Pretty Persuasion (27 page)

Mere days before, she said she wasn't able to distinguish shame from heartbreak, and he claimed to have never been in love. A lie, he now knew, and one told to the very woman who had brought him to his knees.

Oh, yes—he could tell her a thing or two about heartbreak. About just how great a fall it was from experiencing the most satisfying, passion-filled night of his life to the morning when he found out she had been scheming. About how it felt to be reduced from a lover to a mere tool in the space of a heartbeat.

He rounded the final corner, and there she was, about to enter her bedchamber. He ought to ignore her and keep walking; any words coming out of his mouth at the moment would most likely be neither dignified nor clever.

He ought to… but could not. "Georgie."

She stilled, then turned with her hand still on the door. Drawing near, he tried to gauge her mood by her expression, but she only watched him, cautiously.

He stopped at a proper distance and cleared his throat. "How fares the duchess?"

"Well enough," she said quietly, fixing her gaze at the opposite wall.

How could she stand so close yet feel more distant from him than ever before? He had wanted to cling to that morning's fury, for as long as he was angry with her, he could ignore this hollowness within him that grew with each passing minute. Alas, he had never been able to carry a grudge, and the sharp sense of loss that stung his chest increased in poignancy as a result.

That did not mean he would so easily accept defeat, however.

He stepped closer, biting back a growl of frustration when she backed away. "I don't want to chitchat, and I cannot pretend we are mere acquaintances. Forget all that happened today, all the words that were perhaps spoken rashly, and tell me why you refuse to marry me."

"Robert, please do not…" Her mouth twisted, and she shut her eyes with a sigh. "I regret that our intentions were contrary, and I am sorry that you were hurt by it, but I cannot marry you. We simply are not suited. I cannot be the wife you'd want me to be. Our priorities are far too different to be compatible."

He shook his head. "What do you mean, our priorities?"

"I mean that you told me quite clearly what you want from your future and that it is the opposite of what I want. I'm going to travel, Robert. With or without a husband. Preferably without."

Travel?
What the devil was she talking about? But then he remembered their conversation on May Day. "You're serious." It was not a question, but he wished she'd deny it, anyhow. "You refuse to marry me because I won't travel the world with you?"

"Or approve of me going alone."

Her voice held a note of challenge, as if she dared him to contradict her, something which he had no intention of doing. She'd go traipsing off by herself over his dead body.

"I understand the need to travel, Georgie," he said as calmly as he could manage. "I imagined that my journey to Barbados would be a grand adventure, too. But it turned into an unholy nightmare. This idea of yours is foolish. It's madness. It'll end badly."

She huffed. "How can you say that with so much certainty? I don't see how the two can even be compared! I'll not be setting off to manage a slave plantation."

"It doesn't matter—"

"It
does.
You don't understand, Robert. You have no comprehension of how important this is to me. And that is why we are not suited."

He clenched his jaw hard. How to make her see reason? He hadn't told her all that happened on Barbados. She didn't know the ugliest part of it, the events that still kept him awake at night. Would she be convinced if he revealed it all? Would she see that straying too far from home was a gamble with your happiness, your peace of mind, even your life?

No. No, the only outcome guaranteed was her loss of respect for him. She'd be appalled, repulsed; she might even end up hating him. Confessing would be tantamount to giving her up once and for all.

They were in a deadlock. He didn't know how to change her mind, and so he'd simply have to approach from a different angle.

"You said yourself you cannot go until the war is over," he reasoned. "By that time, you may very well have changed your mind. How can you give up on us over a possibility that may or may not happen?"

Her lips parted and a strangled sound emerged, but he went on before she could respond. "We were friends once, and we still would be but for an unfortunate coincidence. Yes, we have our disagreements, but everyone does, Georgie, and to decide that this one is an insurmountable obstacle is a measly, cowardly excuse to give up on this. To not take a chance on us."

Her eyes sparked, and she puffed with outrage. A burst of satisfaction went through him as temper flickered in their depths. She was still there, his Georgie—a ball of fireworks just waiting to go off. Now, if only she would actually be his…

"And lovers," he continued, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "We are perfectly suited in bed. Magnificently, perfectly suited. I dare you to deny it—and say that you are content at the prospect of never experiencing the likes of last night again."

Her breath came out with a soft whoosh, and she pressed herself back against the door. "Stop it. Please."

Oh, yes. She was not nearly as indifferent as she tried to appear. His encouragement gained momentum, launching him toward the final admission. Toward speaking aloud the truth that had hovered in the back of his mind all afternoon, or perhaps even for days. The real reason why her rejection had produced a howl of misery that had been bursting to break free from his lungs since their confrontation in the maze. The reason why he was floundering in a constant state of panic at the thought of giving her up.

He knew he was about to tear out his heart and hand it to her on a platter, but his restraint had given way under the weight of his desperation. "I'd oblige you if I could," he said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. "But I cannot, Georgie. I love you."

She froze, her eyes widened, and yet his hope still lived, for he had expected surprise. Even as she paled, he remained confident. But then she started shaking her head, and hope went into a sharp decline.

"You don't really mean it," she said hurriedly, almost desperately. "You might believe it to be true, Robert, but that does not make it so. And even if it is true now, it wouldn't last. Don't you see? Love isn't—"

"
What?
" he interrupted. He could not believe his ears. Was she really telling him he didn't actually love her, that he was deluding himself? Did she think he was a green pup who couldn't tell white from black, lust from love?

She opened her mouth to speak, but, interrupted by approaching footsteps, she closed it and turned toward the sound. The duke came around the corner, his long, confident stride carrying him quickly to their side.

"I'm sorry," he heard Georgie mumble, and then she slipped into her chamber, shutting the door in his face before he had the chance to react.

Robert put a hand on the door frame and balled the other one into a fist. Was this his punishment, then? It was perhaps not enough that he paid for past transgressions with a troubled conscience. No, he also had to be taunted in this way. As if the devil himself had made her crawl under his skin, into his heart and mind, waited until he wanted her and none other—and then snatched her away.

"It would be a blessed existence to do without women, would it not?"

Robert turned, startled by the words and the fact that he seemed to have forgotten the duke's presence. Southwell stood with arms folded behind his back, his stern expression belying his droll tone.

Awareness of the circumstances suddenly crowded Robert. It had been more easily ignored in the parlor downstairs, where Georgie had taken center stage, but now he felt the discomfort with acute precision. Never mind his honorable intentions, and never mind Southwell's apparent lack of concern about his role in the deed: the truth remained that he had ruined the man's daughter.

"If you intend to put a bullet in me, I beg you, do it quickly, while I am still inclined to feel grateful for it," Robert said, then immediately regretted the words. Perhaps he shouldn't have attempted to banish his embarrassment with a jest; he was not at all sure the duke had a sense of humor.

Southwell arched a brow. "I did intend to see if my wife had recovered sufficiently to be cross with me, but a game of billiards and something far stronger than tea to drink holds a great deal more appeal. I don't expect your footmen would serve me if I shot their master?"

"Ah, no—no, most likely not," Robert replied, bemused by the man's easy demeanor.

His would-be father-in-law gave a short nod. "Then I'll settle for putting a dent in your cellar and humiliating you in a round at the table."

"Fair enough. Though at the moment, I believe I'd prefer the bullet."

"It will pass, Sheffield," the duke said, slapping Robert on the shoulder as they started back down the hallway. "It will pass."

JACKETS HAD BEEN shed, brandy imbibed, and tempers eased to a level where only the odd comment upon the universal inconvenience of the female sex revealed that the game of billiards served more as distraction than amusement for amusement's sake.

Robert stood back, watching with distant interest as Southwell positioned his cue. The duke had run up a score of forty-five points—two short of their agreed winning number, and fifteen more than Robert's own pitiful score. By help of the brandy's dulling effect on his competitive spirit, he had long since accepted that he was being trounced by a man whose age outnumbered his own by nearly two decades.

Then again, perhaps his conscience was preventing him from putting much effort into beating the man.

With one confident stroke, Southwell took his shot. Balls clinked and bounced off the bank, and Robert groaned as all three disappeared. It was a perfect shot, giving his opponent seven points that put him over the score needed to win.

"I believe that concludes it," the duke said as he straightened.

"Indeed," Robert replied, putting his cue down on the table. "You play a hard game, sir."

The older man inclined his head. "On another day, Sheffield, I suspect you would not be so easily defeated."

Robert agreed with a grunt. His mind had been more occupied with Georgie and his—most likely ill-advised—declaration of love. He moved back to the rosewood game table that held the decanter of brandy, half filled a glass, then sank into a chair. He tossed down most of the amber liquid in one swallow, satisfied to feel at least a hint of the slide and burn of the first taste. When the drink started to go down too smoothly, he'd know he'd had enough.

"At the very least, you seem a more competent player than your father. If my memory serves me right, he bested me only twice." The duke fished the white cue ball and the red one out of their pockets, then lined them up on the green woolen surface for a practice shot. "The first occasion was the night of Wakehurst's birth. It was then he proposed that, were the child a girl, she should be promised to you."

A jolt went through Robert, and his head suddenly felt heavy with drink. The picture of friendship the duke's words painted brought back the yearning for all that he had lost. A gray fog crept inside him. He had been too wrapped up in a combination of shallow grief and a more profound guilt over his own sins to acknowledge just how much he missed his father. Missed his conversation, his good humor, and his assertive manner—and regretted the disagreements that had reduced their correspondence to, at best, cool civility.

And that was just one more cursed consequence of his ill-considered adventure. Not only did he lose a father, but also the image of a man whose honor and conduct he had always striven to model himself after.

How would his father have reacted had he known of Robert's transgressions on Barbados? With revulsion. With utter condemnation, and rightly so. The same way Georgie would feel, should she find out. But she wouldn't. He'd make sure she never knew, if it was the last thing he did.

"Three years later, he defeated me a second time. Georgiana was born the next day, and our agreement was upheld." Southwell let out a disgusted grunt as he sank his cue ball without touching the red one, his sudden loss of focus obvious. Then, seeming to speak more to himself than Robert, he added, "It was the longest damned night of my life, and I prayed never to experience another like it."

The duke went silent, staring at the lone red billiard ball, and suddenly, Robert no longer saw the stiff, stoic figure, all but godlike in his representation of nobility and power. No, at the moment, Southwell looked vulnerable and almost… human.

The older man gave a quick shake of his head, then refocused his gaze on Robert. "Naturally, I shall hold you to it no longer. Georgiana has made her choice, and you are free to seek your wife elsewhere."

Him? Seek another wife? God. Why the devil would he do that? The image of his father and that of Georgie merged in his mind, and he saw with startling clarity the similarity in their importance to him. It was so obvious now that he stood to lose another person whose opinion he valued, whose esteem he required, and whose company he enjoyed above all others.

He
did
love her. She was the most stubborn female he had ever known, and she had a sense of humor that did not put her above laughing at herself. Her appetite for life was infectious, and when she smiled at him, he felt as if he could do no wrong.

Which in itself was erroneous, of course, but he liked it nonetheless. If there was one fault he refused to lay claim to, however, it was that of making the same mistake twice. He had hoped to accept and pardon the other missteps he had taken, but letting Georgie go without a fight was a mistake for which he doubted he'd ever forgive himself.

"If you do not mind, I'd rather not resign myself to giving her up so soon. I believe I can yet persuade her to a change of mind."

The duke lowered his cue, and his gaze was unreadable as it met Robert's. "Ah. So that is what you were about when I encountered you upstairs," he said, the words laced with no little amount of scorn. "I commend your resolve, Sheffield, but, were I a betting man, I should not put a penny on your success."