Pretty Persuasion (20 page)

— From the diary of Lady Georgiana Montford, aged 13

"GOOD GOD," ROBERT breathed as surprise and disbelief rushed over him. It was a
lewd
drawing. A couple lay entwined on the grass-covered ground, and their position left no question as to the nature of their pastime. Strangest of all, though, was their appearance: pointy ears and snouts with bushy whiskers. They were supposed to look like rodents—copulating rodents dressed as humans.

Why the devil would Georgie have drawn such a picture?

He looked up and found her staring wide-eyed at the sheet of paper. Her gaze rose to meet his, and scarlet infused her cheeks as he raised his brows.

"That is private," she said, sounding calmer than she appeared. "I did not intend for you to see it. Please, give it back."

"As much as I want to please you, I am afraid I cannot. I find it much too intriguing." Not trusting her passivity, he held the paper away from her while he studied it. The proportions were drawn with the same hint of awkwardness as the cricket sketches; she must have done this one at the same age. The perspective puzzled him: a sidewise view of the couple, an indistinct tangle of limbs, and no surroundings except a peculiar statue.

"Did you draw this from memory or imagination?"

The color in her pale freckled cheeks deepened as she wavered. "From memory," she said curtly.

Robert turned back to the picture. It was done by a skilled child's hand and looked exceptionally natural, notwithstanding the rodent-like features. "You mean, you actually saw this happen? Who are they?"

She stared unblinking at him, neither telling him what he wanted to know, nor voicing a refusal. Her cheeks were still flushed, but for some strange reason, she seemed less embarrassed than… incensed?

She drew a deep breath. "It is hardly any of your concern." She put out her hand again. "May I have it back now?"

Robert tilted his head. She wanted the sketch; why didn't she just take it? She was too quiet, too calm. There was more to this than just a wicked drawing.

He inspected the picture again, looking for clues he might have missed. That she had made the couple look like rodents was only part of what nagged him. Squinting, he studied the statue and was soon struck by the fact that it was actually a sundial.

His body tightened in recognition.
Atlas carrying the globe on his back.
He had only seen one of its kind. "Good God! They're in the maze!"

Georgie snatched the paper from him before he could react. He blinked. Did she think he'd let her keep it now that his interest was piqued? Giving her no time to think, he seized the drawing from her hand. She growled and lunged for it, but he blocked her with his body, holding the paper at arm's length again.

"Give it back!" she spat, crawling onto her knees as she clawed for the sketch.

As in her brother's description of the picnic scene, she truly was climbing over him this time, and he'd be damned if she couldn't do it as often as she pleased. Dropping the sketch to the settee, he locked his arms around her, and in that blissful position, he felt more than heard her gasp. She was so close, so pliable as she leaned into him. A spear of desire shot straight to his groin as the picnic memory flashed in his mind and he imagined sweeping his tongue instead of his thumb over the swell of her bosom to capture the sticky pudding.

His fantasy ended there, for she stiffened and pushed against his shoulders. He reluctantly let her go, and her bottom hit the settee with a soft thud and rustle of her dress. For a long while, they simply stared at each other. He could not separate his own labored breathing from hers, puffing through faintly parted lips. Rain drummed on the windows, and the conservatory seemed smaller, more intimate, as if the weather held them confined there.

"Keep it, then," she muttered under her breath. "Consider it a gift. I never cared for it, anyhow."

He watched, bemused, as she gathered her other drawings and stuffed them in her folder. Preparing for retreat, no doubt. The bizarrely lurid picture had fallen to the floor, and he bent to pick it up. It was his now, apparently. A snort rose in his throat. Such foolishness over a drawing that held no interest beyond Georgie's attachment to it.

He studied the sketch again, detached enough now to see the ridiculous in it. He felt a smile tug at his lips. "Does it have a title?" he asked. "No, don't tell me. Let me guess. 'The Fornication of Lord Rat and Lady… Mouse?'"

"Ferret," she mumbled, still busy putting away her drawings.

Robert frowned. "Pardon?"

"She's a ferret."

"Ah. And the gentleman is a rat?"

"Oh,
yes
."

Lady Ferret it was. When had she drawn this? She must have stumbled upon the couple in the maze, and the sight had obviously not left a favorable impression.

He watched Georgie close her folder, thinking he ought to make some attempt to stop her. Apologize, perhaps—though for what, he was not certain. But he could not take his eyes off the drawing for long. He stared at it until the strange creatures came alive and he could see their carnal dance and hear the sounds of their lovemaking.

Lord Rat. Why a rat? She had called him a rat—a despicable one, even. Was it her universal insult? And it was coupling with a ferret. Lady Ferret…

Robert's gut tightened, as if Georgie had driven her fist into it again.
What was this?
A memory, she had said. Suddenly, it was not only her memory, but his also. Except in his memory, he was the rutting rat, and the ferret bucking and writhing beneath him was Lady Ferrers.

A coincidence? Not bloody likely.

His cheeks stung, and his ears buzzed. Bewilderment, humiliation, and budding fury spiraled through him, and when she moved to rise, he unthinkingly clamped her arm.

She gave a start. "What—"

"Who are they?" he said in a tone that offered no compromise. Horror crept into her eyes, and he forged on, not waiting for her reply. "The rat; it's me, is it not? And the ferret is Lady Ferrers."

She hesitated, then pressed her lips together and gave a nod.

Robert's mind reeled and jumped unwillingly back to that tumultuous summer. His head had been in the clouds. He had finally reached his majority and earned his father's approval of his grand adventure: Barbados. The house party at Kingsworth had elevated him to new degrees of youthful folly. She was a madcap obsession, their affair brief and frenzied. And when it ended, he had joined the ranks of young fools who considered themselves worldlier for having bedded Lady Ferrers.

Though, as he recalled, beds had played but a minor part of it. Of all the places they'd carried out their trysts, the maze had been one of the
least
reckless. Apparently, they had been discovered. By Georgie, of all people. Still a child, a friend of sorts, and his promised bride—

Anger swelled within him, more welcome than embarrassment, and he barked, "What the devil were you doing in the maze?"

Her eyes shifted. "I followed you."

"What?" He let go of her arm, bunching the wretched drawing in his other hand. "For God's sake, why?"

"Because I followed you everywhere!" She retreated visibly, as if she'd let her tongue run away with her, then jutted her chin. "You can hardly blame me for your own indiscretion. I didn't intend to spy on you. I thought I'd find you alone."

"And this?" He held up the drawing.

Breathing a sigh, she picked up her pencil again and started twirling it in her hand. "I ought to have burnt it years ago."

He blinked at the picture, trying to see beyond the mockery, the personal insult. She had not meant it as such; that she had kept it hidden was proof enough of that. The petty pranks were a different matter. "This is why you turned on me all of a sudden," he said, more to himself than her. "A despicable rat…"

He shook his head and looked up, searching for answers in her heart-shaped face, in the depths of her violet eyes. Had she been shocked and confused by her discovery? She had been thirteen; still a child by some measures, and in other ways, not a child at all.

What had their parents been thinking to introduce Robert and Georgie to each other as future husband and wife? It had not seemed strange to him then, spending time with a vivacious young girl while he rapidly grew into a man. It had not even occurred to him to ascribe a name to their relationship. Perhaps a part of his mind had perceived the perverse nature of considering her his future wife.

He had claimed friendship, and there was truth in that, oddly enough. But as what had she seen him? Apparently as someone whose intimate affair with another woman offended her. He swallowed hard.
Oh, God.
Why had she followed him? It was no wonder she had turned on him—no wonder at all. He had deserved it, too, if not because he had betrayed her then at least because his behavior had been disgraceful in and of itself.

And it wouldn't be the last time. If she couldn't forgive him for Lady Ferrers, there was no hope that she would forgive his vastly more ignoble behavior on Barbados. He cringed at the thought of revealing it to her.

The strength of her reaction still confused him, though, and it brought forth a suspicion he could not dismiss. "You were jealous?" he asked, hesitating.

Her brows creased. "No!"

She might as well have shouted the opposite; her lie was as evident to him as his own surprise. How would he have felt if he'd known? Devilishly ill at ease. Now, however, it scarcely mattered that she had been a young girl; she was not a girl
now
. The idea pleased him so much he suffered a twinge of shame for not rising above such an immature reaction.

"You spilled lemonade in my lap, poured salt in my tea, and threw unripe plums at my head in the orchard, among other things." He absently rubbed the back of his head. "You had a good arm."

Georgie flashed a smug smile. "You're the one who taught me how not to throw like a girl."

Robert frowned. He had forgotten about that. Well, there was his explanation for the ease he had felt in her company: he hadn't treated her like a little girl at all. "You were jealous," he repeated, determined to make her admit it.

Her features twisted in disgust. "I was appalled."

"She was a widow," he said in a pathetic attempt at defending himself.

"That does not make you any less of a fornicator."

God, if only you knew.
Her observation was true enough. But compared to his other sins, it scarcely amounted to much. Not that he could ever tell her so. Bitterness and guilt burned his throat, and it took great effort to heave his shoulders in a shrug. "If the lady doesn't mind, I don't see why I should."

He winced at her derisive snort. "I regret that you stumbled upon us, Georgie. Believe me, if I could undo it all, I would. But I still say you are being less than honest. You cannot convince me you went to such lengths to torture me simply because it offended your moral sensibilities."

Her eyes glazed over. He glanced at the pencil in her hand. Could she get angry enough to stab him with it? "I only want you to own that you were jealous," he urged gently.

"Jealous!" she spat, but instead of following up with the foul words that he could tell stung her tongue, she clamped her mouth shut. After a few moments of jaw-clenched silence, she shot up from the settee and paced to the rain-streaked windows.

"Georgie," he started, stopping when she whirled and pinned him with a ferocious glare.

"Jealous? I was furious!" She pointed at her chest. "You were promised to me, and you were… tupping another woman!"

He jerked his head back in response to the verbal slap in the face. Where the devil had she heard
that
word? He cleared his throat. "It was not a real betrothal," he reasoned. "I certainly signed no papers, and I made no promise. Expecting that I should be faithful to an informal agreement not of my own doing is ridiculous. I am sorry that you witnessed something you ought not have, but I refuse to apologize for an offense of which I am not guilty."

For a few seconds, he could have sworn her lips trembled. But then they pressed together, and she drew a shaky breath. Her nose came up, and her face reflected her stony resolve. "Perhaps I was jealous, though more likely just foolish. I was a nuisance about it, which was horribly childish, and I'm sorry. But really, you paid me too much attention. So you must share part of the blame."

"I never intended to—" he began to protest.

"Oh, it doesn't matter what you intended! Don't you see? You didn't treat me as everyone else did. When the boys wouldn't include me in their play, you took me fishing. When we were in the company of other adults, you didn't speak to me as you would a child. You answered questions everyone else said didn't concern a young lady. You listened to me. When I made you laugh, you didn't laugh as if you were thinking what an adorable child I was."

She drew a breath, her mouth twisting before she added, "You created expectations."

A strange ache swelled in Robert's chest. "We were friends, Georgie. You're describing friends. Good friends."

She closed her eyes. He sensed that she had plenty more to say, words she'd been longing to utter for years. "We
were
," she finally said quietly.

He could think of no response as she strode toward him, only watched as she picked up her folder, sketchpad, and pencil. Their eyes met for a split second, and the ache grew deeper, more encompassing as he saw the honest regret in her gaze.

"Good bye, Robert," she said, then turned and left him.

He lost track of time as he sat there, staring at the door through which she'd departed. And because he was not ready to accept what the finality of her farewell meant, he picked up the lewd drawing. What to do with it? He ought to destroy it, but was strangely loath to.

The sundial caught his attention again. Georgie either had a remarkable eye for detail or his memory failed in noticing any mistakes on her part. The globe was drawn with precision, and Atlas seemed to be suffering appropriately under its weight on his shoulders. She had even managed to make him appear powerfully built, except—