by Julia Quinn
“Thank you, Wheelock,” Nicholas said. “Truly.”
“It was my honor, sir. Now if you will excuse me, I must start back. It’s best if I’m at Crake before the household rouses.”
“Move as swiftly as is safe,” Nicholas directed.
“Oh, but Wheelock? Could you give me a leg up before you go?” Georgie asked.
Nicholas gave her a look. “I can help you.”
“We’ve only the one horse,” she explained. “I assume you’ll be in front. Won’t it be easier if you mount first?”
He muttered something she could not quite make out, but he must have agreed with her because he swung himself up onto his horse.
“It must be nice to be so tall,” Georgie grumbled. As if men didn’t already have the advantage in, well, everything, they didn’t need blocks just to get into a saddle.
Or the hands of a helpful butler. Poor Wheelock seemed somewhat chagrined to be performing such a menial task, but as in all things, he had no difficulty hoisting her up into the saddle.
“Can he do everything?” Georgie asked with no sarcasm whatsoever.
Nicholas chuckled. “As far as I can tell.”
It was at that moment that Georgie realized just how risqué a position she’d put herself into. She could not recall the last time she’d ridden astride, and it was positively scandalous how far she had to hike up her nightshift to be able to spread her legs widely enough.
“Let me just adjust my dressing gown,” she mumbled. It was split in the front, and so she was able to tuck it around her legs. Somewhat.
“Are you comfortable?” Nicholas asked.
“Yes,” she lied.
Because she wasn’t comfortable at all. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, the distance between them disappeared entirely, and when he spoke, she felt his voice. It pulsed through his body, humming against her skin before it sank into her bones. Her breasts were pressed against his back, and as she bobbed up and down in the saddle along with the movement of the horse, they began to feel sensitive in a way that was entirely new to her. Her nipples grew hard, like they did in the cold, but the similarity ended there. Instead of discomfort, she felt a tingling sensation, one that shot through her like sparks, stealing her breath.
Stealing her sanity.
Was this arousal? She’d seen the looks her brother and Violet shared when they thought no one was looking. Whatever it was that passed between them, it was different from love. It was flirty, and it was hot, and Georgie had never quite understood it.
Now she, too, was gripped by something unfamiliar. And strange, because this was Nicholas, and even though she had decided to accept his marriage proposal, she hadn’t thought she’d feel this urge to hold him closer, this need to feel his body pressed hard against hers.
She felt hungry. At her center, at that part of her body she was not supposed to talk about.
Not hungry. Ravenous.
Dear God.
“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked, sending a brief glance at her over his shoulder.
“Yes,” she somehow managed to say. “Of course. Why?”
“You made a noise.”
Thank God they were on horseback, with sound muffled by the wind and the beating of the hooves. Because she had an awful suspicion that when the horse had shifted from a trot to a canter, she’d actually moaned.
“Just a yawn,” she improvised. But she was glad for his question. And for her embarrassment. She’d needed something to snap her out of her sultry haze.
“It’s not much farther,” Nicholas said.
She nodded against him, enjoying the warmth and the closeness, his clean masculine scent, and the slightly scratchy wool of his coat.
Nicholas had been magnificent this evening. There was something thrilling about a man who was capable, who could do things and fix things. She’d been mesmerized by his hands, by his flat, square nails, and the quiet confidence of his movements.
She could be happy with him. She was sure of it. Maybe it wouldn’t be the great love story she’d seen her brother and sister find, but she would be happy. More than happy, even.
What lay between happiness and love?
If all went well, she’d marry this man and find out.
They reached the edge of Aubrey Hall’s south lawn, and Nicholas brought the horse to a stop, keeping them veiled in a small copse of trees. “We shouldn’t ride any closer,” he said. “It will make too much noise.” He dismounted, then reached up to help her down, his large hands spanning her hips.
Her feet touched the ground, and he let go, exactly as he should.
But she wished he hadn’t.
She liked being near him. She liked his quiet strength, his sense of purpose. And when his hands had been on her hips, even just to help her down from the saddle, she’d liked the way it had made her feel like she was his.
“How do you propose to enter the house?” he asked, demonstrating that his mind wasn’t on such fanciful thoughts. In fact, he looked terribly stiff and formal, clasping his hands in front of him in that way gentlemen were taught to do whenever they stood still.
Georgie felt a stab of disappointment. It served her right, though, she supposed, for having said no when he’d asked her to marry him.
“Thamesly and I left one of the doors ajar,” she answered. “In the silver salon. It’s far from the servants’ quarters.”
He nodded. “I will walk you to the house. It’s still dark enough. No one will be about.”
“It’s not necessary. I can always say I went for a walk.”
He looked down at her. “Dressed like that?”
“I’ve done stranger things.” She shrugged, but she couldn’t stop herself from tugging the collar of her dressing gown closer together.
He let out the tiniest of sighs. “Indulge me my gentlemanly tendencies and pray allow me to see you to the door.”
For some reason this made her smile. “You’ll be able to see me from here. Almost the entire way.”
He did not look happy, but he did not argue.
She swallowed. It was now or never. “Before I go, I wanted to ask you . . .”
His eyes met hers.
“Is it . . .”
This was so hard. And it was her own fault that it was.
“I was wondering,” she began again, not quite looking at him, “if . . .”
He shifted his posture, clasping his hands behind his back. “What is it, Georgie?”
She looked up, because this was the sort of thing that deserved something more genuine than her gaze on the ground.
He deserved more.
“I would like to reconsider your offer of marriage,” she finally said.
And then he said—
“Why?”
What the devil?
“Why?” she echoed. She had not thought he would question her. He would say yes, or he would say no, and she would carry on from there.
“Why,” he repeated. “You were quite firm this afternoon.” He frowned. “Yesterday afternoon, I suppose it is now.”
“You surprised me,” she said. It was certainly the truth, and surely it was best to be honest. “I should have taken the time to think before answering, but everyone has been so pitying and it has been awful, and all I could think was that you felt sorry for me, and wasn’t that a terrible reason to ask someone to marry you, and I didn’t want you to regret it.”
But then she realized this wasn’t quite what had happened. She took a deep breath and said, “No, that’s not true. I wasn’t thinking about you. I was thinking about myself, which isn’t as selfish as it sounds, or at least I hope not, but it’s a horrible thing to be pitied. It’s just horrible. And I couldn’t see past that.”
Her words came out like a flood, but his expression remained even. Not emotionless, not unkind, just . . . even.
She wasn’t sure if this scared her.
“What changed your mind?” he asked.
Finally, an easy question.
“I got home and realized I was being an idiot.”
One side of his mouth hitched up. Almost a smile. That had to count for something.
But he did not speak, which meant she had to, and now that she’d managed to say the important part she wasn’t sure she had anything left.
“I think . . . I think . . .”
I think I can make you happy. I know I will try.
I think if I go with you to Edinburgh I might find that I’m not the person I always thought I was.
Maybe I’m someone better.
“Georgie?”
“I will be a good wife to you,” she said.
“That was never in any doubt.”
“I was going to come see you tomorrow.” She looked up at the sky as if she knew how to tell time by the stars. Stars that weren’t even out. The clouds still hung heavy, but it didn’t feel like rain. “Today, I suppose. I have no idea what time it is.”
“I was planning to leave for Edinburgh.”
“I was planning to come very early.”
“Were you?”
She nodded. There was something teasing in his voice, and it left her with a feeling she could only describe as fizzy.
“I was. But then all this happened”—she waved her arm behind her, assuming he’d correctly interpret that to mean Freddie Oakes and his broken arm—“and then I saw you . . .”
This seemed to amuse him. “You saw me?”
“Tending to Freddie’s arm.”
“Technically,” he said, “I saw you tending to Freddie’s arm.”
“You’re making this very difficult,” she muttered.
He crossed his arms, not in an angry way; rather, there was something almost sarcastic to it, as if the very motion said—What did you expect?
“You were practicing medicine,” she said. It seemed far too formal a phrase for the moment, but she didn’t know what else to say. And so she continued in her apparent quest to have the most awkward conversation of her life. “There was something very attractive about it,” she mumbled.
“About practicing medicine?” he asked, and she couldn’t quite tell if he was dubious or amused.
“You knew what you were doing,” she said with a helpless shrug.
“You like a man who knows what he’s doing?”
“Apparently I do.”
His eyes settled on hers, and she could not look away. She didn’t want to look away.
“Well, then, Miss Bridgerton,” he said. “I suppose I will ask you again.”
Her breath caught. It wasn’t a surprise. She’d known he would renew his offer; he was too honorable a man to refuse her. But she had not anticipated just how anxious she would feel, regardless.
He took her hand. He had not done that the first time around.
“Georgiana Bridgerton,” he said, “will you marry me?”
She nodded solemnly. “I would be honored.”
And then . . . nothing.
They just stood there.
“Right. Well,” Nicholas said.
Georgie swallowed. “That settles it.”
“Indeed.”
She rocked on her feet, wondering how on earth she felt more awkward now than she had when she was actually asking him to marry her.
Or rather, when she was asking him to ask her to marry him. Which was quite possibly worse.
Finally, he broke the silence. “It’s almost dawn,” he said.
She looked to the east. There was no pink or orange to be found, but at the edge of the horizon, the sky was a lighter shade of blue.
“I should go,” she said, without actually making a move to do so.
“Right.” He brought her hand to his lips. “You should know that I am not a wealthy man. My family is, but I, myself, am not.”
“I don’t care.” It was the truth. And while Nicholas might not be wealthy in the manner of an earl or a viscount, he would certainly never be poor. As his wife, she would want for nothing important.
“I will work for a living,” he continued. “Some might call me a cit.”
“No one whose opinion matters to me.”
He held her gaze for a few more seconds, then murmured, “It is almost morning.”
“You should kiss me,” she blurted out.
His grip tightened on her hand.
“Isn’t that what people do?” she asked, trying to cover her embarrassment.
He, too, looked a little uncomfortable, which made her feel better. “I suppose it is,” he said.
“I’ve never kissed anyone,” she whispered. “Freddie tried, but . . .”
He shook his head. “It wouldn’t have counted, even if he succeeded.”
“No, I suppose not.” She swallowed nervously, waiting.
Waiting.
Why was he just looking at her like that? Why didn’t he kiss her?
Maybe this was up to her. He had been brave when he asked her to marry him. Now it was her turn.
She rose onto her tiptoes, leaned forward, and touched her lips to his. She lingered there a little longer than she thought she was supposed to, and then set herself back down.
Well. That was that.
Her first kiss.
All in all, it wasn’t very exciting.
She looked up at him. He was gazing down at her in a manner that was utterly inscrutable.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose that was your first kiss too?”
He shook his head. “No. But my kisses have not been legion.”
She stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Your kisses have not been legion? What on earth does that mean?”
“It means that I have not had many of them,” he ground out.
And she realized—he was embarrassed.
Maybe. She wasn’t sure.
But it made sense if he was. Theirs was a stupid society, she was coming to realize. Men were supposed to have experience before they married and women were meant to be pure as snow.
Georgie had accepted this as the way things were, but after all that had happened in the last few weeks, she was fed up with the whole thing. It was the same hypocrisy that led the ton to celebrate Freddie Oakes while she was deemed soiled.
Very well, maybe they had not celebrated him, but his reputation had taken no hit.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “That was terribly rude of me. It was your wording that was amusing, not the sentiment behind it. Although, I must confess . . .”
“Yes?” he prompted.
Her cheeks were burning, but still she admitted, “I’m glad you haven’t kissed many women.”
He started to smile. “Are you?”
She nodded. “You won’t be much better at it than I am.”
“We could try it again,” he suggested.
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
“I’m not sure if that’s strictly true,” she replied. “At present we are hiding behind a tree in the shadows of my home, and it’s, I don’t know, perhaps five in the morning. We’ve just treated the broken arm of my sworn enemy, which necessitated my literally cutting the shirt from a man’s body, and—”
“Georgie?” he interrupted. “Shut up.”
She looked at him, blinking like mad.
“Let’s try it again, shall we?”
Chapter 12
Once the engagement was announced, it was remarkable how quickly it all moved forward.
Nicholas was impressed. Or rather, he would have been impressed if he had not been so frustrated. And overwhelmed.
But mostly frustrated.
That kiss . . . the one he’d been so suave in suggesting when he’d murmured Let’s try it again, shall we . . . ?
Disaster.
He’d leaned down to kiss Georgie, and honestly he didn’t know what had happened—maybe she’d jumped?—because his forehead knocked hers with enough force to make him lurch back in surprise.
He wouldn’t say he saw stars. That seemed far too gran
d a description for the jolt of pain that shot through his skull. Stars were a good thing, and this was . . . not.
He’d tried again, of course. He’d just spent the better part of twenty minutes in a rather uncomfortable state of arousal. And she had made it quite clear she wanted to be kissed. And he was going to marry her.
So yes. He was going to attempt another kiss. Frankly, he thought himself rather restrained considering he’d ridden from the farmhouse to Aubrey Hall with his future wife’s bare legs wrapped around his thighs. She’d tried to preserve her modesty with her dressing gown, but that had lasted no more than thirty seconds.
Even when he kept his eyes forward (which he did, some of the time), thus avoiding a glimpse of the moonlight rippling across her pale skin, there was still the matter of her breasts, which had been pressed up against his back, and her hands, which had been pressed up against his belly.
Everything. Her everything had been pressed up against his everything, and by the time they reached Aubrey Hall he was hard as a bloody rock, which was no way to ride a horse.
Or dismount from a horse.
Or help a lady dismount from a horse. When he’d placed his hands on Georgie’s hips it had been all he could do not to slide them down the length of her.
Instead he’d let go as if she’d caught on fire. Metaphorically speaking, it wasn’t that far from the truth.
He’d clasped his hands in front of himself because Good God, what else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t just stand there with his cock trying to bust out of his breeches.
But their first kiss had been uninspiring. And their second downright painful.
He’d pondered a third, but then the horse sneezed. On Georgie.
That was the end of it. The sun was close to rising, his ardor was cooled, and frankly, there were plans to be made.
He needed to go home, inform his parents that Georgie had accepted his proposal, and see to putting that special license to use. They’d be married in a day, maybe two, and he could be on his way back to Scotland. He wasn’t precisely sure how he and Georgie would manage once they reached Edinburgh—he was quite certain he could not bring her to live with him in his rented boardinghouse rooms. His father had said something about renting a house in New Town, but surely such arrangements took time. Georgie might want to wait in Kent until they could secure a lease.
