Suzanne Robinson (21 page)

Running a hand through his hair, Nick cursed silently. He hadn’t wanted to admit the real reason he was in such a hurry to leave Threshfield. The cold
light of this bright fall day had brought back his sanity. He had succumbed to weakness, to low, roiling lust, and betrayed his dearest friend. Jocelin had saved him from a life of squalid misery and certain hanging, and Nick had repaid him by soiling the virtue of his young sister. And he’d compounded that betrayal by falling in love with her.

Making love to Georgiana had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced. To him intercourse had always been a transaction—pleasure traded for pleasure, or money, or some other commodity. Early on, it had been something frightening, especially the night his father had traded him for settlement of a debt owed at a tavern.

After that he learned to protect himself, to hide, or to endure. As he grew older, he became master of his own body and bestowed his favors seldom. Once he’d left St. Giles and learned about Society from Jocelin, he’d kept his dalliances separate from his life among the noble and rich—at first. But he’d found that certain ladies were quite tempting, and so willing to risk their reputations for a chance to be with him. They found him enticingly dangerous and intriguing; he found them amusing, so long as they kept the affair in its proper place.

Then he’d encountered Georgiana—stately, infuriating Georgiana. Knowing her was like living with a hive of bees under his skin. He couldn’t make her do what he wanted, a problem he had never had with women. Yet he couldn’t dismiss her. She visited his thoughts when he least expected her, and wrought consuming, hot changes in his body without his consent. She plagued him and teased him until he’d finally
lost all compunction. And being with her had been different.

Different because she hadn’t wanted anything from him except to be with him. Coming together with her had been no transaction, no deal, no salacious game instigated by a curious and bored noblewoman. For the first time he glimpsed the feelings heralded by the great writers he admired but never understood and never, ever believed.

“Pertwee, where is that book by that Scottish fellow?”

“Sir Walter Scott, sir?”

“That’s him.”

The valet produced the book. Nick opened it and began thumbing through the pages as he walked away from the bed and the suitcase.

“Ah, here it is.” He wandered into the sitting room as he read.

He’d read that only a few weeks ago and hadn’t understood it. But last night he’d satiated himself with Georgiana, and still he hadn’t quenched this emotional thirst he had for her. Always before, his interest
had faded with conquest. But last night he had looked into Georgiana’s emerald eyes and realized that he would want to be with her next week, next year, for as long as he could imagine. And he couldn’t have her.

Once freed of the distraction Georgiana always caused in his thoughts, Nick had come to his senses. For hours he’d gone over and over the situation. He had hurt Georgiana and Jocelin, although they didn’t know it yet.

Jos had endured enough pain and treachery from his own family. Jos had trusted him. Nick slumped into a chair and squeezed his eyes shut, as if to hide from the sight of his own perfidy. He had defiled Jocelin’s sister. It was like defiling Jos himself. If she had been any other young woman, he could have wiped out the transgression by marrying her. But he wouldn’t compound the sin by fooling himself that he could marry Georgiana.

If he did that, he would shame her and Jocelin too. No one would receive a woman who had married so far beneath her. Society would shut her out. The duke would disown Georgiana. Jocelin might put on a brave face, for he was kind and gentle, but he would be shamed nonetheless. No, he had already endangered Georgiana. He wouldn’t ruin her completely.

He had decided to leave and write Georgiana a letter of apology later. That had been before he understood she was remaining at Threshfield. She couldn’t stay in a household with a murderer loose.

Perhaps she hadn’t believed him when he had spoken to her of poisoning. He would make her understand. And hope she understood that last night was
a mistake. Surely she would. She was a duke’s daughter and knew that an alliance with the likes of him would be impossible. His real worry would be that she might want to continue to see him secretly. This he couldn’t do and keep his sanity. He would make her understand.

With this self-sacrificing and noble aim in mind, Nick went in search of Georgiana. He needed to meet her secretly in order to explain himself. Yes, it was better this way. He really couldn’t scarper without talking to her first. Stopping a maid on the landing, he learned that Georgiana was with the family in the drawing room where tea was being served. Callers had begun to arrive to pay their respects and were being received there.

He raced downstairs and went to the library. He wanted to enter the drawing room unobtrusively through the connecting door. He walked into the room with its wall-to-wall bookshelves topped with pediments. As he approached the door to the drawing room, a click sounded in a section of bookshelves, which began to swing back. A small, wizened face topped with a lace cap appeared behind the shelf and hissed at him.

“Psst!”

“Damnation, Lady Augusta, what are you doing in there?”

“Wellington, I knew you’d come once you heard the terrible news. In here, quickly.”

She grabbed his arm, hauled him into the darkness, and pulled the shelf closed after them. He was lost in a black void, anchored only by her thin hand. Then he heard the click of a lock, and a narrow door
opened slightly to admit a sliver of light from the outside.

The sky was overcast, with flat-bottomed bluegray clouds scudding across it. He could see Lady Augusta now. Her childlike face was streaked with tears, and she searched in a reticule for a lacy handkerchief, which she touched to the corners of her eyes.

“I’m sorry for your grief, Lady Augusta.”

“Pray excuse me, Wellington, but this wouldn’t have happened if you’d arrested that spy as I asked. Now you really must summon more decision of character, and speedily. Everyone thinks my brother’s death is due to some defect in his brain, but I know he was poisoned by that French spy. You must have her shot at once.”

“My lady, I’m not Wellington—”

“Of course not. Not here among fools and spies. No doubt you’ve hidden your men in the woods. When she goes riding, set upon her. Whist! Did you hear anything?”

Nick was still having trouble adjusting to his change of identity. “What? No.”

“You’ll get rid of her, won’t you? Or would you prefer that I—”

“No, no, I’ll do it.” He put a hand on the lady’s arm. “Don’t trouble yourself, Lady Augusta. I’ll get rid of the French spy. Don’t do anything. It will take me a few days to arrange matters so that Napoleon doesn’t suspect we’re responsible. That wouldn’t do, you know. He might send more agents, and then you might be in danger.”

“Don’t refine too much upon that,” Lady Augusta said. “I can take care of myself. But poor John
Charles couldn’t.” She sniffled into her handkerchief. “Be careful, Wellington. She’s clever.”

Slipping through the outer door, she left him alone in the dark. Nick felt around the walls until he found a latch, lifted it, and pulled. The bookshelf swung open, and he emerged into the library. Closing the shelf, he shook his head, muttering to himself.

“She thinks I’m Wellington now. Must be the strain of the earl’s death. Poor lady.”

Slipping into the drawing room, he found a gloomy scene waiting for him. Windows and doors had been draped with black crepe. Prudence, Evelyn, and their guests all wore black. The earl’s portrait, which hung on the wall beside the fireplace, was festooned in black cloth.

On a settee in front of the fire, Lady Lavinia was comforting Ludwig, who was dabbing his eyes with a black-bordered handkerchief while clutching a volume on ancient Egyptian magic. Prudence and Evelyn were conferring with two gentlemen. They bent over a heavy volume set on a table. It appeared to be a catalog of mourning accoutrements.

Nick sidled up behind them and glanced at descriptions of mourning wares—everything from carriages, plumes, and black-bordered stationery to widows’ bands. He slipped away before the group noticed him and joined Georgiana, who was staring out a window.

As he approached, she turned and saw him. Her severe expression vanished. Like emeralds flashing in the light of a thousand candles, her eyes brightened and a smile filled with the joy of angels greeted him. She had smiled at him like that last night, and he had felt his legs turn to water. Now, in the sober reflection
of daylight, its brilliance increased his dread and alarm. He’d really done it this time.

She offered her hand. He held it and bent over it, brushing his lips across her skin. She murmured a greeting in that soft voice he’d never heard her use except when they were alone.

“I must speak to you,” he said before she could say something he would regret.

“Yes?”

“Not here.”

She was smiling again, as if she had anticipated his request.

“I thought you understood. It’s dangerous here. You should leave.”

“Oh, about that. If you’re certain Threshfield was poisoned, I have to stay and find his murderer.”

“Damn it!”

“Shhh.”

He glanced around to find Lady Lavinia scowling at them in disapproval. He lowered his voice.

“We must talk, and not just about leaving. There’s something else. About last night. I got to tell you something.” He caught a glimpse of Evelyn staring in their direction. “Bloody hell. He’s going to come over here. Look at him, all swelled up with self-importance. Looks like he swallowed a hot-air balloon. Quick, where shall we meet?”

“The grotto, after tea.”

“You keep away from Evelyn bloody Hyde,” he snapped.

She concealed a smile by turning to face the window again. “You’re jealous.”

“Am not.”

“You most certainly are.” Georgiana looked at
him from beneath dark lashes, her cheeks pink. “Poor Threshfield is dead, and I shouldn’t feel like this.”

Nick saw her flush and cursed. “Listen, love, I got to ask you a question.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I have been out since I was eighteen, Nick.”

“What has that got to do with—”

Evelyn was upon them, gabbling on about funeral arrangements and letters to be written to relatives, requesting Georgiana’s help. Nick fell silent. He and Georgiana were dragged to the chairs around the fireplace when Randall and two footmen arrived with tea. Nick sat holding a cup of wafer-thin china and tried to figure out what Georgiana had been talking about. Her meaning eluded him, and he fell to planning what he would say to her in the grotto.

No need to mince words. She was a sensible woman, practical. He would tell her the truth, part of it anyway. That was best. He’d been wrong to get the wind up simply because she smiled at him. All in his imagination. She would understand that St. Giles didn’t marry Grosvenor Square. Perhaps she would even broach the subject first. That was it. No wonder she said she knew what he wanted to say.

A burning weight of anxiety lifted from his heart. Nick sipped his tea and leaned back in his chair, relieved. Of course. She was a duke’s daughter and understood how things had to be. He’d been a fool. There was nothing to worry about. Georgiana Marshal was a sensible, practical young woman.

After tea Georgiana slipped away from the drawing room and changed into a black riding habit with bowler hat and filmy scarf. She took a quiet little roan mare from the stables and set out on a path that wound around the perimeter of the Threshfield park. She didn’t want anyone to know her real destination, so she left word that she would be riding on the bridle path that led to the ruined dower house. As soon as she was out of sight of the house, she turned off the path and headed for the wood. The grotto lay almost at its heart.

As she rode, Georgiana allowed herself to feel the happiness she’d had to conceal while among the grieving family members. Her emotions pitched violently back and forth from sadness at losing Threshfield to jubilant exhilaration at having found Nick. Once away from Threshfield’s home and family, she could forget grief and suspicion about murder for a while.

She had found what she’d never thought to
have—someone to love and who loved her. Nick, with his tawny beauty and irreverent humor, had upset all her intentions and at the same time bestowed upon her a gift of unparalleled magnificence.

He had banished her old fears. Now they seemed foolish. Being touched by a man wasn’t frightening; when Nick touched her, he made her want to touch him back. And he savored her body, which was an amazing discovery. Apparently no one had told him that ladies had to be small in stature, generously endowed, and delicately made. He had whispered to her that he relished her abundance of leg and her strength. Yet he was so much stronger and taller that she never felt the ungainly, loutish giant. When she was with him, all the years of feeling like a freakish colossus melted away.