The Greatest Lover Ever (35 page)

She gasped, flushing. “Did I write that? No! You are teasing me.”

“If I am to supplant Pearce as the greatest lover ever, I need to know these things.” He said it with so much tender amusement in his voice that she couldn’t be angry. How wonderful to hear him so carefree and frivolous.

“Well,” she said, trailing her fingertip down his chest, “if you truly wish to be the greatest, my lord, you will have to get in an awful lot of practice.”

“Is that so?” Beckenham captured her hand, turned it up to press a kiss in the center of her palm. “I suppose one must make heroic sacrifices to achieve true greatness.”

Epilogue

The wedding was meant to be a quiet, private affair. But somehow, the groom’s extensive family had caught wind of the appointed day. Calendars were swiftly rearranged, luggage packed, children and servants bundled into various vehicles, and they all descended en masse upon Winford.

Carriage after carriage bowled up the drive, disgorging Beckenham’s kin. The more outspoken of them demanded to know whether Beckenham had run quite mad? Did he truly mean to wed that dreadful Georgie Black? Or was this some sort of jest Montford was trying to play?

That the duke rarely made jokes only added to the mystery of it all.

“We are positively overrun with Westruthers,” said Georgie, glancing out the window. “Oh, look. Even the devilish Davenport has arrived. Do you think they’ve all come to forbid the banns?”

Her voice was light, but Beckenham knew her better than to believe she was sanguine. His cousins had largely placed the blame with Georgie for the dissolution of their engagement the first time. Unfairly, he knew now. If he’d been more cognizant of his feelings for Georgie, if he hadn’t been too proud to express them, the incident with Pearce might never have occurred.

He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist, kissing her cheek. “Do you mind so very much?”

“They all hate me.” She sighed, settling back into his embrace. “But if it makes you happy to have them here, I don’t mind.”

“They’ll come around,” he said. “When they get to know you, they cannot fail to do so.”

He
was
happy—overjoyed, in fact—to have his family here. He’d agreed wholeheartedly with Georgie that they should marry swiftly and discreetly. He didn’t wish to be the focus of the Ton’s gossip and speculation.

Lydgate, Xavier and Xavier’s sister, Rosamund, and their other cousins, Cecily, Jonathon, and Jane were as close to him as siblings. Yet, he hadn’t known he wanted them there until they descended upon him. The girls brought their spouses, not to mention their numerous offspring, with them. Jonathon brought his new wife, Hilary, for whom Beckenham had developed a fondness, too.

The disused nursery was in pandemonium as nannies and nurses struggled to keep order. Beckenham was happy to leave them to it.

Suddenly, he wondered what the house would be like when he and Georgie filled the nursery with babies of their own.

He nuzzled her ear. “While everyone else is occupied getting settled, might we—?”

But the suggestion that had already brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her lovely eyes remained unspoken as Lydgate strolled in, a bat tucked under his arm. “Fancy a game of cricket on the lawn, Becks? Constantine and I have pledged to get the boys out of everyone’s hair.”

Beckenham turned. The constraint between them since that day in Bath seemed to hang in the air. But if Lydgate was prepared to extend the olive branch, in the form of a bat made from willow, then Beckenham wouldn’t refuse to grasp it.

“Capital notion,” he said with an apologetic glance at Georgie.

She tilted her head. “Can anyone play, Lydgate? I am no bowler, but my batting average is
not
to be sneezed at.”

Some time later, when he and Lydgate stood conferring over the condition of the pitch, Beckenham said, “I owe you an apology. You were right. About Pearce, I mean.”

Lydgate gave a curt nod. “Gracious of you. But I’m the one who owes the apology. I shouldn’t have spoken about Georgie that way. Within five minutes of seeing you together, I saw I was wrong.”

And so it was, that rather than taking three hours to primp for her wedding, the future Countess of Beckenham grew windblown and apple-cheeked, playing cricket with the Westruther relations on the manicured lawn of Winford.

Cecily, Lady Ashburn, who had always loved Beckenham best and thus, had long been Georgie’s sternest critic, said to her cousins, “Very well, I admit it! I came here ready to scratch her eyes out. But even
I
cannot possibly cavil at this marriage. Only look how happy she makes him. He is a different man.”

Indeed, everyone saw that Beckenham appeared less grave, walked with a lighter step, laughed often. Georgie was up to bat, with Beckenham bowling. He exchanged smiling taunts with her as he passed the wickets, tossing the cricket ball from one hand to the other.

“Only look at
her,
” said Jane. “She positively glows.”

“She’s as smitten as he is,” Rosamund agreed, sighing. “I do so love a romance.”

That evening at five o’clock, Marcus Edward Charles Westruther, fourth Earl of Beckenham, married Georgiana Mary Black in a quiet, private ceremony in the drawing room at Winford.

Rosamund whispered to her brother, “My dear Xavier, am I to understand this marriage has
your
approval?”

Steyne slanted an enigmatic glance at her, then returned his attention to the couple. “Hush. They are making their vows.”

At the end of the ceremony, Lady Arden heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank Heaven
that
is done and dusted at long last!”

The Duke of Montford raised his brows, an ironic gleam in his eye. “You claim the credit for bringing this off, I gather.”

“No,” said Lady Arden dryly, watching her younger charge, Miss Violet Black, proudly show her betrothal ring to the other ladies present. “
That
honor belongs to someone else, I believe.”

“All’s well that ends well,” said Violet as she and Smith helped Georgie prepare for bed that night.

“Truly, you ought to take over Lady Arden’s role as the family matchmaker,” said Georgie. She’d had many words to say to Violet, both on the subject of her clandestine romance with Hardcastle and on her recent flight to Bath.

Tonight, however, she could only be grateful to her devious sister. If Violet hadn’t intervened, Beckenham might even now be walking down the aisle with Priscilla Trent.

Violet kissed her cheek, then flung her arms around her. They squeezed each other hard.

“Be happy, dearest,” whispered Violet.

“You, too,” said Georgie, blinking back sentimental tears.

And when Beckenham finally joined her, she slid her hands into his hair, brought his head down to her, and kissed him with all the joy in her heart.

“At
last,
” she said on a sigh. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find it was all a dream.”

His dark eyes were full of tender laughter. “There won’t be much dreaming here tonight—not if I have anything to say about it.” His voice deepened to a husky growl. “Now that I don’t have to sneak away, I am going to love you until you forget your own name.”

“But I like my new name very much,” she replied. “Georgiana Westruther, Countess of Beckenham. It sounds well, does it not?”

“It sounds absolutely perfect,” said the earl, and he swept his countess into his arms and strode to the marital bed.

Read on for an excerpt from Christina Brooke’s next book

The Wickedest Lord Alive

Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

Waves of heat broke over Lizzie’s body, alternating with showers of ice. For the first time in her life, she thought she might faint.

He had found her. Dear Heaven, what was she going to do?

“Well, don’t just stand there like a looby, gel!” said Lady Chard, flapping her hand in a beckoning gesture that made the drapes of flesh beneath her arm wobble. “Come in and let me make you known to my guests.”

Years of dissimulation came to Lizzie’s rescue. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with a calming flood of air, and sank into a curtsy as Lady Chard made the introductions.

“
Miss
Allbright.” Steyne’s tone was drily ironic, his bow a mere inclination of the head that clearly expressed disbelief.

Lizzie made a small production of relinquishing her basket and book to the butler—so much for
Sense and Sensibility
—then propelled herself by sheer force of will toward the grouping of chairs around a handsome Adam fireplace where the small party stood. She sat opposite the two gentlemen, while Lady Chard sank into the armchair in a cloud of black silk.

Terror gripping her insides, Lizzie braced herself for exposure. There seemed no way to prevent the marquis from revealing the truth. He had her trapped like a rabbit in a snare.

She’d deny everything, claim she’d lost her memory and refuse to believe anything he said was true.

But she couldn’t see a way out of the trap. Legally, he had the power to command her, whether she remembered him or no.

Her mind seethed with plans and her insides roiled with apprehension, but rather than denounce her, the marquis simply scrutinized her closely. He remained stonily silent while Lord Lydgate—a distant cousin of his, she gathered—made elegant conversation.

“I was just saying to Lady Chard what pleasant countryside you have here, Miss Allbright,” said Lydgate, with his easy smile.

Lizzie warmed to him, for this slice of Sussex was in no way remarkable. In fact, for her, its lack of attractions of any sort was a great part of the region’s charm.

She managed to reply, “I like it, certainly, but I fear there is little of interest here for the fashionable set. We live very quietly in Little Thurston.”

“Aye, that we do,” said Lady Chard. “So if you young rapscallions have a notion of kicking up a dust here, you won’t be received kindly, mark my words.”

Lydgate did his best to look wounded, but his blue eyes danced. “Lady Chard, you will give Miss Allbright an entirely false impression of us.”

Steyne did not even bother to acknowledge their sallies. His cold, bright gaze fixed on Lizzie.

Her cheeks heated but she worked hard to appear unconscious of his piercing stare. Steyne made no attempt to denounce her on the spot, so she tried to relax and respond while Lord Lydgate gently steered the conversation.

“Is that a
smut
on your nose, gel?” demanded Lady Chard, breaking in unceremoniously upon Lord Lydgate’s discourse. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she leaned toward Lizzie for a better look.

Oh, plague it!
Lizzie’s hand flew to her face. She rubbed at her nose with her fingertips, flushing with the fire of humiliation.

“Hmph!” Lady Chard’s shrewd old eyes surveyed her. “And your hair’s all anyhow. You’ve been sweeping and scrubbing over at the Minchins, I dare swear. In my day, we gave them alms and that was the end of it.”

Any money that came the Minchins’ way would be spent in the taproom at the local inn, as well Lady Chard knew.

“Is that so?” said Lizzie with innocent surprise. “Then I suppose it was not you, ma’am, who sent little Janey Minchin a doll for her birthday only last week.”

Lady Chard hunched a shoulder. “I don’t go cooking their dinner for them, at all events.”

“No more do I,” said Lizzie briskly, uncomfortable with this talk. Mr. Minchin might be a drunkard, but his wife was a proud woman, who would not appreciate the family’s circumstances being bandied about in my lady’s drawing room.

She sought a means of changing the subject, but for the first time since he’d said her name, Steyne spoke. “Perhaps Miss Allbright would like to go upstairs to freshen her appearance.”

That made her flush more hotly than before. With what dignity she could muster, Lizzie stood. “No, I thank you. Indeed, I must be going now.”

The gentlemen had risen when she did. Lydgate glanced at Steyne as if he expected something, but the marquis merely dealt her another of his ironic bows.

The viscount started forward to take her hand, saying, “My dear Miss Allbright, I hear there is to be an assembly tonight. Would you honor me with the first country dance?”

Her head jerked up at that. Oh, but this was worse than anything! They were coming to the ball? And if she agreed to a dance with Lydgate, would she not be obliged to take the floor with the marquis, too?

Recalling all too vividly the last physical contact she’d had with Lord Steyne, she nearly shuddered.

“I am engaged for the first three sets, my lord.”

“The fourth, then,” Lydgate said promptly. He really did have an enchanting smile. It was a pity his relation hadn’t an ounce of his warmth.

“Thank you. I’d be delighted,” she murmured.

Without looking at Steyne, she turned to go.

“Miss Allbright.” His cut-glass accents sliced the air.

Again, she halted and looked back, and for the first time, she met his gaze squarely.

There is a plummeting sensation one feels as one wakes suddenly from a deep sleep. Lizzie experienced that now. It seemed to her that she plunged headlong into something dark and dangerous.

With difficulty, she found her voice. “Yes, my lord?”

“Save me the supper waltz.”

The command was so peremptory, it set her teeth on edge. Striving for her most affable tone, she said, “I fear I am now engaged for every dance, my lord.”

“Ha!” said Lady Chard, clapping her hands. “There’s one in the eye for you, sir. You ought to have been quicker off the mark.”

His eyes narrowed. He had not expected her to react with spirit to his command.

She couldn’t resist adding sweetly, “But do not fear that you will be without a partner, Lord Steyne. I am sure I can find
someone
for you to dance with.”

To her surprise, a gleam of amusement briefly lit his eyes. “Until tonight, Miss Allbright.”

The words were invested with so much meaning, it was all she could do not to pick up her skirts and sprint from the room.