The Greatest Lover Ever (6 page)

Pearce remained standing where she’d last seen him on the drive, watching the scandalous cavorting that took place in the fountain with a pensive air.

Of course he would not recognize her. Not in this light, in this disguise.

Still, she hurried past, giving him as wide a berth as she might.

Her heart beat hard in her chest until she reached the safety of her carriage. When the door smacked shut behind her, she sank back into the squabs. A warm, intoxicating sense of relief poured through her body.

Without turning her head, she watched Pearce through the window from the corner of her eye as the carriage lurched into motion.

With that self-satisfied smirk she’d grown to fear as well as loathe, he raised a hand to her in salute.

Georgie tried to think rationally, but the twin shocks of seeing her sister with Pearce and that smug gesture of recognition made her brain clamor.

Oh, surely he had not known who she was. That quick, confident wave of the hand might well have been an impersonal gesture made on the spur of the moment to an unknown lady.

Her insides twisted. If Pearce had recognized her and spread tales of her presence at that shocking party …

In going to Steyne’s villa, she’d meant to do nothing more than rescue her sister from indiscretion. Instead, she’d encountered the two men she’d hoped never to see again.

Her agitation had transformed to self-righteous anger by the time she finally swept into her sister’s bedchamber.

Violet, the little minx, was already abed, nestled under coverlet and sheet. She lay on her side and her hands were palm to palm, tucked under her cheek. A slight smile curved her pretty pink lips. Her pale hair flowed over her shoulder like a river of corn-silk. She must have told her maid not to bother papering it, nor even braiding it tonight.

Another person might have been disarmed by the sight. Georgie was tempted to shake her tiresome sister awake.

How dared she look so innocent, so fresh and untroubled after what she’d been up to this evening?

Fear made Georgie’s anger spike. If Pearce had decided to make Violet the object of his attentions, the chit didn’t stand a chance. She was a clever girl, but she was no match for a man of Pearce’s experience.

If only she might be certain that no evil consequences would come of this night’s work.

*   *   *

Frustrated and furious at himself on many levels, Beckenham headed back to the villa. He’d combed the house and the grounds without gaining another glimpse of Georgie. Perhaps she’d taken his advice after all and left.

He cursed the evil genius that had brought him here tonight. He’d made a series of bad decisions since Xavier had come to him with the tale of an unknown lady seeking his protection.

He’d traveled to Brighton to ask Xavier’s advice on a suitable bride, not to entangle himself with the one woman in England he absolutely could not wed.

The thought had occurred to him more than once during his search: He ought to make reparation for his behavior tonight. If Georgie had been any other lady, he would feel obliged to propose marriage. It was what any honorable man would do.

He had always considered himself an honorable man. No matter how uncomfortable it might be, he followed the path his conscience dictated.

His conscience shouted at him, demanded that he swallow his pride—a huge bite, that—and at least ask the question. An honorable man would not picture himself spurned for the second time and cringe away from that image like a whipped cur. An honorable man would not rely on Georgie’s false assumption that he hadn’t recognized her. He would not hope that no one else was the wiser about that interlude, that Georgie’s reputation did not need rescuing, after all.

An honorable man would not seek a different wife with a view to escape.

He couldn’t bring himself to accommodate the notion of proposing to Georgie again, so he focused on finding her, on seeing to it that she was safe.

He rounded the fountain, refusing certain favors from the importunate nymphs for the second time that night. That’s when he caught sight of her, hurrying toward him down the steps, the skirts of her gown caught up in one slender hand.

His heart gave a hard jolt. But no, she wasn’t heading for him, but toward the chaise that stood waiting on the drive between them.

As if turned to stone, he watched her until she was obscured from his sight by the carriage that stood between them. She entered the carriage and settled herself against the squabs.

The vulnerable line of her throat made his chest contract with a painful longing. He had a crazed impulse to run after the carriage as it moved forward, to open the door and swing himself inside. He’d resolved to see her home, hadn’t he?

But when the chaise rolled past, it revealed another familiar figure, one he’d hoped never to set eyes on again.

Lord Pearce, the blackguard, raising his hand to Georgie in farewell.

Chapter Four

Violet rolled her eyes. “We were with Lord Pearce for mere minutes, Georgie. He barely spoke to me. Besides, he is quite old, you know.”

Georgie snorted. “Yes, he must be all of thirty-five.”

“Well, that seems old to me,” said Violet.

“Did—did Lord Pearce mention me?” said Georgie, trying to sound offhand.

Violet shrugged. “He said he was one of your beaux. Oh, and he mentioned your hair.”

Oblivious of the way Georgie stiffened, Violet’s gaze flicked up to Georgie’s crown, where her abundant curls piled in an ordered riot of astonishing brilliance. “He is right, of course. It’s magnificent.”

Georgie repressed a grimace. Her cursed hair was the source of more trouble than Violet could imagine.

“He’s quite charming for an older person, isn’t he?” said Violet idly. “One can see why he has such a dreadful reputation. Mrs. Makepeace told me all about him.”

“Speaking of reputations,” said Georgie a little more sharply than she intended, “it was badly done to go to Steyne’s house with the Makepeaces. You must have guessed how it would be.”

Violet’s countenance seemed to sparkle. “Indeed, I guessed.” She clasped her hands together. “And it was beyond even my wildest imaginings. I shouldn’t think anything I might see during my London season could compare. But how foolish to suppose the Makepeaces would not take good care of me, Georgie. Mrs. Makepeace wants me for her brother-in-law, so you may be sure she kept me safe from other men.”

“But not, I take it, from Harry Makepeace.”

“Oh, pooh! I can deal with Horrible Harry any day of the week.” Violet gave a tiny yawn. “It was prodigiously entertaining, though, G. You should have seen how lavish—and how lewd—Steyne’s party was.”

Georgie gave a small shudder. She’d not told her sister that she had indeed seen for herself. That episode was best forgotten. “I can only guess. And beg you not to repeat a word of what you saw to anyone—most of all to your mama.”

“You must think me a complete cod’s head. Of course I won’t.” Violet rested her chin in her hand and gazed at Georgie intently. “Have you ever kissed a man, dear sister?”

A sudden surge of memory flooded Georgie’s mind. Last night. That endless searing kiss …

She cleared her throat. “Good gracious, why do you ask?”

“Did Beckenham kiss you?”

Georgie’s breath exploded from her.
“What?”

“When you were engaged, I mean. Did he kiss you?” Violet frowned. “I quite thought it was permissible for betrothed couples to kiss.”

“It is. I mean…” Georgie sighed. She’d never spoken to anyone about intimacies between her and Beckenham. Georgie answered honestly. “Yes.” A sweet stab of pain shot through her. She swallowed hard. “When we were betrothed, we kissed.”

Violet’s stare seemed to pin her to the wall. “You did? What was it like?”

“Well, er…” Georgie struggled to recall past the blaze of passion last night had brought. One word came to mind.

“Pleasant,” she said finally. Rather an understatement, but Violet didn’t need to know that. She forced a laugh. “But then, it was all so long ago, I’ve quite forgotten.”

Yet she had not forgotten the hot, firm press of Beckenham’s lips upon hers last night, the deep, sensuous thrust of his tongue. She’d never guessed passion could be so dark, so all-consuming as the emotion that had gripped her in that bedchamber last night.

“Did you ever kiss Pearce?” asked Violet.

“Oh, good God no,” laughed Georgie. “I led him a pretty dance but I never let anyone kiss me except Beckenham.”

“What about afterwards?” persisted Violet. “After you jilted him.”

“Violet, don’t be vulgar,” said Georgie. “The proper expression is that we decided we wouldn’t suit.”

Another eye roll greeted that statement. “Whatever you say, G. But did you kiss anyone after you gave Beckenham his congé?”

Her sister was like a dog with a bone. Rather belatedly, Georgie wondered whence these questions emanated. “Did a man kiss you last night?” she demanded.

“No,” said Violet. “But I expect perhaps someday one might wish to, don’t you think?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” Georgie eyed her sister, all blue eyes and flaxen curls. “My advice is—”

Violet heaved a heartfelt sigh. “I know, I know. I should not let any man kiss me unless we’re engaged.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Georgie. “My advice is that if you don’t wish to find yourself speedily betrothed to the man in question, don’t get caught.”

Violet’s pretty mouth was agape. Then she broke into a peal of laughter.

Georgie reached forward and affectionately tapped her sister’s cheek. “I never said I was a saint, my dear. I don’t expect you to be, either. But I do expect you to be clever.”

She took her sister’s chin in her hand. “And I think you know that dallying with Lord Pearce in any shape or form is not at all clever. His brand of vileness is beyond the understanding of a lovely girl like you. He would ruin you if he could. Do not grant him the opportunity to try.”

*   *   *

It was almost noon when Beckenham went down to breakfast. He expected to encounter a great deal of detritus from last evening’s party, including several languishing, unclad bodies on the way.

He’d reckoned without Martin’s ruthless efficiency. The place was spotless and silent, but for the chimes of a hallway clock and the muted cry of gulls.

The welcome scents of breakfast pleasantly assailed his nostrils. Cooked meats, eggs, fresh bread. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of the repast Martin arranged for him the previous evening.

A series of images flashed before his mind’s eye. Georgie, soft and firm and round. Responsive, willing, pliant, searingly sensual. That low, husky voice trembling with emotion, begging him not to go.

And Pearce waving good-bye to her with that smug, knowing smile on his face.

Pearce’s presence and the familiarity of his gesture to Georgie had set off an explosion of conjecture in Beckenham’s head.

What was Pearce doing back in England after all these years? Did he intend to pursue Georgie once more?

As he approached the breakfast parlor, he heard masculine voices and hesitated, listening. He was in no mood for polite company. But he identified two voices, both well known to him. One was Xavier. The other was another cousin, Andrew, Viscount Lydgate.

“Good God, Andy,” drawled Beckenham, taking in his cousin’s elegance. “Your sartorial splendor is quite blinding this morning.”

Lydgate rose and strode toward him. “Beckenham!”

The blond Adonis gripped Beckenham’s hand and wrung it, clapped him hard on the back. “By Jove, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He cast a humorous look back at Xavier. “Quite a party last night, wasn’t it?”

Xavier, who was dressed for riding, bent a penetrating stare upon Beckenham. “Yes. Quite. But our cousin didn’t partake of the, er, more public amusements, did you, coz?”

Beckenham’s jaw tightened. “As you say.”

The glint in Xavier’s deep blue eyes abraded Beckenham’s conscience. Did he know? Had he guessed Georgie’s identity?

Beckenham felt the lively curiosity of Andy’s regard.

“Speak plainly,” Beckenham said, bracing himself. “Don’t keep the boy in suspense, I beg, or put him to the trouble of nosing out the truth.”

One of Lydgate’s most tiresome habits was an uncanny ability to discover secrets other people would prefer to keep hidden. The girls used to call him the Idle Intelligencer when they all lived together with the Duke of Montford.

“Very well, then,” said Steyne with a slight bow. “Our estimable cousin had a close encounter with a shady lady last night.”

Lydgate grinned. “So did I. Most delightful it was, too.” He glanced from one to the other. Beckenham’s nerves vibrated like the tines of tuning fork. “And this is remarkable because…?”

Xavier’s gaze locked on Beckenham’s. The tension became a churn in Beckenham’s stomach. He was almost certain that Xavier hadn’t recognized Georgie. His cousin had denied knowing her the previous evening. But at least now he’d know. That choice piece of information was so rich, Xavier couldn’t possibly resist the urge to torment him with it.

Xavier’s thick lashes veiled those midnight blue eyes. He touched his mouth with a napkin and set it aside. “Only because Beckenham cut me out for the privilege of spending time with the lady in question.”

Relief poured through Beckenham like a sluice of cool water. Gruffly, he managed, “Not so remarkable, in fact.”

But Lydgate’s openmouthed astonishment said otherwise. He addressed Xavier. “And you … let him?”

Xavier merely shrugged. “It was the shock, you see.”

Did Beckenham imagine it, or was there irony in the gaze Xavier leveled at him?

Damnation! He imagined veiled meanings that weren’t there, because he felt guilty. He should not take his cue from Xavier on this. He should discover where Georgie was lodging, march over there, and ask her to be his wife. He would do it and receive her inevitable rejection as a penance for his sins last night.

“But you must be famished after your, ah, exertions, Becks.” Xavier indicated the grand array of chafing dishes set out on the sideboard. “Have at it, why don’t you? Martin ordered what he thought you would like.”