by Tracy Sumner
She got lost watching him unpack his treasures, separating each parcel from straw with reverent handling and mumbled observations she had no idea how to interpret. Beautiful hands, sleek wrists, a dusting of dark hair climbing into his rolled sleeve. Broad shoulders, wide chest, lean hips, long legs, he was built like a man who used his body. He should’ve looked disheveled, snow-moist and mussed, covered in grime and bits of straw, when instead he looked utterly appealing. The lit taper on the desk highlighting the auburn streaks in his hair, flooding his eyes with sparks of light. Eyes full of captivation and delight over his possessions.
She went to her knee beside him, fascinated because he was. He’d laid the fossils in a neat line on a length of tarp. “This one,” she pointed, fearing to touch, “has color.”
Dex smiled, tapping the fossil she’d pointed to. “A jewel beetle. The pigment is the exoskeleton showing. Quite unique, that. Buprestidae, which I can say but not spell. Which is where you come in.” He made a motion as if to write, his smile growing.
“Oh!” She scampered to her feet, having forgotten about playing assistant geologist.
“My folio is on the desk. A sharpened quill. Fresh ink. Notecards we can attach to each specimen. Twine and scissors.”
“You’re prepared,” she said, gathering the materials.
“I’m a man of science. I like details. I like strategizing.” He unpacked the last specimen and shoved the crate aside. “You should also know this about me. Once I get an idea in my mind, it rarely leaves. And more than anything, I like to win.”
Georgiana paused, dabbing at a smear of ink on her palm. “So, you’re stubborn and competitive. You didn’t have to tell me, those traits I recall,” she said dryly and dropped to a squat, placing the materials in a row as neat as his line of fossils. “Are we fighting? With talk of winning and such.”
“Sometimes winning has nothing to do with fighting, Georgie girl,” he returned with an enigmatic expression. Then he shook his head as if amused by them both, sending his hair in a wild tumble about his face.
She moved before she thought to stop herself, brushing the overlong strands from his eyes. They were the color of burnt honey against her skin. Lingering, she let her fingers graze his temple, his cheek, the underside of his jaw. “No need to hide that face,” she said as they stared, knees touching, breath mingling. His skin smelled like winter. Charred wood and damp frost and cool sunlight. Stunned, she laughed and dropped her hand, making light of the action when her awareness had constricted to a pinpoint of sensation sitting right beneath her heart.
Silent but vigilant, Dex blinked, reached for the scissors, snipped a length of twine, and turned, presenting his back and the cord. “Tie it. It’s what I do when it’s gotten too long, and I’m without a barber. I’ll have Chauncey trim it later. He has a steady hand when the situation calls for one, which in the remote places we’ve traveled, it often has.”
“I’m guessing you’re the only geologist who travels with a valet.”
“Quite right.” He dipped his head, patient, controlled, persistent. His request felt like a dare, an intimate and personal one. A task a wife completed for her husband, a woman for her lover. Georgiana lifted her hand, watched it tremble. Pulled her fingers into a tight fist, released, then sank them into his hair. Thick, silken, as she’d imagined. Breathing in his scent, she placed the twine between her teeth, using her other hand to gather the strands into a neat bind.
His hand went to the rug, fingers spread as he braced himself. A raw gasp snaked through his teeth, she heard it, and he made no effort to keep her from hearing it. His shoulders lifted, his biceps hardening with the effort. Parts of her body that had lain dormant for years aroused with his choked breath. He was affected; she was overwhelmed. If Dex turned, pushed her to the floor, and climbed atop her, she’d let him. Welcome him, despite her fragile heart, despite her fears, despite her suspicion that their chance at love had passed.
This level of desire was a creature she’d never experienced nor soothed.
Soothing desire wasn’t what she was here for.
Swallowing, she rocked back on her heels. Tucked her finger in her bodice pocket and worked the suitables list free. It was a hammer blow of a response, nothing subtle about it, panic driving the undertaking. The lapis stone he’d given her escaped with the list and tumbled to the floor, landing right by the toe of his dirty boot. Her cheeks lit, her palms going damp. Just bloody perfect.
Slowly, carefully, Dex covered the stone with his hand.
“I drafted a list,” she said, her words tripping one over the other. “Two women I feel are appropriate. And immediately available. The families are in Derbyshire for the holiday, and both are in dire need of funds, meaning they will happily forego the Season, which is convenient given your promise to provide a name to your father by Twelfth Night. I’m happy to hold an intimate dinner party at my home since your father is ill. I’m a family friend, a widow of means. Therefore this is entirely proper. If you have more flexibility with regard to time, I’ll confer with my partner in the Duchess Society upon my return to London and—”
“Enough,” he whispered, a thousand sentiments wrapped in the plea. Anger, when she had no idea why he was angry. Disappointment, frustration.
Georgiana’s temper flared, relieving a little of the yearning pulsing beneath her skin. How dare he, when she’d done nothing but what he’d asked of her. “Why do you sound vexed when I’m simply doing what you requested I do? What I’ve been doing quite successfully for going on two years within every level of society. We’ll need to go over my suggestions if you’re able to hold a civil discussion about your quest because I don’t understand what you want, what you need in a wife. I usually conduct a thorough interview with both parties; consequently, these were guesses. Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I don’t know you anymore.”
He ran the lapis along his lower lip, then sent her an inscrutable look over his shoulder. “Would you like to, Georgie?” He tossed the stone from hand to hand. “Know me again?”
A stunned sigh left her, and she spoke without thinking, “I’ve given up on that.”
He frowned, sending a neat fold between his brows, the stone falling still in his hand. “Given up on what?”
“Friendship. Belonging. Derbyshire.” She blew out a breath, unable to articulate what she meant, what she wanted, what she dreaded, what she feared. Funny, when she’d asked him to tell her these things about himself. “I don’t know. All of this. I’ve been alone for so long I’m used to it. Coming back here has been like the first sweep of sunlight after winter. Addictive and startling. And in a way, uncomfortable. I’m having trouble seeing through the glare.”
Didn’t he know?
She was made of ice and wasn’t sure she wanted to melt.
Shaking his head, Dex pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, seeming to realize a task he’d assumed would be easy wasn’t going to be easy at all. “You’ve always had my friendship.” Turning to face her, he unwrapped her clenched fist, dropped the lapis into her palm, and sealed her fingers around it. “It’s entirely my fault you felt you lost it. And we must start somewhere.”
“Start what?” she whispered, a tendril of unease threading through her voice.
He rose, looking down at her for a charged moment. “I’ll go over your list of suitables, Georgie. Share my vision for the perfect duchess.”
“I never promised per—”
“But first, we’re going to have an adventure. The best I could construct in the middle of a snowstorm. As I mentioned, we’ll start with travel to Germany and Austria,” he said, crossing the room to the map tacked on the wall. He tapped India with his knuckle. “Maybe, before luncheon, we’ll even dip our toe into Asia. Then, over whatever delicacies my kitchen staff is inspired to provide for us, I’ll tell you about the fever in Delhi that nearly killed me, the viscount’s daughter in Shanghai who brandished a knife and thought to force my hand, my plans to survey parts of Scotla
nd and Wales for a government initiative, which would keep me closer to home for the next year or two. My hopes for Munro Geological and how I pray my plans align with my duty to the dukedom. I’ll tell you why I left Derbyshire, why I felt I had to. You want to know me, know me. But I get the same in return. Discussions, like we had as children.”
“Dex, when we were children, when we were friends, we talked about everything.”
He shrugged and tapped the map again, closer to home this time. “Okay.”
She squeezed the lapis, pressing a rough edge into her skin. “You don’t fight fairly,” she said, soundly defeated and utterly euphoric, proving she was, indeed, losing her mind.
He laughed, shaking the neat snatch of hair tied with twine. “When you used to fight dirty. I took more than one fist to the face as I recall. A boot kick to the shins. Where is that courageous hellion, I wonder?”
She’s right here, Georgiana wanted to say, hiding beneath the Ice Countess.
Instead, she slipped the lapis in her pocket, settled Dex’s folio on her knees, dipped the quill, and wrote Buprestidae in neat script on the page. She swept the feathered end over the glowing beetle fossil. “Let’s start with this one, shall we?”
His only reply was a brilliant smile and a teasing wink as he settled in beside her.
And she realized she was in deep trouble.
Chapter 5
Friend.
Dex rolled on to his back before the hearth, the glass of whiskey he’d devoured during his late luncheon with Georgie—and the second he was diligently consuming—giving him a lovely internal glow. He steadied the tumbler on his belly and turned his head toward the brocade settee where she lay sleeping.
Her flaxen hair had come loose from its mooring and was scattered about her face. Her hand was curled in a tight fist, her cheek resting atop it. Lips, very tempting ones he’d spent much of the morning staring at, parted with the lightest, most delicate breaths slipping free. Her breasts had done a suggestive gravitational shift against her rounded bodice, bringing a new level of discomfort to the afternoon, evidence of which he’d struggled to hide from the serving maid, Gertrude, who sat snoring in an armchair in the corner. A nod to decorum his majordomo, Wilkes, on staff since Dex was a boy, had insisted upon with an impermeable scowl.
When Wilkes looked at Georgie, he saw the girl with a ragged hem and skinned elbows who’d requested he not tell her father she’d been climbing the elm out back or wading through water in a limestone cave or riding a horse astride.
Dex saw her in that way, too. In part. At times.
But mostly this day, he’d seen a woman looking back at him with the girl’s eyes. The worst possible mix. The girl he’d loved and the woman he wanted.
The worst possible mix was going to be furious.
Because he didn’t play fair.
He’d plied her with wine while explaining the stratification of igneous rock, sending her into a dispassionate, foxed trance. Because he’d known if he waited another hour, maybe two, they couldn’t safely travel the roads. The snowstorm beyond the library window was positively ferocious.
She was here to stay at least until tomorrow.
His time was running out, therefore he’d had to make a move, and Dexter Munro didn’t fear making moves.
Georgie wanted to host a dinner party to help him find a duchess.
Tomorrow.
Which left one day to either change her mind or change his.
Propping his arm beneath his head, he took a measured sip as the candlelight shifted and washed over her. Even with the lure of a dukedom, a pleasing face, a fast wit, and a sly charm, he wasn’t especially adept with women. With relationships. He was skilled in bed; he appreciated the mechanics of the act. He was a man of detail, after all. And concern with detail was what it took to be competent, a technique he assumed most men ignored. From the comments from his former lovers, was sure they ignored.
Sex was one thing.
Talking and laughing and remembering like he’d done with Georgie today, as she made notes in his folio, dripping ink on the rug and asking probing, wide-eyed questions, her gaze lighting him up and then dancing off, was nothing he’d ever experienced. He was used to conversation with an end goal. A game being played, a transaction being enacted.
This had been conversation held simply to enhance their understanding of each other.
It had made him feel vulnerable, naked, panicked.
He liked her. He’d always liked her. She was intelligent. Beautiful. Spirited. She quarreled with him without worrying about her disagreement hurting his feelings or her chances. He believed her. She was sincere. She told him when he was daft or arrogant or obnoxious, which he often was.
But he’d boxed himself in with this suitables agreement, a dare made in haste and one he wished to retract. Impulsivity had brought him low before. This wouldn’t be the first time. He couldn’t very well say, I love you and I always have. And not in the courteous way you’ve outlined for us. Friends. With a sneer, he threw back the rest of his whiskey.
The admission sounded crass, too sudden. Reckless. She wouldn’t believe it—and who could blame her? He’d have to go through with this farce to find a duchess to make the woman he wanted to be his duchess realize she had feelings for him, too. That she wanted him more than her damned freedom, which he had no urge, no intention, of taking from her. His only chance to secure her love was to make her jealous of the plan she’d put in motion.
In essence, having her sabotage her own creation.
If he followed through on his impulse to touch her, it might go badly. Cause her to push him away. Forever away. Opposite of future-duchess away.
He could always be honest and court her. Tenderly, for months if necessary. Tell his father by Twelfth Night that he’d proposed, and they would marry when Georgie was ready to marry. But instinct, a gift that rarely failed him, told Dex her issues were more profound than merely losing her independence. His fingers clenched around the glass as he released a tense breath. The notion sent a flood of rage through him, but he suspected Georgie’s marriage had broken her. Leaving Dex to tame a hesitant filly when horses didn’t particularly fancy him.
When patience wasn’t his strong suit.
Placing his tumbler aside, he rolled to his feet and quietly approached the settee. Went down on one knee next to Georgie, close enough to catch the scent of lavender and nutmeg on her skin. Close enough to see the line of freckles scattered like stars across the bridge of her nose, the smudge of ink on her jaw. Suddenly, he wondered what she thought of him. Because her feelings weren’t obvious. He’d always known before, but the Ice Countess had become adept at concealment.
He wondered if her heart raced when he touched her. If her mind emptied when he smiled. If she wanted him in the core of her being, an inexplicable ache.
But most of all, he wondered if she remembered their kiss.
He scrubbed his hand over his jaw, stubble pricking his fingertips. Drawing a breath filled with her, he closed his eyes to the memory. It was years ago, seven or eight now that he tried to place it. He’d been in his father’s study packing papers for his first geological assignment after finishing Cambridge, an archaeological dig in Italy. He was coming off a violent confrontation with the duke about, well, everything when Georgie had stumbled in.
Dex had been a churn of emotion. Tangled up. Exposed. Infuriated and eager and bloody scared. Then she’d been standing before him, her face flushed, her eyes shimmering. He hadn’t told her he was leaving, but Anthony must have. The next moments were hazy. He couldn’t recall what they’d said to each other. What she’d done to make him reach for her, drag her up on her toes and against his body.
But the kiss, oh, how he remembered the kiss.
Nothing transactional about it. Pure, sweet, flawless. Innocent for all the heat it had sent through him. An awakening, even if he still walked away from her, from Derbyshire, the next morning.
An honest mistake. You
ng and foolish, he hadn’t known.
He’d let the only woman he’d ever want, ever love, marry someone else.
“Dex.”
He opened his eyes to find Georgie blinking sleepily. She yawned behind her hand, giving him a pointed look. “You mustn’t mix discussions of igneous rock and wine. It’s a disastrous combination.”
Dipping his head as he laughed, he braced his hands on his knees to keep from touching her. Measured steps, Dex, my boy, measured steps. “Duly noted.”
She elbowed to a sit, smoothing her bodice and her skirt while he glanced away to give her privacy. “Did you do this on purpose? Provide spirits and deadly conversation.” She nodded to the window and the snowdrift climbing past the bottom panes. “I’m stuck here, aren’t I?”
The delicate hollow of her throat was within reach should he follow through on the desire to press his lips to it. Which, as he was unsure of himself and her, he wouldn’t. “My father’s sleeping and the doctor doesn’t expect him to wake,” he shocked the hell out of himself by admitting. “I suppose…I suppose I didn’t want to spend the day alone.”
“The unfair play continues,” she whispered and worked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, “as I can say nothing to that.”
“You have a chaperone,” he reminded her with a nod to Gertrude, who’d been equally felled by the stratification discussion and slept as soundly as a babe. “A houseful of servants. Wilkes has popped his head in every half-hour since you arrived. I don’t know what he thinks I’m doing to you in here. Each time, he seems surprised to find out, nothing.”
A devilish spark lit her eyes, reminding him of the indigo of the Indian Ocean. There were leagues of mysteries in her gaze. Couldn’t he be the one allowed to explore them? “What trouble can two old friends get into surrounded by a slumbering chaperone, an aging butler, and twenty crates of rocks?” She clicked her tongue against her teeth and glanced about the room. “A note for the future wooing of your duchess: fossils aren’t romantic. Fascinating but not romantic.”
