The Greatest Lover Ever (7 page)

One of Martin’s uncanny talents was to anticipate a guest’s every desire and whim, so Beckenham wasn’t surprised to find several of his favorite dishes.

He filled his plate, then sat down with his cousins at the table. The slow churn in his stomach had subsided a little but he couldn’t quite reclaim his appetite.

“Becks is bride hunting,” Xavier said to Lydgate.

Lydgate choked a little on his ale, set the tankard down. “No! Damn me but you’re full of surprises this morning.” He straightened in his chair, eyes widened. “Not the Shady Lady?”

“Most definitely not,” agreed Xavier. “Beckenham wants a quiet, dutiful bride who won’t give him any trouble. Someone
biddable,
no doubt.” The last sentence was said with something of a sneer.

Beckenham focused on his plate. His wish for a bride seemed to belong to another century.

With an effort, he hauled his mind out of the quagmire of his encounter with Georgie. “I wouldn’t have put it quite so crudely.”

“Women,” said Lydgate darkly, “are nothing
but
trouble. If there’s one out there who isn’t, I haven’t met her.”

Beckenham didn’t agree. “You will admit that your experience of virtuous ladies is limited.”

Xavier’s lips curved in an unpleasant smile. “Lydgate’s right. It is a wife’s duty to make her husband’s life as hellish as possible, as far as I can see. The docile ones are usually hiding their claws until the wedding band is securely upon their pretty fingers. The beauties are vain and far too demanding, the bluestockings are dead bores.… Need I go on?”

Lydgate tilted his head. “Never knew you were such a misogynist. I love women,” he said on a sigh. “I can find something to admire in the worst of them. That’s my curse.”

“Yes,” Beckenham said. “Your total lack of discrimination was a factor in my decision to ask Xavier’s advice rather than yours.” He cocked an eyebrow at the marquis. “You cannot recommend even one lady to me as a suitable bride?”

Xavier curled his lip. “I leave the matchmaking to our former guardian.”

“Why
haven’t
you asked Montford?” said Lydgate.

“I’m not interested in shoring up the Westruther dynasty.” Beckenham shrugged. “Besides, Montford washed his hands of my affairs after the debacle with Georgie Black.”

That was the only time Beckenham could recall thinking the duke was a complete cloth-head. Any reasonable man could see Beckenham had no choice but to accept his congé with good grace. Montford had thought otherwise, mocking him for his stubborn pride. Which just showed how skewed the duke’s thinking had been. Montford deplored vulgar scenes and scandal; he ought to have been wishing the fiery-haired termagant good riddance.

No matter how well-matched their inheritances, the Earl of Beckenham and Georgiana Black were wholly unsuited to be husband and wife.

“At all events,” said Beckenham, “I refuse to have Montford’s Machiavellian fingers dabbling in my marriage.”

Lydgate regarded him with patent envy. “At least the two of you no longer have ties to him. I’m still waiting to come into my fortune. That won’t happen until my twenty-fifth birthday. And a more clutch-fisted—” He broke off, his sculpted mouth tightening. “But never mind that. What qualities do you wish for in a wife, Becks? Perhaps we may start there.”

Inwardly, Beckenham cursed. If Lydgate made this his project, he wouldn’t let up until he saw Beckenham leg-shackled to the perfect woman. Despite his vagaries, Lydgate was as much of a romantic as any of the female cousins. He would try to orchestrate a love match and drive Beckenham insane in the process.

Xavier tossed down his napkin and rose from the table. “Lydgate, the thought of you playing Cupid is almost as nauseating as the thought of Beckenham with a biddable wife.”

“Are you going for a ride?” said Beckenham, hoping for an excuse to escape. And, if he must be honest, hoping to put off his interview with Georgie. As well give her his head for washing.

“Already been,” said Xavier briefly. A slight smile of perfect understanding touched his lips. “Excuse me. I have business that cannot wait.”

He went out, leaving Beckenham to eye Lydgate warily.

His cousin looked like a Greek coin. His gold locks perfectly ordered in the windswept style, his nose as straight as his perfectly white teeth. A hard chin and strong jaw spoke of determination. The blue eyes—a lighter, sunnier blue than Xavier’s—glinted with speculation.

Lydgate had his elbows on the table, his chin propped in his hands. He stared at Beckenham intently. Beckenham could only imagine the thoughts running through that fertile, quick mind.

“There’s more to the story of the shady lady than either of you will admit, isn’t there?” Lydgate said softly.

The attack was so unexpected, Beckenham drew breath with a betraying hiss.

Before he could speak, Lydgate held up a hand. “No, don’t lie to me.” His tone had turned serious, with an edge to it. “I don’t pry into your business. If you don’t want me to know, so be it.”

Beckenham relaxed slightly. “The lady in question—”

“—Is a lady,” Lydgate cut in. “That much, I’d deduced. Fear not, cousin. I won’t try to guess at more than that.”

You could trust Lydgate on occasion. This, Beckenham decided, was one of them. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, old fellow.” Lydgate tapped his tankard with one finger, his forehead creased. “Leave the question of your bride with me. I’ll come up with a short list of possibilities and see that you get the right invitations over the summer. At a house party you have better opportunity to see how the young lady conducts herself in a natural setting, where she’s comfortable. The season can make the loveliest girl appear a ninny if she’s not properly schooled.”

House parties. Beckenham nearly sank his head into his hands. Dear God, not that. But if he must hunt for a bride, it would be better than doing the London season, he supposed.

“Even so, you’ll want to do the season before you decide, just to be sure you don’t miss any of that year’s crop of debutantes,” continued Lydgate as if he’d heard his cousin’s inner prayer.

Beckenham groaned. “That’s months away.”

Lydgate eyed him balefully. “If it were up to you, the girl would be delivered to your doorstep, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.”

With a gleam of humor, Beckenham said, “The idea has its merits.”

His cousin balled up his napkin and threw it at Beckenham’s head, then raised his eyes to the frescoed ceiling. “How can one work with such a boor?”

“Work” seemed to be the operative word. But Beckenham saw the force of Lydgate’s argument. Finding his countess was a task that required careful thought and strategy. If one had to spend the rest of one’s life in a lady’s company—and in her bed—one ought not approach the matter cavalierly.

He couldn’t help reflecting on the life he would have had if Georgie had not thrown him over. What if every night were like the last, only it didn’t have to end so abruptly, so painfully?

He shut down that line of thought. Regardless of their combustible passion in the bedchamber, they were wholly unsuited in every other way. He ought to thank her for being farsighted enough to set him free.

There was too much emotion and tumult, too much history there. Their marriage could never be the smooth path he desired, but a rocky, winding road that took them to the heights only to plunge them into despair.

After years of tussling with the snarled and decaying legacy his grandfather had left him, he’d finally reached the stage where his life was orderly and calm. He could only guess at the chaos Georgie Black would bring.

Anger flared. She’d asked for him last night. More than that, she’d walked into his arms, willing and wanton, impetuous as ever, never considering the risk she took. She was at least partly responsible for the tumult inside him now.

But his own recklessness—so wild, so uncharacteristic—stung more. The merest press of his lips to hers had sent him spinning out of control.

Who was he fooling? He’d lost volition the instant he’d laid eyes on her. She could do that to him. She had that much power. A very dangerous woman, indeed.

The one consolation in this mess was that he’d wrenched himself back from the abyss. Had he taken her, there would be no question at all that they must wed now. Thank God for the self-control that had returned when he’d needed it most.

When she’d said his name.

With an inward shudder, he tried to shake off the remembered thrill of her lips brushing his ear, whispering to him.

No.
No!

It was no use. He couldn’t pretend last night hadn’t happened. His conscience would give him no peace until he did what honor demanded.

He would pay his addresses to Georgie. She would reject him. He would do his duty and that would be an end to it. Then he could get on with the far more comfortable task of choosing a proper wife.

Beckenham started as Lydgate snapped his fingers in his face. “Becks, have you listened to a word I’ve said?”

Clearing his throat, Beckenham snatched up his napkin, pressed it to his lips. “My apologies. I was woolgathering.” He cleared his throat and added awkwardly, “I do appreciate your assistance, Andy.”

Mollified, Lydgate said, “Save your thanks. You won’t feel too grateful when the matchmaking mamas start hunting you down.”

Appalled, Beckenham let his napkin fall. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Lydgate shrugged. “Nothing to be done about it. If you reappear on the scene after such a long absence, there’s bound to be only one conclusion. You’re one of the most eligible bachelors in England, besides Xavier.”

“And you.” Beckenham eyed Lydgate. “I hear the young ladies and their mamas find you most maddeningly elusive.”

Lydgate sobered. “It takes some doing, staying one step ahead of the dear creatures. Lord, I could tell you some stories that would curl your hair.”

Beckenham cocked his head in inquiry.

“
Entrapment,
my dear fellow,” said Lydgate darkly. “The most ingenious methods. There was one incident a few years ago.…” Lydgate paled, clearly aghast at the mere thought. “But Rosamund came to my rescue. Dear girl, Rosamund.”

“You’d do better to confine your attentions to professionals,” observed Beckenham.

Lydgate’s blue eyes danced. “But where’s the fun in that? Paying a woman for her favors don’t interest me.”

“You like the chase,” said Beckenham. Which he, most certainly, did not.

In the months after Georgie had given him his congé, he’d gained himself quite a reputation with the ladies of the Ton. What had driven him, he knew not. But by the time he’d realized his existence was fast careering out of his control, he’d developed and honed his skills in the boudoir to a fine point. His emotions remained curiously detached from these adventures, however, and he finally realized it was dishonest to promise with his body what his heart could not hope to match.

Wiser now by far, he preferred his relationships with women to be clear-cut and uncomplicated. Any mistress of his was compensated handsomely for her company. It was a business transaction, nothing more.

Lydgate’s love life resembled a skein of wool after a cat had played with it: tangled beyond hope of unraveling.

“I do indeed.” A reminiscent smile played over Lydgate’s mouth.

Beckenham suppressed a groan. The threat of a London season was certainly an incentive to pay his addresses to one lady or another before the end of the year.

The betrothal itself had been the simplest and most straightforward aspect of the entire business with Georgie. Beckenham had known Georgie’s family all his life. She stood to inherit her father’s property, a very desirable collection of acres with a handsome manor house that had once been part of Winford, Beckenham’s estate.

Montford had settled it with Sir Donald that these acres would one day be rejoined to the Winford estate through his marriage to Sir Donald’s elder daughter. Beckenham couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known he would marry the foxy-haired girl from Cloverleigh.

He hadn’t taken much notice of Georgie, growing up, besides judging that she was a bruising rider, as fearless and skilled on horseback as any boy her age. In fact, it wasn’t until she let down her skirts, put up that glorious hair, and took the Ton by storm in her first season that he truly saw her for the beauty she’d become.

He broke off. Damn it to hell, why did his thoughts continually return to her? He ought to focus on what Lydgate was saying.

“House parties. Let me think. We need an itinerary.” Lydgate produced a notebook and pencil and made several jottings, a small furrow between his sleek eyebrows. “We’ll begin with the Malbys in Norfolk and work our way down England from there.”

Ah, hell,
thought Beckenham.
I’m in for it now
.

Chapter Five

Dear Lizzie,

I hope my letter finds you well and that you are not being driven to distraction by poor Dartry. He is a sweet man and will make a kind and generous husband, but oh, Lizzie! I wish you might love him. Truly, it is the most delightful and painful state.…

I cannot believe G has prevailed upon Mama to send me back to the Bath school next term, until it is time for the Season. She was scandalized that I went to a certain party last night and rung such a peal over me! But I cannot regret it, for dearest Lizzie, He was there. He has followed me here from Bath, just as he promised …

The hour was not late enough for the promenade along the Brighton shore to have become a crush. Grateful that so few of her acquaintances were up and about, Georgie inhaled deeply of the wild, salted air. She needed to scour her soul after the passion and humiliation of last night.

So much bittersweet yearning in that kiss. He must have felt her need for him, her desperate craving. How could he not? She’d begged him not to go, after all.

Shame flooded her. If only she’d thought before she spoke, her pride might not be as tattered as her youthful dreams.

A few paces behind her, Georgie’s maid heaved a dramatic sigh. Smith did not approve of Brighton, nor of walks along the seafront.