The Greatest Lover Ever (25 page)

“My dear Georgie. I can tell from the glitter in your eyes that this evening will not end well for you. Have a care, my love.”

She had the strangest urge to throw herself into Lady Arden’s arms and sob her heart out, the way she’d done six years ago, when she finally accepted that all was lost between her and Beckenham.

But she couldn’t do that now. “You need not be concerned, my lady. I shall retire early tonight.” There was a distinct pinch between her eyes. “In fact, I shall retire immediately. I have the headache.”

Lady Arden nodded briskly. “Yes, perhaps that is best. Things often look different in the morning.”

Georgie did not retire immediately to her room, however.

The dowagers had insisted that the doors and windows to the drawing room remained closed. Consequently, the room had been stuffy and hot.

Feeling the need for fresh air, Georgie slipped out onto the terrace through the long window in the library.

She contemplated the folly of what she’d done. Her temper had always been her downfall, and tonight was no exception. She’d intended to draw all eyes—most particularly, Beckenham’s.

She’d wanted to provoke a confrontation. Too late to realize there was nothing left to say. They’d been over this time and again.

“Waiting for someone?”

The harsh voice startled her. She jumped, swung around, her heart hammering.

Beckenham. He hadn’t lost time following her.

She swallowed. “I suppose I was waiting for you.”

The honesty of that answer struck her. Yes, she had been waiting for him. She hadn’t quite given up hope of divining his reaction, of feeling it.

“Flattering,” he said. “And here I’d thought all of this…” He let his gaze run slowly down her body. “All of
this
was for young Hardcastle.”

She looked at him straightly. She’d never liked games. She wouldn’t play this one any more. “I told you. He is a boy.”

He joined her at the balustrade, braced his hands shoulder width apart upon it, and stared off into the distance. Then his head snapped around and his glittering dark eyes bored into hers. “Sometimes I wonder if you know how very—” He sighed, gestured at her. “Georgie, your, you—” He shook his head, as if frustrated that he could not put into words what he wanted to express.

“What?” she demanded. “You need not scruple to say it, since you’ve insulted me quite comprehensively already today.”

“Look at yourself!” he ground out. “Deliberately provocative, putting everything on show. Inviting all kinds of lewd comments. Lord Oliphant even—” He broke off. “Never mind.”

She raised her brows. Men made lewd comments about her whatever she wore. Tonight, she’d taken command of her feminine power and wielded it as a weapon.

She shrugged. “What do I care for the opinions of a parcel of old rakes?”

“It’s not just rakes.” He pushed away from the balustrade and turned, shoving fingers through his hair. He swung back. “A man can’t help but think of making love to you whenever he looks at you.”

He broke off, as if horrified at his own frankness.

They stared at one another.

Her heart beat frantically. She swallowed hard. Did that mean that
he
found her alluring?

Yes, it must. It did.

And yet, he’d had no trouble resisting her that night in Brighton, hadn’t he?

Something tore inside her. For years, her better self had waged war against a nature that was passionate, sensuous, with the Devil’s own temper.

At eighteen she’d let her passions reign—and what a mistake that had been. In the intervening years she’d subdued them, repressed them, until it was second nature to deny her impulses.

Now, the passionate, sensuous, Devil-tempered creature flamed up inside her, laying waste to coherent thought.

“Do
you
want to make love to me, Marcus?”

The words, a husky whisper, spooled between them like an invisible thread.

He looked away. She saw the convulsive movement in his throat. “I told you. It’s a normal reaction for a red-blooded male when he sees a woman like you looking like this. Pure biology.”

It took all her courage to maintain her confidence in the face of that statement. “Oh, I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I don’t think it’s such an impersonal reaction as that.”

He lifted his gaze to the sky, as if searching for an answer in the stars. Another convulsive movement in his throat.

Her evil genius made her push him to acknowledge it. She wanted, suddenly, to get him as hot and bothered as he’d made her in the villa that night.

That’s what Delilahs did, wasn’t it? Or was that a Jezebel? She’d never paid an awful lot of attention to the words men used to describe the women who held power over them.

Anger flared again at the castigation.
Delilah.
She’d tempt him, all right. She’d make him surrender his power to her, just like Samson did.

*   *   *

“What would you do to me, if you could?” The husky words caressed, abraded, stirred Beckenham’s blood to fever pitch.

The part of him that had been growing ever more interested in this conversation hardened to a painful rod.

He couldn’t pinpoint when his righteous indignation had spiraled yet again into lust laced with fury. But he verged on doing something reckless, out here in the privacy of the night.

She was wanton, staring back at him with those amazing eyes, like a calm exotic sea. But no, they were not calm, those eyes. Angry little sparks flew from them like lightning bolts.

She was furious. Well, damn it, so was he.

Rage made her reckless. She’d asked him what he would do to her. He posed the corollary. “What would you like me to do?”

Her color fluctuated in a delicious wash of pink. It only emphasized the smooth creaminess of her skin, the utter brilliance of her eyes.

Those breasts. God, he wanted to plunge his face between them, fill his hands with them, lick them all over until she screamed. And that hair. He’d drag his fingers through the fire of it while he loved her until she forgot her own name.

She had nothing to say to his question. Why would she? They were speaking of his desire, after all.

He closed the distance between them. Panic flickered in her eyes, but she stood her ground. She had her back to the balustrade. There was nowhere for her to go.

Yes, she was so angry, she would kiss him merely to punish him, to show him that he was not the one in control.

He found that he didn’t give a button about control, about mastering her physically or in this battle of wills between them.

He just wanted her. And he was tired of denying himself.

Had she been here only a few days? It felt like a century that he’d struggled against this need. For six years they’d been apart. And not a day had passed in that time when he hadn’t thought of her, desired her.

Now she was here, making suggestive remarks. That perilously low-cut bodice begged him to finish the job and free her magnificent breasts to the balmy night air.

One day you’ll discover you’re not such a damned paragon. You’re made of flesh and blood and base carnal instincts. Just like me, just like your grandfather, just like every other man.…

Pearce’s words came to him suddenly, out of nowhere. He’d come close to choking the life out of the cur for saying them, among other things.

Suddenly, he stepped outside himself and took a long hard look. If he took Georgie now, as he’d had every intention of doing, he’d be no better than the rest. He wouldn’t deserve her any more than they did.

It struck him that she didn’t know her true worth or she wouldn’t fling herself at him like this.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, willing his desire-crazed body to calm down.

She blinked. “What?”

Her emotions swung on a pendulum; he saw it in her face. She didn’t know whether to be furious or relieved.

His certainty grew. “Don’t behave this way. It isn’t honest. It isn’t you.”

That’s what had always inflamed him, he realized now. He wasn’t jealous of any of those men who slavered over her body, extolled her beautiful face. He’d been angry at her for holding herself so cheaply as to flirt with them, for seeking to manipulate men with the only power they allowed her.

What they never saw was the strength, the wit, the godawful temper, willfulness, the compassion and courage that made up the woman. They never saw past her spectacular looks.

He ignored the siren call of her body and gently, almost reverentially, touched her cheek. “You don’t need to pretend with me.”

Her face threatened to crumple, but only for a second. She stared at him, an expression that was almost fearful in her eyes. “I don’t know what you—”

He kissed her. Slid his fingers into her loose, luxuriant coiffure; framed her face with his hands; and took her mouth with his.

Her scent dizzied him. Desire rampaged through his body like a baited beast but he beat it back, used all his considerable will to keep his lips gentle, to draw out her response.

And just like that, it was as if he’d slashed the ropes tethering a balloon to the ground. His whole spirit lifted, soared high and bright. Filled with an extraordinary sense of rightness, even as the flame of his passion for her burned ever brighter.

He felt her initial gasp of surprise, the uncertainty in her response. Leashing the straining lust inside him, he kept the kiss soft, almost languid in its slow, gentle rhythm.

On a shuddering sigh, her mouth clung sweetly to his. Her hands slid up his coat lapels and twined together at his nape.

She’d never know what it cost him to keep his own hands where they were, not out of respect for her maidenly virtue, but because he wanted to show her this was about more than animal instincts and carnal pleasure. So much more, he couldn’t find the words. He’d have to tell her with his kiss instead.

He was the one who drew back first, touching his forehead to hers, sliding his hands to her slim shoulders. “Georgie,” he murmured against her lips. “Marry me.”

She went still.

“We belong together, Georgie,” he said. “Don’t deny it. Don’t lie to yourself.”

Moments passed before she found her voice. “But I … Marcus, what about…” She made a helpless gesture back toward the house.

“I don’t want Violet. I don’t want any of them. It was a stupid, ill-conceived business from the start.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “I’ve always wanted you. I think you know that.”

She drew back, just a little, and he let his hands fall to his sides. He didn’t try to stop her, just tensed for her reply.

Georgie pressed her fingertips to her temple, as if prodding her brain to action. “I’m sorry. I cannot answer you now. I cannot think.”

The disappointment was like a physical blow. He’d hoped for her enthusiastic, impulsive acceptance. He’d wanted to take her to bed tonight, to claim her, body and soul, for his own. He’d give himself over entirely to her pleasure, be her slave, be the best lover any woman had ever known. Show her how vital she was to his happiness.

Happiness.
Had he ever even hoped to be happy?

She bit her lip. Her fingertips touched behind her ear in that way she had when she was deeply troubled.

Abruptly, he said, “Whatever your answer, I won’t marry Violet. Or any of them.”
Or anyone at all.
“Don’t allow loyalty to your sister to sway you.”

“No,” she whispered. “No, I won’t.”

With a convulsive swallow and a clipped nod, she slipped from between his body and the banister and moved past him. A strange melancholy clung to her graceful, elegant figure as she returned to the house.

His voice, hoarse with emotion, probably didn’t reach her. “Say yes, Georgie. Please, say yes.”

Chapter Sixteen

Oh, that kiss.

In bed later that night, Georgie pressed her fingertips to her lips. She’d never known Beckenham was capable of such tenderness. Even now, simply recalling the aching sweetness of the way his lips had molded to hers, she nearly melted into the sheets.

That kiss had told her he knew her, inside and out, that he cherished her, that he … That he loved her? Was she deluding herself to read so much into a physical act?

Men, she knew, tended not to connect physical acts with tender feelings of any kind.

But try as she might, she couldn’t be cynical about it. She’d begun by attempting to dominate him, to use his evident desire for her against him.

His response hadn’t been a matter of tactics. He’d called her bluff, dared her to be truthful, authentic in a way no one had ever demanded of her before. If that kiss had been an honest expression of his feelings, she’d be every kind of fool to say him nay.

She hadn’t delayed her answer to torment him. She’d been bowled over by his words, brought to her knees by his kiss. He’d been right about her, she realized, and that hurt more than she could ever admit.

Her father had spoiled her as a child. Giving in to her blandishments, he’d treated her like a son, taking her with him wherever he went as he carried out his duties at Cloverleigh. His pride in the land, his love and sense of responsibility for the people who worked it, had infused her blood.

As the years passed and her stepmother did not produce a son, Georgie had accepted gladly that Cloverleigh would be her responsibility one day.

Then came the news: She was to be betrothed to Lord Beckenham, who lived on the neighboring estate.

The day of her betrothal, her father’s attitude changed. She was to stop careering about the countryside like a hoyden and learn to act like a lady, like a future countess. She would make her come-out one day. She must do her utmost to be a credit to the earl.

Suddenly, decisions were taken about the estate without even the pretense of discussing them with her. Her father set her at a clear distance, rebuffing her attempts to persuade him to change his mind, punishing her acts of defiance.

She’d been devastated. Not only because he’d dismissed her from a role she loved, but because her father seemed determined to forget all about her. Now she was a girl again, she’d become a creature of no importance.