The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (23 page)

“You have a ..,” she paused as she continued her survey of the elegant vestibule, her eyes taking in the painting on the ceiling, the gilt edging on the moldings, the alabaster columns that stood on either side of the wide opening to the main hall, the Aubusson carpet covering the entire floor. She’d made a complete turn of the room while taking it all in. “... A very beautiful home,” she breathed as her gaze finally settled on him. Having hung up her mantle, he had reappeared from behind a wall that displayed a huge oil painting of what very well could be the West Sussex countryside.

“Made more so by your presence, my lady,” he countered as he moved to stand in front of her, a slight grin keeping his face friendly and handsome.
Keep your expression light or you’ll scare her to death
, he remembered Josie saying. 

The comment seemed sincere, as did the look in his eye as he regarded her.
Can he truly expect I would ever be his wife?
Elizabeth wondered as she considered for at least the fifteenth time that day what she was about to get herself into. “Is your butler otherwise detained?” Elizabeth wondered, her nervousness suddenly returning. George looked larger somehow, more imposing, certainly more confident than he had in the ballroom or in the park. But he also appeared approachable, his dark blue top coat and breeches the perfect enhancement for his bronzed skin and sable hair and blue eyes. She hadn’t noticed his eyes before, hadn’t even realized he had blue eyes. They weren’t light blue like Gabriel’s, but a darker blue. Deeper. A color she could spend several minutes trying to define as she stared up at him.

George held her gaze while wondering what she was thinking. “As I promised, I have seen to it the staff is away for the evening,” he answered lightly. “I sent them on a bit of a holiday, actually.” He didn’t add that she had no reason to be concerned about gossiping servants. For an assignation such as this, it was imperative that no one know of her presence in his home. Had he not trusted his coachman as much as he did, he would have had Elizabeth picked up by a hired coach. Josephine insisted on the new town coach, though, reminding him that he was competing with Butter Blond for Elizabeth’s hand. He could only hope Josephine’s presence in the coach was not a mistake.

Elizabeth placed her gloved hand on his arm.
How can his arm be so warm?
she wondered as she walked alongside him, her gaze trying to take in the elegance of his home. The ornate floral arrangement on the round table in the vestibule, the columns that stood on either side of the entrance to the hall, the endless length of Aubusson carpet on the floors, the rich moldings along the walls and carved balustrades on the edge of the stairs. Carlington House was certainly well appointed, with rich fabrics and tasteful wall coverings and furnishings, but George’s house was somehow more ... more
everything
. Newer, perhaps. Not as lived-in as her own home, and yet it felt more welcoming. “Truly, you have a beautiful house,” she breathed again, her head tilting to take in the myriad of paintings that lined the walls.

George turned his head and found his lips mere inches from hers. “Because you are in it,” he replied without pause.

Thinking he might be teasing, Elizabeth stared at his eyes, saw the desire there, saw his lips hovering so close, and realized he was not teasing. Without realizing quite what she was doing, she lifted her head just a bit more and raised her free hand to cup the side of his face. Her lips collided with his, her mouth open and inviting and tasting of mint. But the kiss was quick, meant to greet him and to let him know she had not changed her mind and, perhaps, to remind him that
she
had a bit of control in all this. She allowed a wan smile. “You are too kind,” she murmured, finally responding to his compliment. Motioning toward what she figured was the library door, George nodded and led her into the brightly lit room.

Too kind?
George thought suddenly. He’d spent the afternoon designing just how this was going to work. This was his only opportunity to court her, to convince her that he would make a better husband than Butter Blond, to make her feel as if she was the only woman in the world, the only woman for him. And after only a walk from the front door to the library, she had him so addled he wanted to do nothing more than undress her right there and then and ravish her until she agreed to be his wife.

And then he would really ravish her.

“Oh, George, what an amazing room,” she cooed as she turned around slowly to take in the accoutrements of the room – the towers of books, the coffered ceilings, the astrolabe on the edge of a walnut library table, the overstuffed chairs set next to a massive stone fireplace where bright flames danced and logs crackled and popped. This wasn’t at all like the stuffy library at Carlington House, with its dark woods and even darker fabrics. This was warm and inviting. One could pick out a book, sink into one of the comfortably plush chairs and simply get lost in a story.

When she’d made the entire turn of the room, she found him holding two champagne flutes.
Deja vu
, she thought, remembering another library and two glasses of champagne in the Worthington house – only the night before.

Had it only been last night?

She took one of the glasses and held it up in a sort of salute before taking a long drink. George’s eyebrow cocked in surprise. She took note, stopped nearly in mid-gulp and slowly pulled the glass away from her lips. His attention held as the rim left her lip, a droplet of champagne resting there until the tip of her tongue captured it.

The thought of her tongue tip sliding over his body came unbidden, forcing George to take a quick breath and hold it, forcing him to stay very still or risk losing control and taking her into his arms and forcing his own tongue into her mouth.

Holding the half empty glass up near her shoulder, Elizabeth wondered if George would admonish her for drinking too much or too fast. “It’s very good,” she murmured, indicating the glass she held.

George’s lips curved and he moved a step closer. He held out his glass as if to look at the liquid with lamplight behind it. “All because of the bubbles,” he said quietly, forcing Elizabeth to set her gaze on his glass. “When you drink champagne, small sips allow the bubbles to rest on your tongue, to tease it into tasting the unique flavors before they float away. Then, when you swallow, you do so of only a bit of the liquid, and those bubbles continue their magic as they slide down your throat.” His gaze had moved from the liquid in his glass to her, his eyes following the column of her neck down a bit before he glanced back up at her. “If you haven’t eaten anything recently, then within minutes, your knees may feel a bit giddy, and after a few more,
you
may begin to feel that way, too.” This last was said with a hint of humor, his eyes sparkling nearly as much as the champagne. He finally took a sip, and Elizabeth could tell he was holding it on his tongue before he finally swallowed. She watched, mesmerized, as his throat moved.

She’d been holding her breath as she listened to George described the effects of champagne. Her knees were already feeling a bit giddy – she was nervous again, and she thought if she drank the champagne quickly, it would help calm her for the dinner to come. Now she considered that if she did not sit down or at least lean against something solid, she was afraid she might just sink to the floor. Glancing down at the floor, she found it covered in a delightful patterned carpet. Perhaps she could simply lower herself to sit on it, as long as she arranged her skirts to keep her ankles covered.

George regarded her with a mischievous grin and stepped forward, offering his arm. “I do believe milady is in need of some supper,” he said as he noted Elizabeth’s quick placement of her hand on his arm. A jolt shot through him as she gripped his forearm, her gloved hand taking purchase as if her life depended on it. With his free hand, he took up the silver bucket containing the champagne bottle and held it in the crook of his arm.

“That sounds delightful,” Elizabeth responded with a nod, allowing him to lead her up the stairs. “How long have you lived here?” she asked as she continued to survey her surroundings. Everything around her looked
rich
. The colors, the woods, the fabrics, the carpets. Everything looked expensive and new and carefully maintained. There was nothing old or stuffy about the place. Nothing that suggested anything but the paintings were from the prior century.

“Just since August,” George replied lightly. And when Elizabeth expected him to say that he had purchased everything in it since then, he added, “My uncle lived here prior to his death. I was his only heir, so I inherited everything last January.” He paused in the double wide opening to a large room. “I thought we’d be more comfortable having supper up here,” he stated as he led her through the doorway and then closed the doors behind him. A massive fireplace, in the center of the long back wall of the room, and several lamps throughout the space gave the apartment a golden glow. Elizabeth glanced about, not even realizing until her second look that a massive canopied bed was situated at one end of the room. The velvet drapes were closed on the side of the bed facing them.

“Is this ... your bedchamber?” she asked with a hint of alarm, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She took a quick drink of champagne hoping to quell her nervousness.

“My apartment, yes,” George amended, hoping he hadn’t miscalculated by having their dinner brought here instead of to the dining room downstairs. He thought that room too spacious for an intimate dinner.

The apartment was sectioned by furnishings, one area set up with an escritoire and desk chair, another with a settee, chairs, and small tables, a breakfast table with two dining chairs were positioned next to a serving buffet, and, at the far end of the room, the bed with a bench at its foot, a large wardrobe, a cheval mirror and two large dressers. Beyond that, there was a door that she thought probably led to a bath.

“It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth spoke finally, her eyes still surveying her surroundings before they returned to find his watching her. She swallowed the rest of the champagne in her glass.

George refilled her glass even before she could ask for more. “Made more so by your presence, milady,” he said quietly. He took a sip of champagne.

Elizabeth remembered the bonnet she wore and thought it best to remove it before they sat down to dinner. She pulled a couple of pins out of the velvet and lifted it from the mass of curls atop her head. Setting it on a small table, she turned to find George still watching her. He was holding a chair for her at a table set for two. Covered serving platters filled the table, leaving little room for anything but essential dinner accoutrements. She took the proffered chair and placed a linen napkin from her place setting across her lap. In a moment, George was sitting across from her doing the same thing. He poured wine as he commented on the weather, topped off her champagne glass as she replied, and regarded her for a long moment before realizing he was staring.
Serve dinner
, his practical self ordered, his other self a bit preoccupied with the female he found across the table from him.

The beautiful woman he hoped to one day marry.

George lifted the lid from a serving platter, revealing a variety of sliced meats and cheeses. Another platter featured a display of fruit, artfully cut and arranged in an arc that resembled a rainbow. Given the scent of fresh baked bread that hovered over the table, Elizabeth reasoned the small loaf of bread was still warm. “May I serve you?” he wondered, noticing Elizabeth’s curious glance at the array of foods. He could tell she was nervous from the way she sat, the cant of her head, the waver of her hand as she reached for her wine glass.

The question forced her to look at the wide display of foods and wonder if he meant more by the question. “I’d like that, George,” she replied with a small smile, lifting her plate and holding it near the meats. “It all looks ...  delicious,” she commented as she watched him place several thin slices onto her plate.

“I hope it’s to your liking, milady,” he replied, serving himself a few slices before he reached over to cut the bread.

Sighing, Elizabeth shook her head. “There’s really no need for you to call me that, George,” she said, thinking that if he insisted she call him George, then he should call her by her given name.

George regarded her for a moment. “You don’t strike me as a Liz or an Eliza,” he commented with a shake of his head. He saw her shudder as a grin broke out on her face.

“No. And Beth will not do, either,” she murmured as she shook her head and took a bite of meat, her manner suggesting she was finally becoming comfortable in his presence.

Cocking his head to one side, George thought for a moment. “Because it is the name of a best friend? The Duchess of Somerset, perhaps?” he put forth, thinking she would be but a few years younger than Jeremy Statton’s wife, Elizabeth Cunningham Statton.

Elizabeth’s expression of astonishment was quickly replaced with one of suspicion. “How ... how did you know?” she wondered. She began eating in earnest, knowing she’d drunk too much champagne on an empty stomach. Not only were her knees feeling giddy; her head was buzzing just a bit, too.

Thinking it couldn’t hurt to admit he was a friend of the duke, George shrugged. “I have known Jeremy since our days at Eton,” he said in an off-hand manner.

“
Jeremy
?” Elizabeth repeated, her raised eyebrows suggesting she found his use of the duke’s first name a bit too familiar. She had to suppress a giggle.

George shrugged. “Excuse me,
His Grace
,” he amended, giving her a knowing grin. “I have known him too long, I suppose. And as the second son, he wasn’t supposed to become a duke. Besides, the use of titles among friends seems ... pompous, somehow,” he said by way of explanation. “And he does not always behave as you would expect a duke to do so,” he added, his grin widening.

“Whatever do you mean?” she countered, her suspicion replaced with outright curiosity.

Wondering if he should admit to the ruse that led to her to being thrown into his arms the first time they danced, George shook his head and drained his champagne glass. Pretending he didn’t hear her question, he said, “Although he was a rather good sport about allowing me to dance with you.”