object of much envy. Did I forget anything? Oh, yes, her virtue is—well, I suppose there's little to commend her there, considering the circumstances."

"Damn you, Cameron," Robert said, chuckling despite himself. "I was ready to launch into a lengthy list of my grievances, but now they'll only sound ridiculous."

His friend gave a faint smirk. "They would have sounded absurd, in any event." His smile faded. "You don't seem too aggrieved. What, exactly, happened?"

Robert summed up the afternoon's events as objectively as he could muster, and when he finished, Cameron was frowning in earnest. "Sounds like you're better off being rid of her. Wouldn't want to tie yourself to a deceitful lass with a short fuse."

No, he certainly wouldn't, no matter how beautiful she had become. But God, was she lovely. No longer a gangly young girl, but a woman with the power to dazzle. Where there had been little but bones and angles, there were flesh and curves. Around her, every color seemed more intense. Violet eyes instead of deep blue; unruly curls of jet black hair, the odd tendril defying the imprisonment of pins and ribbon; creamy skin that flushed a delicate pink when her temper was aroused.

And freckles. Dozens of tiny, charming freckles, sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.

She had always possessed an endless curiosity, an indefatigable vivacity. It had made her a veritable tempest of youthful energy, and now it was manifesting itself as an air of inherent sensuality, to the point where, coming from her, even an insult sounded like an erotic invitation.

Imagining her in the arms of that fop had no more than stung his pride until he set eyes on her. Since then, he had been battling all-powerful, irrational jealousy. He was not used to feeling possessive about a woman, and he damned well didn't like it. Especially since the woman in question had wasted little time in renouncing him.

"Better off without her," he mumbled, hoping to God he'd manage to convince himself of that.

"Phillip sent word, and it is to be to-night! I shall meet him at Hill and John Street at three in the morning, where he shall await with a hired coach. Mamma has improved enough to attend Lady Faversham's soirée, so I shall make good my Escape without detection. But, O! I am so beside myself with nerves that I cannot sit still for Two Minutes together!"

— From the diary of Lady Georgiana Montford, aged 20

GEORGIE TREMBLED LIKE a leaf when she slinked out of her room that night. Heart thumping, she crept down the stairs, expecting with every step for the aged wooden boards to creak and give her away.

She opened the front door, hands cold and clammy inside her kid gloves. Berkeley Square was deserted, and, as she darted around the corner onto Hill Street, she sucked in the crisp night air and exhaled in relief. Exhilaration flooded her and only the bags she carried kept her from taking off into a run.

The closed carriage looked conspicuous, for all that it was cloaked in shadows, lingering on the corner of John Street. Two dark figures hovered nearby, and a third was pacing back and forth.

Phillip.

He noticed her, and she quickened her steps as he hastened to her, his arms outstretched. Dropping her bags, she hurled herself into his embrace, letting out a squeal as he swept her into the air.

"Hush," he commanded with a chuckle. He sought her mouth, and their lips met for a hot, breathless moment.

"Let's be off," he said, taking her hand.

The manservant swung open the door, and Phillip lifted her inside as if she weighed little more than a feather. After a few hurried instructions to the coachman, he vaulted into the carriage, settling on the seat across from her. The door shut, a whip cracked in the still night air, and the vehicle lurched into motion.

Georgie's heart sang. The glory of freedom, the heady but frightening taste of the forbidden, and the fulfillment of a yearlong dream fused into one giddy feeling. No more secret meetings; no more lies. Instead of chaos, she saw only bliss, and for that, she could weather her parents' censure.

"I was afraid I did not leave you enough time to prepare."

The sound of his voice, dark and fervent, melted into her. "I was ready." It was true; she had been ready before she even met him. She patted the squabs. "Come sit beside me."

Phillip said nothing for a while, but she could sense his smile in the darkness. The air between them hummed with anticipation and high spirits.

"I should not be able to keep my hands off you," he said roughly.

Warmth curled through her, and she gave a short, exasperated laugh. "I don't want you to, Phillip."

Impulsively, she leapt from her seat. The coach took a sharp turn, and the sudden lurch sent her flying. Phillip caught her, and she landed in his lap, erupting into laughter again. Her breath hitched as his arms tightened around her, and she reached to draw his head down, but he was already dipping toward her. His hat collided with her deep-brimmed bonnet, and another giggle tore from Georgie's throat.

"Infernal thing," Phillip muttered as she tugged at the ribbons under her chin. She removed the bonnet and flung her arms about his neck. But instead of finding her mouth, his lips brushed her ear, his breath hot and shallow. "You seemed so distressed this afternoon; I could not bear to make you wait any longer."

She closed her eyes, inhaling his familiar scent—cologne, tobacco, and leather. It smelled of stolen moments, of guilty pleasures.

And better yet: in a few days, there would be no more guilt.

"I'm glad you could not wait," she whispered. "Thank you."

He responded by crushing her to his chest and lips with renewed vigor. Shifting, Georgie pressed closer, and he groaned deep in his chest. Breaking off the kiss, he shoved her gently onto the seat beside him.

He released a ragged breath. "You make me forget myself."

Georgie sighed—part disappointment, part relief—and then she smiled. Knowing he would stop gave her courage; their passionate embraces were a safe adventure.

She did not deny that his appearance was what had first brought Phillip to her notice. If she had not found him attractive in body as well as in mind, she would not be eloping with him now. She had every intention of enjoying all aspects of their marriage. Though she was in no hurry to increase their intimacy, she was curious and excited enough to look forward to sharing his bed.

And it was only to her liking that these feelings toward him could hardly be described as a grand passion. She had no use whatsoever for such sentiments.

She rested her cheek on his shoulder and shut her eyes. His arm came around her, and she let the warmth and comfort of his body lull her to sleep as the carriage raced through the streets of Mayfair, heading toward the Great North Road and Scotland.

THE WALLS WERE tall around her, much taller than she, and the path narrow. She could not see where she was going, but the directions were a map of words imprinted on her mind:
left, left, right, left, right…

Right. It was right that Robert had taught her the secret of the maze. Right that she should now follow him into its heart. Right that he would someday be her husband.

Not quite so right that there were nine years between them, and that thirteen was too young to marry. But she was not too young to love, and for two years she had loved Robert Balfour. For two years he had consumed her. She heard his voice in her dreams—the gentle but firm tones, the low, rumbling laughter. She saw his green eyes, alight and inquisitive, then dancing with amusement. She felt his presence, ever constant: his patient and agreeable manner; his singular treatment of her, as if she were special; his obvious affection.

Her heart and soul were his, and today, her body would be likewise. This day had been a lifetime and a half coming. They'd share their very first kiss, sealing their bond and acknowledging their love. Anticipation of it put springs under her feet.

The bright, green grass, vitalized by the mild mid-summer weather, rustled beneath each hurried step of her leather half-boots. Sunlight sifted through the thick hedges, streaking the path before her. She was not cold, and yet goose pimples pricked the back of her neck. She was not running, and yet she was breathless. She was not hungry, and yet her stomach clenched tighter with each passing second.

A strange sound reached her ears. It resembled the mewling of a kitten and then plummeted to something deeper, a guttural moan that might belong to a creature, not quite human, in excruciating pain.

The noise increased as she started down the last stretch. At the end of this lane was the last corner before the maze's center. But her legs turned to lead, and she could go no further. Against her instincts, in a kind of trance, she fell to her knees. She heard only the pounding of her heart as her palms met the cool grass and her eyes found a gap in the undergrowth.

They lay entwined on the ground: squirming, grinding, panting. The lady was not pale, thin, and freckled. No, no, she was Lady Ferrers—beautiful, voluptuous Lady Ferrers. And Robert…

Oh, God. Robert. The world spun, turned hazy and ugly. Her heart shattered into a thousand pieces. She was suffocating, stabbed by each glimpse of stocking-clad legs, naked thighs, and frenzied, open-mouthed kisses.

Robert! His name became a scream inside her head, a wail whose echo lingered as she scrambled to her feet and stumbled away. The ache in her chest swelled; a cloud crept in front of the sun, and the walls closed in on her.

Her breath came out in shallow, hitched gasps. He dared? He did! He dared… touch another woman! Was he not promised to her? What was he… why would he…

Oh! He was a rat. A dishonorable, faithless, despicable rat.

A painful knot welled in her throat, and her eyes burned as she fought back tears. How foolish was she, to think a grown man such as Robert could love her as she loved him? Had he befriended her out of duty? Yes; that, or kindness. Or sympathy. Another scream rose, and her head burst with the effort to suppress it.

A rat. He was a rat. And she would not marry him. No, never, never—

Sharp pain stabbed through Georgie's temple, jerking her awake. She caught her breath, grasped for something to hold on to, and found a velvet lapel that curled softly within her hand.

The carriage hit another dip in the road, but this time she was awake and able to steady herself before her head would have hit Phillip's hard shoulder again. Gazing up at the pointed contours of his face, illuminated faintly by moonlight, she waited for him to wake. But his chest continued to fall and rise undisturbed, and at last she pushed away, sliding over to the opposite corner.