Her Only Desire (28 page)

“How much time do you want?”

“You don't look very happy about my answer.”

“I'm not going to wait around forever,” he said irritably. “I don't play those kinds of games.”

“It's not a game! I've just explained how I feel.”

He leaned over and planted a firm kiss on her cheek. “Two weeks,” he murmured. “Then I'll want an answer.”

“Ian!”

“Shall we?” He rose and gestured toward the door.

Through her exasperation, Georgie recalled that her relatives were waiting. She heaved a sigh and followed, nodding her permission to him to escort her down to lunch.

They left the music room in silence, falling into step with each other naturally as they strolled through Knight House, arm in arm. Georgie's mind churned, meanwhile, with her efforts to understand why he was so hard to reach.

“Tell me a story about you when you were a child,” she said abruptly, slipping her hands in a more snug hold around his arm.

“Why?”

“I'm trying to picture you at Matthew's age. You must have been adorable.”

“Of course I was,” he drawled. “But I don't have any stories.”

“You must have one.”

“I was born grown up, don't you know?”

“Oh, Ian, please, just one little anecdote? I told you I want to know more about you. Details, man!”

“Oh, very well,” he mumbled. “Matthew's age, eh? Well, when I was about Matthew's age, I decided to give my mother a huge bouquet of flowers.” They proceeded from the wide marble corridor to the curving marble staircase. “I was so pleased with myself. I picked them all and carried them into the house, certain that this would make her happy—she was never very cheerful for some reason. But instead, to my astonishment, she took one look at my gift and fainted dead away, and I was sent up to the nursery with no supper. There was quite a row.”

“But, why?” Georgie exclaimed.

“Unfortunately, all the flowers I picked were from Mother's prize-winning garden. Alas, in my enthusiasm, I had unwittingly destroyed it, at least for that season.”

With a tender wince mingled with laughter, Georgie gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “Poor boy.”

He let out a low, worldly laugh. “Ah, my dear, it was not exactly a ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may' sort of home that I grew up in.”

“No, it doesn't sound like it. But you know, these things can be corrected,” she informed him.

“How's that?”

“Well, you have to start small. At lunch, for example.” She waved to her cousins as they walked toward the pleasant shady terrace. “I say we start our meal with the sweet course.”

He looked at her in feigned shock. “You can
do
that?”

She paused, pulling him a wee bit closer to murmur, “You certainly did it with me.”

His left eyebrow shot up.

She bit her lip and sent him a frisky look askance, then tugged on his arm again, drawing him toward the summery abundance of the table.

         

She's good for you.
There was no getting around it.
Ah, Georgiana,
he thought. What was to be done with such a creature?

Admittedly, her request for more time so they could get to know each other better had resonated with Ian. He had hardly known Catherine at all before assenting to that match. If he had insisted on more than a few cursory meetings without the usual crowd of family and chaperons present, then maybe he would have sensed that the prim heiress wasn't what she seemed.

On the other hand, he held firm on the point of having her answer within a fortnight, because in negotiations, it was always a bad sign if the other party tarried too much over making a decision. It nearly always heralded some sort of refusal.

He wanted this alliance made, the merger sealed, the treaty signed; but if she had to drag her feet too much over the decision, then that was a valid cue that she really didn't want this marriage, which in turn meant he'd be wise to call the whole thing off. He and his son didn't need another woman in their lives who didn't really want to be there.

They had already been through that.

In the meantime, as the days unfolded, he made an effort not to be what she called domineering. For Matthew's sake, and hers, he showed her that he, too, could bend. She left him little choice.

Plainly, the woman had her own ideas about how things should go between them, and he was intrigued enough to follow along to see where she might lead.

He was aware that she was taking him toward dangerous territory, near to the desolate borderlands of things he had no desire to confront. But he wanted to find out what lay ahead, lured toward something he had always secretly longed for but had never known how to find. As the days passed with her, he was like a man who had lived years underground, slowly groping his way out toward the light.

Freed of his duties for the Foreign Office at the moment, he made it his mission to win this woman for his wife.

They took the boy on a picnic with a bevy of servants and friends. He taught Matthew how to fly a kite. They rode horses and went boating on the Serpentine. They attempted a balloon ascension one day, but Matthew was too scared to fly, so instead they took the boy to a puppet theater.

Neither he nor his son had ever known anyone like Georgiana before. He had never known such warmth and simple joy.

She had a talent for relishing every moment, and she shared this gift with them both. Being with Georgie, he was learning, was like a walk through the spice market, full of strange treasures, exotic adventures, slightly dangerous enticements, and sharp new flavors that had a tonic effect on the soul. She danced her way through life with a sensual exuberance that mesmerized him.

As subtle changes shifted deep inside him, sometimes uneasiness arose and tried to unseat all his progress with whispered reminders of the coal-black secrets he had to hide. But for once in his life, he refused to think too much. The blot on his soul had held him back for too many years, keeping him separate from the world. Even those dearest to him didn't know the truth, and by God, they never would. Beyond that, he strove to erase the haunted past from intruding upon the present.

Georgiana made him happy. She made his child happy. She was their future, and he willed himself with all his considerable discipline to focus only on that.

Soon, the night of the ball came, when she was to be introduced to Society.

Ian's heart and his step were light as he strolled through the milling throng in keen enjoyment of the occasion, much to his own surprise. Usually these things bored him insufferably, and he ended up talking politics for hours in the corner with the old, dry gents.

Not tonight.

He popped a meringue into his mouth as he ambled along and let out an enthusiastic
“Mmm”
as it melted on his tongue in a sugary burst of delicate flavors. Almond? Lemon? A hint of vanilla? Whatever it was, it was good.

Humming along absently with the music, which indeed sounded extraordinarily melodic this night, he did not think he had ever tasted a meringue as delicious as that before. In a short bit, perhaps he'd have another.

Passing under the colonnade, he overheard a portly, red-nosed, ungracefully aging rake telling his cronies a ribald joke. But for reasons unknown, Ian discovered that this evening, not even their crude humor could annoy him. He was usually quite stern in the opinion that such talk was better left at the club or the racing track, certainly not in the company of ladies, but tonight, his whole being was flush with a newfound noblesse toward the countless foibles of the human race. Even the brilliant glow from the chandeliers seemed more forgiving as it shone on the pinched, careworn faces of all Society's most discontented matrons.

God only knew what was happening to him. So heightened were his senses that he was even aware of the texture of the clothes against his body, the crisp linen of his shirt, the smooth merino wool of his black trousers. His cravat was looser than he usually wore it, his collar not so starched.

Yes, he reflected. There was a sweetness in his veins that had infected him like some wonderful disease that instead of making men sick, made them well.

He felt a full-blooded heartiness this eve, as though he had newly awakened from a winter's-long sleep. It all was due to Georgiana's enlivening effect on him, of course. He wondered if this meant that in fact he was falling in love. He felt sharper, more gregarious, easier in general. He smiled more and laughed louder as an acquaintance passed him with a grin and a jest.

Ian moved on until
she
came in sight.

And there she was, across the room, a gorgeous bit of magnificence in a lustrous satin gown like summer roses.

He leaned slowly against one of the ballroom's towering Corinthian columns and indulged himself in simply watching her with all the spellbound fascination with which those dreamy Lakeland poets watched the sun rise. From his discreet angle, it looked like she was doing well.

They had agreed yesterday to keep a polite distance from each other at the ball as she went about establishing herself in Society. Their own delicious little secret joke. Well, plucky thing that she was, she did not wish to ride in on his coattails, forcing Society to bow down to her for his sake. Georgiana wanted to stand on her own two feet, to make people see and know her as an individual before word got out about their future match.

Possible
match, he reminded himself wryly. At least in
her
mind. In his mind, it was as good as certainty, and only a matter of time.

At any rate, he could acknowledge that her way of handling this night had been a wise decision. As soon as word got out that the two of them were romantically connected, she would become the target of choice for all the jealous females who had set their caps at him since Catherine's death.

He saw now, as he watched her, admiring the graceful drapery of her India shawl flowing through the angle of her elbows, looping down below her lovely backside, that he really needn't have worried about how she'd do in Society. Nevertheless, he had given her some advice on how to handle the ton and was pleased to see that she had taken it to heart.

Georgiana employed all those amusing Queen of Sheba airs that she had used to such effect in her arrival on her painted elephant at Janpur, outdoing the bluest-blooded aristocrats in London as she played it exceedingly lofty, thoroughly cool, blasé in her greetings to dukes and princes, as though it were their privilege to meet her and not the other way around.

Damn, she was good.

No, indeed, the niece and namesake of the Hawkscliffe Harlot was making it clear from the start that, provincial or no, she was not about to let London Society push her around. Her great beauty combined with her regal bearing and her deliciously scandalous bloodlines set the ton on its ear. Tilting his head a little to listen for the gossip, he heard the buzz of wonder-struck whispers flying around the room. Her triumph only made him want her more.

Within a few hours, the first Georgiana and all her errant ways had been eclipsed, half-forgotten in the shining glory of the new one.

At last, midnight struck, the agreed-upon hour of their rendezvous. Ian was glad of it, for in truth he was beginning to feel a little jealous. It was not easy to see her dance with other men.

Every young lady was supposed to have a talent with which to make her company more pleasurable and interesting. Some sang, others played the pianoforte, while others still were known for their watercolor paintings. Georgiana, however, was undeniably a dancer. It was a joy to watch her move. Perhaps it was her yoga practice that gave her such limber grace, but everyone noticed how divinely she carried herself, her exquisite balance, a sort of innate awareness of where each lithe limb was situated in space. Even so, he had a feeling that she was holding back. Those bells she used to wear around her ankle, after all, were the favorite baubles of India's temple dancers.

He had a very strong suspicion that she could keep pace with any maharajah's troupe of nautch girls. Perhaps one day she would dance for him.

For now, however, it was time to collect on that dance that she had promised to save for him all the way back at Janpur. He pushed away from the column and sauntered toward her.

She looked over as though she had felt his stare, or as if she had been discreetly keeping track of him, too, all night long. Her glance was potent from across the room.

He gave her a subtle
namaste,
which made her smile.

Blushing, she glanced at the large clock on the wall and saw that it was midnight.
Good.
He was absurdly pleased that she had not forgotten their appointed hour. She sent him a secretive smile and artfully disengaged herself from her crowd of admirers.

His heart beat faster, but he kept his pace slow and measured as he strode across the ballroom to claim her for the dance.

Upon reaching her, Ian offered up a gentlemanly bow, the hint of sandalwood in her perfume intoxicating him when he leaned closer. “Miss Knight.”

“Lord Griffith.” She responded with an exquisite curtsy.

He put out his hand. She laid her fingers on his palm without a word.

“I'm impressed,” he murmured as he led her to the dance floor.

“I'm glad that you approve.” She adjusted one high white glove a bit as the orchestra played the first introductory bars. “Did I never mention that the little enclave of British ladies in Calcutta society are known for being even stricter than your London dames?”

“No,” he said in surprise as they stepped into a gliding waltz.

She smiled at him. “It is their way of making up for being mere provincials.”

“Aha.”

“Since all those ladies were my mother's bosom friends, they made sure that I knew how to behave myself when the occasion calls.”

He laughed softly. “And to think that I was worried.”