A Regency Invitation Page 24

  Miss Lyndhurst gave vent to a croak of laughter. ‘You’ll do, girl,’ she said to Lady Mardon. ‘John needed someone to keep him in line!’

  Georgie relaxed again, closing her eyes.

  ‘Tired, my dear?’

  Georgie turned at the quiet voice and found that Anthony had drawn a chair up beside her. She shook her head, not meeting his eyes and aware that she had blushed.

  He nodded. ‘We won’t sit up late, I assure you.’

  Given the intent look in his eyes, Georgie was unable to work out if that amounted to a promise, or a threat.

  The party broke up early, which, as far as Georgie was concerned, was a double-edged sword. The moment had arrived when she would have no excuse for not going to bed herself. With Anthony.

  Miss Lyndhurst saved her. ‘Humph. I’m for bed,’ she announced. ‘And having done myself out of a companion, I’ll thank you, Georgiana, to come up and help me.’ Fixing Anthony with a beady glare, she said, ‘I’ll bid you a goodnight.’

  He rose to his feet at once. ‘Thank you, Aunt.’ The odd note in his voice caught Georgie’s attention. She stared at him, but he was lighting a candle for Miss Lyndhurst.

  Upon reaching Miss Lyndhurst’s bedchamber, Georgie busied herself finding the old lady’s nightrail and readying her for bed, chattering inanely.

  Miss Lyndhurst listened, answered occasionally and finally said, ‘Enough, child. I admit Anthony’s a dratted fool at times, but he’s no Bluebeard or I never would have kicked you out of my dressing room! You two need privacy to make up your differences and, as far as I’m concerned, the best place for that is the bedchamber.’

  The clawlike fingers closed on her wrist. ‘Listen, my dear. He’s a good man. Proud, arrogant, I’ll grant you. And with more than his fair share of temper. But you can’t hide for the rest of your life. Whatever happened in Brussels, you both need to put it behind you and go on. Don’t try to tell me you’ve been happy without him. I’m not blind. And from all I’ve heard from the rest of ’em, he hasn’t been happy either.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘Don’t think too highly of men, myself, but Anthony, for all his faults, is one of the better ones. And you needn’t tell him I said so! Now, off you go!’

  Gulping, Georgie nodded. ‘I…I know, Miss Lyndhurst. That’s the worst of it. I was such a blasted little ninny! I…I mean—’

  ‘That you were a blasted, little ninny,’ agreed Miss Lyndhurst. ‘We all make mistakes. Including Anthony. I’ve not the least doubt he was as much to blame as you.’ She got into bed and settled herself back against the pillows. ‘And you’d better start calling me Aunt Harriet. This Miss Lyndhurst business is wearing me down! Now, give me a kiss and run along!’

  Shaken, Georgie obeyed, pressing a gentle kiss on each withered old cheek.

  Gruffly, the old lady waved her away. ‘Go on. Off with you. I’m tired. Tell Mrs Waller I’ll want tea in the morning. Oh, one last thing. If there’s anything, anything at all, that you ought to tell Anthony—tell him sooner, rather than later.’

  Georgie stared, held by the compassionate old eyes. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t. She’d never even told her godmother the truth about that…

  She hesitated outside Anthony’s bedchamber, Aunt Harriet’s words echoing…he hasn’t been happy either…

  The question remained—would she be able to make him happy? More to the point, did he even want her to make him happy? Or would he seek happiness outside their marriage? All he wanted of her was an heir…

  With a shuddering breath, she entered. He was in bed, sitting up reading, and the breath strangled in her throat. Not at the sight of him reading, but at the sight of his bare chest. Drat the man! Didn’t he ever wear any clothes? Unable to tear her gaze away, she stood, clutching the door handle.

  He glanced up. ‘Ah, there you are.’

  She continued to stare.

  ‘Er, were you planning to shut that door?’

  She shut it with rather a bang as it slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Still with her eyes on him, she began to circle the huge bed, the bed that she must share with him, towards the dressing room.

  ‘There is a nightgown laid out for you here.’

  Startled, she looked at the other side of the bed. Sure enough, a nightgown lay there, pristine white against the deep crimson counterpane. It looked familiar.

  She came closer, staring. ‘But…but that is mine…the one…’ Her voice died in her throat. He had bought it in Brussels, sheer, flimsy, lace-trimmed lawn that hid nothing. He had brought it back to their lodgings and presented it with a wicked grin. And asked her to wear it for him that night. The night before the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.

  Heat swept her. Asking her to not wear it would have been more to the point. She hadn’t worn it for very long after he came to her bed.

  ‘You left it behind,’ he said quietly. ‘You will find the rest of your clothes in the dressing room. I had Timms bring the trunk down from the attic.’

  Close to breaking, she grabbed the nightgown and retreated behind the screen. Her fingers fumbled with the lacings of her gown, as she struggled with the knowledge that Anthony had kept her belongings. Why? And why this nightgown? There had been others. Why this one?

  The truth came with shattering clarity. Anthony had chosen it. Laid it out for her. Her stomach twisted into a knot of fear and longing as she remembered the tenderness of his loving, his gentleness, the blaze of desire that had consumed her utterly. The dawning knowledge that she loved him despite his intention that it should be a marriage of convenience.

  Shivering, she slipped the gown over her head and tied the ribbons with trembling fingers. She had agreed to share his bed. She knew, without Aunt Harriet’s reassurance, his sense of honour. He would force nothing on her. But if he asked…if he touched her…Her breasts ached at the very thought. There would be no need for him to ask a second time. How long would she be able to conceal what was in her heart? Bury the words he would scorn? And how long before she would be able to tear that other confession from its icy prison?

  Slowly she removed the pins from her hair, releasing it to fall down her back. Automatically she poured water from the ewer into the basin and laved her face and hands. She had no more excuses. She had to walk out from behind the screen and join Anthony in their marriage bed. Lumps and all.

  Chapter Four

  Anthony tried not to look up too obviously as she appeared from behind the screen with her arms folded protectively over her breasts and her dark curls a riotous tumble. Damn! He must have been insane to put that particular nightgown out. His entire body hardened to aching need at the sight. Even with her arms crossed, his memory relentlessly supplied the hidden details.

  Dainty, rounded breasts, their deep rose peaks a tempting shadow behind the gauzy fabric. He nearly groaned as he remembered the dress he had bought her in Brussels of that exact same shade. He forced his eyes back to her face, not daring to glance lower and see the other, darker shadow nestled below her belly. His memory supplied that detail mercilessly. Along with the silkiness and scent of her. The feel of her, soft and yielding beneath him. Every muscle locked against his instincts. His word had been given.

  He noticed the hesitation as she approached the bed, the watchfulness in the hazel eyes. As though she approached a wolf. Hell, if she knew what he was thinking, she’d know she was approaching a wolf. In no clothing at all.

  Surreptitiously, he watched as she pulled back the covers with shaking hands, her eyes suddenly shielded by the thick, dark lashes, and slid in. On the very edge. He should say something to reassure her after last night. Anything to take his mind off the need twisting his guts. Anything to stop her realising that his control was in ruins, smoking around the edges.

  He said the first thing that came to mind. ‘You knew I wasn’t wounded at Waterloo. How?’

  The lashes flickered up. ‘The Duke. He’d come in to visit some of the wounded officers. I saw him in the street and when I ask
ed, he said that you were perfectly safe. You’d been sent to him with a message after the battle. So…’ Her voice trailed off and she looked away.

  Grimly Anthony finished for her. ‘So you left.’

  She nodded, easing herself back against the pillows. He released a breath very slowly, trying not to notice how the dusky curls fanned over the linen as she wriggled down. Trying to close his mind to the memory of those soft tresses tangled in his fingers, the sweet scent of them spread over his chest in silken abandon.

  Yet despite the aching need, something inside him eased. He had been sent to Wellington’s headquarters the night after the battle. She could not have known that except from the Duke himself. Had she waited until she knew of his safety?

  He crushed the thought. She had still gone. Without explanation. Abandoning him to four years of grief, doubt and slander. And what had happened to his mother’s pearls? He thought he knew. She had taken very little and she certainly had not had enough money to reach England, let alone Devon, where, according to Aunt Harriet, her godmother had lived. No doubt the pearl necklace had found its way into the coffers of some pawnshop in Brussels.

  He glanced over. She lay very still, on her side with her back to him. Better not to ask about the necklace or anything else tonight. At least she had not left Brussels without knowing that he was safe. One thing at a time. And she was back in his bed. If she didn’t fall out.

  Furious that he had given her cause to fear him, he said, ‘There is no need to cling to the edge of the mattress. I’ve not the least desire to pounce on you tonight.’

  Wordlessly she wriggled back towards him. About three inches. He swore mentally and left it. After last night, he could hardly blame her for being unwilling to share his bed.

  In the morning he would speak to William—there had been no chance this evening. Not that he doubted Georgie. The whole thing fitted together too neatly. But he wanted William to know that the truth was out, without alarming him too much. Better to keep him at the Chase, under their eye, where he could do little harm. In the morning he’d tell Ufton to bring all outgoing mail to him.

  Hours later he still lay there, staring at a page of his book. The same page he’d been trying to read for half an hour. His wife lay quietly. He envied her. Her breathing had relaxed into sleep an hour ago. Hell. His body ached. His head ached. Desire wrenched his guts. And something deeper. An emotion he had tried to bury, to forget, thinking it would never be needed again. Something that transfigured his desire, his need, into a burning brand.

  Four years ago he had been close—so damned close!—to telling Georgie what a crass, unforgivable mistake he had made in contracting a marriage of convenience with her. When the call to arms had come, he had felt not just the usual fear of battle, the unspoken knowledge that he might not return, but a gut-wrenching terror that he might die without ever having told her that he loved her. That he would die with those words locked in his heart. Somehow that made death worse. Death with regrets. He’d never faced that before.

  And then he’d found her in Finch-Scott’s arms—kissing him. Any man would have been angry. But he’d said things. Things he bitterly regretted. Things he would have apologised for. Had she not run away, this mess could have been avoided.

  Grimly he faced the truth: that he had very little—correction, he had no control over his emotions where Georgie was concerned. Finding her in someone else’s arms had been bad enough. To then hear her sobbing that she loved him, had sent him over the edge.

  How the hell could she possibly have loved him if she had left him?

  Granted she had come back, but apparently only because Aunt Harriet had dragged her here. She had expected him to ignore her! And then to divorce her.

  Swearing under his breath, he reached over and turned his lamp down. It flickered blue and went out. If he lay in the dark and shut his eyes, he might, just possibly, sleep. The lamp on her side of the bed still glowed.

  Carefully he eased over beside her, reached across—and froze. She lay on her side, facing away from him, her eyelids reddened and swollen, her pale cheeks stained with tears. His gut twisted into a knot of pain. She had cried herself to sleep within three feet of him and he had not heard her. Feeling as though something inside him had ripped apart, he turned down the lamp. Darkness enveloped them. Her quiet breathing surrounded him.

  And the sight of her tearstained cheeks beat on his eyelids. With a groan he eased down beside her and felt her soft warmth. Gently he shifted her back against his chest, holding her there as he rested his cheek on her hair and breathed its sweetness.

  She shifted slightly and he shuddered to stillness, fearing to disturb her. Then with a wriggle that nearly shattered his fragile control, she twisted in his arms, nestling against him, her damp cheek snuggled against his chest, one small hand over his heart. Holding it captive.

  He took a very deep breath. Which was a serious mistake. The gentle scent of lavender wreathed through him. Lavender and Georgie. Herself. Innocence. His resolve shook as need blazed through him. Every muscle tightened in restraint as he reminded himself of all the reasons he could not take her. None of them convinced his aching flesh.

  Tomorrow night he’d make damned sure he wore a nightshirt. He bit back a groan as she cuddled closer, soft breasts pressing against him through the flimsy lawn. God help him—tomorrow night, if he possessed the least iota of sense, he’d find another bed.

  But, despite the physical discomfort, there was a measure of peace in having her in his arms. At least he knew that when he woke this time it would not have been a dream.

  Dreams held Georgie safely. Gentle, steely arms cradled her against a broad chest. She clung to the familiar dream, breathing the musky, male odour of his body, sighing with pleasure at the warmth of his hand cupping one breast, a powerful thigh pushed between her own.

  Her body ached softly. Soon, so soon she would awaken to the reality of a pillow damp with tears. Only this time it felt so real, the mat of hair on his chest tickling her nose…she had never felt that before.

  Slowly the clouds of sleep lifted. She still lay in his arms, springy hair still tickled her nose. It wasn’t a dream this time. The rest had been a dream, a nightmare of loss…She clung to the dawning reality as pale light filled the room. But memory followed. Bright and terrible.

  Yes. She had returned to Anthony and he had not disowned her. But at what cost to himself? It seemed that he had only taken her back because he felt that he had no choice. Was he sacrificing himself, or her?

  He awoke to feel her easing from his arms. Very slowly, scarcely breathing as she lifted from him. He lay resistless, forcing his arms to loosen, to let her go, when all he wanted was to roll her beneath him and kiss her until her lips and body softened. Until all her softness was his, pliant and yielding.

  Aching, he let her go and listened to the faint sounds of her washing and dressing. Was she still in her chemise? Which gown was she wearing? If she chose the pink one, he was in for an appalling day. His imagination supplied every detail as the soft sounds continued and his body reacted with predictable violence. It was all he could do not to get out of bed and inform her that their truce was over.

  He gritted his teeth. A physical need. Nothing more. He would not permit it to be anything more. Never again would he indulge himself with that particular idiocy.

  The moment the door closed behind her, he flung back the covers and got up. Ruefully he realised that seeing him in the morning would not back up his claim that he had no desire to pounce on her. That had to rank as one of the biggest whiskers in history. Swearing, he donned a dressing gown.

  Another night with her in his arms like that would wear his good intentions as thin as her nightgown. He pushed the thought away. This morning he had to catch William. He glanced at the clock. Plenty of time. William was not renowned for early rising.

  Automatically he strolled to the window to assess the weather. In the clear morning light he could see the ducks on the lake
and a small group of deer grazing by the shore. A lovely day. He’d have to think of something for them all to do, except, of course, that all Marcus wanted to do was sneak off to the gardens with Miss Devereaux and Cassie and Quinlan were as bad.

  He started to turn from the window, but a flurry of movement drew him back. The deer had fled. As he watched, a figure came out of the woods and started around the edge of the lake towards the house. Stiffening, he narrowed his eyes. Could it be the man seen lurking? Surely not. From here the man’s attire looked that of a gentleman. In fact…Disbelieving, he reached for the spyglass on his desk—the image came into focus and Anthony stared, shocked.

  What in Hades was William, of all people, doing out before breakfast? Through the spyglass William looked worried, glancing around constantly…as though he feared being seen. Or, thought Anthony suddenly, as though he were looking for someone. Like the mysterious man who had sent that note to him? His mind began to work furiously. If William had been behind the attack on Frobisher, who would he have been most likely to employ for the task?

  With a savage curse, Anthony knew he had the answer. The disgraced valet, Grant. If the situation hadn’t been so serious he would have grinned. No wonder William was now being blackmailed, if that were the case—Grant would be determined to get his money.

  Drumming his fingers on the window sill, he lowered the glass. If Grant was still about, someone must have seen him. If he drove out today and gave a precise description to a few people—offered a reward for quiet information as to Grant’s whereabouts. Anthony clenched his fists. Grant could be persuaded to talk.

  The door opened and Timms entered. ‘Morning, Major. Saw the mistress and thought you’d be up.’

  Anthony gave him a very careful look and replaced the spyglass. Timms moved around the room, picking up discarded clothes, seemingly oblivious to his master’s very dangerous mood, while Anthony shaved and tried not to think about ways in which to seduce his very reluctant wife.