The Greatest Lover Ever (10 page)

His face froze. Then it relaxed as he set the horses in motion again.

She ought to feel triumphant. Instead, her chest was at once hollow and filled with pain. She couldn’t resist a final shot. “You have salved your conscience by making the offer, misguided though it was. You may return to your normal, well-ordered existence now, Lord Beckenham, with your precious honor intact.”

Chapter Six

Beckenham said no more as he guided his horses back to Georgie’s lodgings.

Well, she’d rejected him. As he’d known she would. He ought to be relieved. Now he could go on with his plans for marrying a nice, quiet lady who would slip into the steady stream of his nice, ordered life with nary a ripple.

The interview with Georgie did not go at all the way he’d expected. For one thing, she’d denied the entire event took place.

He didn’t doubt for an instant the lady in the powder had been Georgie. No other woman came remotely close to her in physical appearance, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way she held herself, her voice, the proud tilt of her head. The bright flare of passion that fired inside him when he held her in his arms. The sense of rightness edged with the thrill of excitement, of danger.

No other woman had ever affected him this way. The very air had crackled between them like a storm in the heavens.

She must have felt it. Yet here she sat, as cool as a cucumber, calmly rejecting his offer of marriage.

It rankled, damn her.

“I’ll take you back to your lodgings,” he said.

“Yes, I believe I shall need to lie down to recover from the shock,” she said in a caustic tone that was more hers than the temptress’s coo she’d briefly assumed. “Honestly, Marcus, you make me wonder sometimes.”

“Yes, you might spend an hour or so devoted to serious reflection,” he said, conscious of a wish to irk and confound her as much as she did him. “I won’t take your negative for a firm answer.”

The words were out of his mouth before he knew he’d meant to say them.

She gasped, clearly as surprised as he was. “You may very well do so. I shan’t change my mind.”

“Perhaps Lady Arden might change it for you.” Satisfaction at the hunted expression that crossed her face burned in his chest. “When she hears about last night.”

“You would never be so ungentlemanly as to spread such a falsehood about me far and wide.”

“There are so many erroneous assumptions in that sentence, it is difficult to know where to begin to refute them,” said Beckenham as he expertly feather-edged a corner. “It is no falsehood to report what transpired between us last night to your kinswoman. As for spreading the tale far and wide, Lady Arden has your best interests at heart. She is also discretion itself.”

Georgie fixed those sea green eyes upon him. “You want this? You truly wish to wed me after what happened six years ago?”

She was right. He must be insane to force the issue. He did
not
wish to be betrothed to her. He’d come here to satisfy his honor; that was all.

A blinding flash brought insight. His overpowering desire was not to wed her, but for her to acknowledge what had transpired between them last night. That it was all her—those searing kisses, the press of her lush body against him, the cries of pleasure. He wanted her to admit out loud that he could have taken her then and there if he’d wished.

“I’ll call again tomorrow to have your answer.”

She glared up at him, her irises glistening turquoise in the strong sunshine. “Are you proposing to cross swords with me on this, my lord? Precisely to what lengths are you prepared to go?” She gave a mocking laugh. “Ought I to be flattered?”

“It was not my intention to minister to your vanity,” said Beckenham.

“Oh, I acquit you of that, believe me.”

“Nevertheless, I will call again tomorrow.” Anticipation gripped his belly at the thought.

“I will not be at home to you, whether you call tomorrow or Doomsday,” she declared.

“Now, why would you make such a claim?” Beckenham wondered. “When you know I will come up and fetch you if you deny me.”

“Do that, my lord, and I shall have one of my footmen throw you out.”

Beckenham laughed. A hoarse, rusty sound. “You are most welcome to try.”

*   *   *

Georgiana paid meticulous attention to her appearance that evening. She was only attending a dinner given by some rather tedious connection of her father’s, then doing the rounds of various entertainments. There was zero likelihood of Beckenham attending any of these, but for some reason, Georgie felt more self-conscious tonight than she’d been at her come-out ball.

Smith, perhaps sensing Georgie’s mood, had outdone herself. Well, what could not be achieved when one possessed the fortune and taste—and, one might say, boldness—to dress precisely as one pleased?

To the surprise of everyone, not least herself, Georgie had never accepted any of the many advantageous offers of marriage made her. That meant, when she finally reached the ripe old age of twenty-five—only a few months hence—she would inherit her fortune outright.

Her trustees had warned her this would make her the subject of unscrupulous fortune-hunters. She was well aware of the fact; she’d swept many such leeches from her skin with a well-practiced flick.

“You are fire and ice tonight,” drawled a soft, deep voice in her ear.

Georgie turned her head to meet a pair of clear green eyes in a face that might have belonged to a poet, rather than a villain. High cheekbones, a brow many would call noble, a slightly aquiline nose. Thick sable locks styled in the latest mode. A full-lipped, sensitive mouth that belied the nature of a satyr.

Lord Pearce. Of course. Her mind had been filled with Beckenham, but it was far more likely she’d meet her less congenial nemesis tonight. He’d returned from exile and clearly meant to let the Polite World know it.

The heat of his body, the puff of breath at her ear … His nearness implied an intimacy that disgusted her.

She shifted to put a more polite distance between them, regarding him coldly. “Fire and ice?”

She knew what he meant. Her white silk gown overlaid with a silver lace robe was cold in its purity, her brazen locks a stark contrast.

“How unkind of you to make fun of my hair, sir.”

“You mistake me. The fire is in your eyes.” Pearce’s gaze swept over her, as mocking and practiced as a connoisseur viewing a fraudulent masterpiece. “Yes, there is a distinct dash of challenge in their sparkle tonight. What poor devil has had the misfortune to incur your displeasure, hmm?”

She put up her fingertips to cover a small, false yawn, distantly glad they did not tremble. “I cannot imagine what you mean. I am the most even-tempered creature alive.”

“A manifestly false observation,” said Pearce.

“Oh, I assure you,” said Georgie. “Were my temper as hot as my hair, by now I should have fetched a fruit knife from the supper table and driven it through your tiny black heart.”

He threw back his head and laughed, making several heads turn. His mirth spoke of pure enjoyment. “Oh, my dear Georgiana, how I’ve missed you.”

He always called her “Georgiana,” not Miss Black or even Georgie or G. It set her teeth on edge. But she didn’t reprove him for using her name so familiarly. Best to ignore than rise to the bait.

She dearly wished she had the reckless courage to carry out her threat with the fruit knife. Instead, she murmured, “Lady Arden will be looking for me. Excuse me, sir.”

Bestowing a vague nod of farewell upon him, she moved slowly through the crowd, head held high. Aware of the trail of gossip she left in her wake.

“There you are, my dear,” said Lady Arden as Georgie reached her side. The older lady fanned herself languidly. “Such a crush. Every year I vow never to return to Brighton, and every year, here I am again.”

A statuesque beauty of mature years, Lady Arden was elegant tonight in bronze silk. A matching turban set off the toffee highlights in her hair and brought out the brandy of her eyes.

All young ladies of the Black clan made their debuts under Lady Arden’s aegis if their anxious parents could possibly secure her. Lady Arden was a matchmaker unparalleled amongst the Ton. Combining taste and judgment with a certain elegant ruthlessness, Lady Arden’s success in arranging advantageous matches for her charges was legendary.

Which was why she found Georgie’s single state, the sole blot on her gilt-edged copybook, wholly unacceptable.

She brought forward her latest protégée, a young lady who blushed and curtsied. “You know Miss James, of course.”

“Yes, indeed.” Georgiana smiled down at the petite, rather shy debutante who was some sort of relation to both herself and Lady Arden. “How did you enjoy your first London season, Miss James?”

She chatted amiably, seeking to relax the poor little chit. Despite the girl’s months on the Ton, she looked as nervous as a church mouse.

All the while, Georgie felt Pearce’s regard like poisoned darts pricking at her shoulder blades.

What was he up to? She ought not to have run away from him before she’d discovered more.

And she had run, hadn’t she? In the most craven manner. She marveled at her eighteen-year-old self finding Pearce so compelling. What had possessed her?

Then, his drawling insouciance had seemed thrilling. Now, she knew that his sleekly handsome exterior hid a ruthless self-interest that far exceeded his professed devotion to her.

Merely letting herself be seen talking to Pearce was enough to set tongues wagging. If Beckenham called on her again tomorrow as he’d vowed to do, there’d be even more fodder for gossip.

What were the odds that both men should come back into her life at the same moment?

Ah, but of course. With her luck in matters of the heart, that was almost a certainty.

*   *   *

Beckenham called up to Lady Black’s rooms on three separate occasions the following day. He was unsurprised that Georgie was denied to him. He would have been rather disappointed if she’d let him get the better of her too easily.

He didn’t make good on his threat to fetch her himself. Georgie would have been clever enough to absent herself today, and he would only look a fool storming into an empty chamber. Quite apart from the gossip such behavior would cause.

However, he’d discovered from Georgie’s stepmother that they were engaged to dine with friends at eight, and that later they were to attend the Marstons’ ball.

Knowing Georgie’s habits, he calculated to a nicety how long she would take to make herself ready for the evening and called when he knew she must be home to dress.

Of course, when he inquired, he was told neither Lady Black nor Georgie were at liberty to receive him. The servant who gave him the news pressed her lips together in disapproval at the strange hour he’d chosen to call.

“Smith, isn’t it?” he said.

The dresser gave a slight start of surprise. “Yes, my lord.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “You are Miss Black’s personal maid, are you not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Be good enough to inform your mistress that if she does not present herself to me here in ten minutes, I shall go up to her.”

The dresser made a choking sound. Then she regarded him with a sapient eye. “My mistress would box my ears if I carried such an message to her.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Tell her to box my ears if she wants to commit violence against anyone.”

Of course Georgie would never box a maid’s ears, nor would the redoubtable Smith stand for such treatment. They had a singularly egalitarian relationship, which was odd considering Georgie looked down her nose at many members of the
haut ton
.

The maid gave a nod that held the barest hint of … What? Approval? “I shall deliver your message, my lord.”

He chose a farming periodical from the selection on the table and settled down to wait.

And she kept him waiting. A full twenty minutes passed before the answer came.

Smith, staring straight ahead with a wooden cast to her countenance, stated, “My lord. My mistress desires me to say that she will not come down in ten minutes or at any other time. She also said to inform you that she is in her bath, so don’t say you weren’t warned.”

The brazenness of it surprised him into another laugh, even as the image the words conjured in his mind made blood race to his groin in a hot, thick rush.

Georgie, all pink and cream loveliness, water beading over her shoulders as she sponged soap over one slender arm. Her long legs bent, knees peeping from the water like smooth white hillocks. Pink, taut nipples and rich, creamy mounds of—

The maid cleared her throat.

He dragged his mind back to the present. “Is that so?”

He thought for a moment. Then he slowly uncoiled himself from his chair. “Perhaps you’d better announce me,” he said gently, and gestured for the maid to precede him.

With a choked sound that might have been an outraged protest or a smothered snort of laughter, the maid hurried off.

Beckenham followed at a more leisurely pace. But instead of pursuing the bustling maid farther along the corridor, he made a right turn at the stairs.

As he walked out of Georgie’s lodgings, he whistled a soft, jaunty tune. He wondered how long it would be before she would realize he’d left.

*   *   *

“You at a ball, Becks?” said Lydgate. “Now, this, I must see.”

He’d settled himself in the dressing room attached to Beckenham’s allotted chamber with a brandy and a critical expression.

Beckenham groaned inwardly. What uncanny sixth sense had led Lydgate to be at home still when Beckenham had rung for his valet, Beckenham did not know.

Dressing for the ball didn’t take long. He’d brought suitable clothing, for Xavier always made a point of dressing for dinner, even when he dined alone.

Beckenham nodded to his valet to leave the pile of cravats on the table beside him and said, “Thank you, Peters. You may go.”

“I often go to balls,” said Beckenham, deciding to be difficult. The longer he kept Lydgate arguing, the more time he had to think of a reasonable explanation for this singular departure from habit tonight.