by Tracy Sumner
Then, there were the gifts. Delivered to Georgie’s residence like clockwork.
Somehow, he couldn’t help himself.
He’d never had anyone to court or shower with, well, love. Dogged, when he finally put his mind to the process of courting. And starry-eyed, which was an absolute surprise. A hard knock to his plan to stay hidden all this gallivanting around, shopping for fripperies, and peeping from carriage windows. The damned broadsheets had made mention of his attending the musicale and maybe even the bookstore. Marked as looking for a duchess, which was right in a broad sense.
Now Georgie knew he was in London, but so did all the overeager mothers.
He was flooded with calling cards, invitations, requests for tea—but only silence from his girl.
He tossed his quill to the desk and sent ink splattering across his ledgers. Chauncey thought it daft, but Dex had chosen to rent rooms on St. James rather than stay in the Mayfair residence or the cottage in Richmond Park, both so much his father’s spaces Dex couldn’t embrace them, even if he’d been managing every aspect of their survival for years. For a few more days, conceivably for the last time, he wanted to sleep on a squeaky bed, conduct his research at a desk nicked from time, pace warped planks, and dispassionately record life from a grimy windowpane. Though his current view offered little beauty. No rolling hills, no verdant swathes of woodland stretching to the horizon. No scent of charred wood or turned earth or frost-coated pine needles.
His dilemma? He missed Derbyshire almost as much as he missed Georgie.
In a way, they’d become one in his mind, in his heart.
He’d walked the moors with her, the forbidding wind stealing across the desolate expanse capturing their breath and pinkening her cheeks. Two loves of his life intrinsically linked. It rose above the physical what he felt for her, above the emotional, as it did for the untamed land in the north.
So layered, his feelings, a mere man had no hope of explaining them.
He only knew it was.
He pressed his hand to his heart, holding back the familiar ache. She didn’t need him. Her efforts in the past month had been her way of telling him this. Her marriage to Arthur had wrought significant damage, damage running soul-deep. It was up to Georgie to decide if the love of a geologist posing as a gentleman was sufficient to heal her wounds.
He could do no more, or not much, Dex determined, as he grabbed his hat and coat and rang for his carriage. It was time to shop for today’s gift. The last, because tomorrow was Twelfth Night.
Tomorrow, he would find out if Georgie was any readier to be a duchess than he was to be a duke.
Georgie missed him enough to go blind.
And for the past three days, he’d made every effort to increase her loneliness.
She stared at the parcel resting on the escritoire between a brass hair clip and Lady Anton’s creased calling card. The package was as attractive as the others Dex had sent, a rose-pink ribbon drawn about brown paper and sealed with crimson and gold wax.
The last gift, as their meeting at the museum was taking place tomorrow.
In nineteen hours, to be exact.
Georgiana lifted her gaze to the gilded mirror on the wall, bringing the wrapped box to her breast. She felt different. Did she look it? Was she forever changed? She pinched her cheek, swept her hand down her throat, which only brought to mind the memory of Dex’s teeth catching the tender skin beneath her ear and sucking as she moaned, craved, begged.
Raw yearning flooded her, weakening her knees until she had to brace a hand on the desk to steady herself.
Her need was potent.
When she’d never needed a man, never allowed herself the option. Never been presented the option. And now, for the first time, it had happened. When she was liberated. The word rang through her mind like the din of a church’s bell.
Liberated from what exactly, her heart asked?
Since leaving Derbyshire, she’d been free of Dex’s wicked smile, tender touch, knowing glances. His intelligence, his humor, his fiery temper. His long leg thrown over hers in the shelter of their bed. His hot breath washing across her skin as he thrust inside her.
In the mirror, she watched her cheeks color in a way no amount of pinching brought.
She was enslaved, gladly welcoming the chains of love circling her. I need him. Above all else, above love, above reason, need was the critical piece.
The necessary piece, vital.
She only had to find the courage to tell him.
The click of the door startled her, and the box tumbled from her hand.
Lady Hildegard Templeton paused in the sitting room entrance, glanced at the pretty parcel lying on the faded Axminster rug, letting a furtive smile spill free. Aside from Dex, Hildy was Georgiana’s favorite person in the world, her dearest friend, her mentor of sorts. Daughter to an earl, at an incredibly young age, Hildy had found the fearlessness to rise above what society expected of a woman of her station. Georgiana greatly admired her. Hildy had studied alongside her brother’s tutors, eventually surpassing what they could teach her. She raced her phaeton through Hyde Park while wordlessly daring any man she met to tumble, such was her beauty and uniqueness. Called a bluestocking to her face and worse behind closed salon doors, she’d stunned the ton by refusing to marry, believing one wedded for love, an idea society mocked. Her mission with the Duchess Society was to ensure other women had the support to choose as she had or be educated regarding the business of matrimony if they did not.
Hildy closed the door and cocked a slim hip against it. “Another one? My, your darling duke is persistent.”
Georgiana went to her knee to retrieve the package. “The marquess is not my darling anything, Hildy.” Which might not be true after tomorrow. Her hand shook to imagine it.
“He’s your darling anything should you want him.” Hildy laughed as she crossed the room, the amused echo as pleasing as her visage. Even with her scandalous reputation, Hildy had admirers, yet she said none made her heart sing. Ditchdigger or viscount, she cared nothing about a title and refused to settle for less than a warbling heart.
Unlike Georgiana five short weeks ago, Hildy didn’t expect love to strike, but she believed it could.
Georgiana fiddled with the ribbon, twisting it around her finger as Hildy’s shadow waterfalled over her. She glanced up, encountered her friend’s knowing smile, dimples, dear heaven, pinging both cheeks. It was no wonder men collapsed at Hildy’s feet.
“Open it, the suspense is stealing my breath,” Hildy said and offered her hand.
Georgiana took it, levering to a stand.
“Can’t be chocolates. That was yesterday.” Hildy released her satin chin strap and ripped the plaid bonnet from her head. “The day before was the fox fur muff to match your cape. A practical and sentimental choice. Scented soap, a leather-bound volume of poetry you clasped to your chest and mooned over all morning. An outrageously extravagant brooch you’ve worn since. What am I forgetting?”
Georgiana threw Hildy a chilling glance and yanked on the package’s ribbon until it loosened and fell into her hand. “I don’t know why you’re enjoying this so much.” If her friend realized how personal each gift truly was—the soap honeysuckle, her favorite scent; the brooch meant to replace one she’d lost on the moors years ago; the book of poems by Keats, whom she treasured without question; the tea, a gift Hildy had forgotten to mention, from her favorite shop—Hildy would force Georgiana into her carriage and deposit her on Dex’s doorstep on St. James this very minute.
Astonishingly, Hildy had shown herself to be a romantic.
“I’m enjoying this because you’re happy, maybe for the first time. Those nasty shadows under your eyes departed, your smile genuine. You’ve been humming, do you know that? Humming! I’ll welcome any man as a friend who can bring such joy. Plus, what a boon for the society if we snag an actual duke! The Duchess Society’s name will be validated.” Hildy took the gift from Georgiana and removed the paper, r
aised a brow in challenge. “Shall we open the last, Georgie?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned the nickname.” Georgiana shifted from one slippered foot to the other and tangled her fingers in her skirt. “It’s silly, something from the past, something Lord Munro started calling me when I was just out of leading strings. It’s childish.”
“No,” Hildy said in all seriousness, “it perfectly suits. He knows you well, I’m thinking.”
Georgiana bumped her bottom to the desk with a sigh of exasperation, dropping her face to her hands. “That’s what I’m afraid of, what I want more than life. I’m a mess, an absolute snarl.”
Hildy stepped in, pulled her close. “It’s acceptable, even recommended in this case, to love him. You can still be the capable woman you want to be. With the right man, I believe it’s possible. In fact, I think the society will be the better for it. Two vastly different marital experiences to use as a guide for our young ladies. What understanding you’ll have.” Hildy hugged her, a gesture that sent a torrent of affection rushing through Georgiana. “Allow yourself to love him if this is where your heart wants to go. He’s proven himself to be loyal and incredibly steadfast.”
“I should have sent him a note thanking him for the gifts.” She chewed on her bottom lip, knocked the toes of her slippers together. “I’ve made him wait, worry when he doesn’t know I want to say yes.”
Hildy straightened, her breath streaking out in surprise. “He’s asked then?”
Georgiana took the box from Hildy’s hand, smiled softly. “In lots of ways.”
“Well…” Hildy’s fingers went to the desk and did a nervy tap.
The last gift was the most personal.
Georgiana unfolded the map, seeing Dex had made small checkmarks next to the places he wanted to take her. Some for his geological work, some for pleasure. The world can be ours, he’d whispered in the hushed Derbyshire twilight, his arms tight about her. Paris, Munich, Cardiff, Edinburgh, Florence. With her finger, she traced the Arno river and remembered Dex telling her how much he loved Tuscany. There was an exquisite villa near the Ponte alle Grazie he’d stayed in once, and he was desperate to return.
With her.
“Rather disappointing,” Hildy murmured, “when he was doing so well with the gifts. But for a man of science, he’s done an excellent job overall.”
Georgiana brought the map to her lips, dropped her head, and sighed against it.
“Oh.” Hildy bumped Georgiana’s shoulder and giggled low in her throat. “You like it. A dingy, old map, but you like it. Odd, but certainly wonderful he didn’t disappoint, that you understand the significance.”
“I love it.” I love him. I want him. I need him.
“A map as welcome as a diamond?” Hildy dusted her hands together as a blinding smile lit her face. “It’s decided, you’re perfect for each other. You’re to love an academic. And God knows, someone should.”
“He wants to give me the world, Hildy.” She glanced again at the map while she negotiated with her heart. “And you know what? I think I’ll take it.”
Chapter 11
A promise fulfilled on Twelfth Night…
Dex shoved his hands in his greatcoat pockets and shivered. The day was frigid, the sky reconciled between wretched and ghastly, icy splinters sneaking beneath the brim of his beaver hat to strike his cheek. As he crossed Great Russell Street, his heart, like the sky, was leaden, his chest taut, making breath a rare commodity. He was barging inside the first public house he encountered, no matter how appalling, and not coming out for days. He was going to drown himself in the finest spirits the district of Bloomsbury had to offer—and then he was going to start on the worst. Maybe he’d unleash his temper, use his fists to alleviate his misery. It’d been years since he’d used them in this manner, but it likely wouldn’t be the last.
Georgie hadn’t shown.
He’d waited in the damned natural history bay for one hour, his donated rocks mocking him, then stalked from room to room should she have gotten lost amidst the group of Oxford professors who’d been wandering the halls since morning. Had he confused the time? Done something to offend her? That blasted map, he thought and gave the bridge of his nose a hard pinch.
The least traditionally romantic gift of all he’d given, but the most personal.
Had she hated it? Not grasped it’s meaning? He was asking her to stay with him, to travel with him, to be with him.
Offering his heart and all that went with it.
He didn’t know how to impress a woman. He’d never known.
Dread cut a wide path through him. It was simple: Georgie wasn’t going to allow herself to love him again.
In a burst of confidence, he’d even sent a missive to his father. The Duke of Markham had always loved Georgie. He’d be pleased to know Dex did, too.
When all Dex had done was curse himself.
He bumped into a man exiting a bootmaker’s shop and snarled a rude rejoinder when he was utterly at fault. She didn’t love him; this was obvious. Not enough, in any case. Didn’t want to be his duchess, which he understood. Who truly desired that ridiculous title and the mess that went with it? But if Georgie loved him, the future Duke of Markham, if she needed him as he needed her, the duchess piece was, unfortunately, part of his package.
The velvet box in his waistcoat pocket sizzled and stung, a woeful little weight reminding him of his idiocy. He should have asked her to marry him years ago, after their impetuous kiss. When she’d had stars in her eyes and no memory of an earl who’d married her and made her life miserable. She’d admitted she would have said yes. They’d been young, but his heart hadn’t shifted since then. Not one tick. Now, she had more pressing issues to be concerned with. Bigger dreams. Her society, a group spoken about in apprehensive tones by the inhabitants of White’s. Viscount Reading’s cheeks had paled when he mentioned his betrothed was meeting with Georgiana the following week to discuss how best to settle their marital contract. The woman he loved had the ton by the short hairs, and Dex could almost, almost laugh about that.
When he got over feeling like he wanted to cry instead.
Halting in front of St. George’s, he climbed the church steps and let the crowd pass, unsure what to do next. Perched against a marble column that felt like a block of ice, he’d worked himself into a sufficient despondency when he heard someone shouting his name.
He looked up, dizzily, blood draining from his head to pool at his feet.
Georgie was hanging half out of a hackney window as it bounced down the street and into the curb, her bonnet, if she’d had one, long gone, her chignon destroyed by the wind and sleet. Before the driver got off his box, Dex was there, ripping open the carriage door and pulling her into his arms right on the sidewalk while a crowd of pedestrians funneled past.
“Oh, Dex, I’m sorry.” Her face was tear-streaked, her nose as red as the holly berries he’d sprinkled along a Derbyshire hallway so she could find him. “My carriage hit ice and lost a wheel as they were bringing it around this morning. I had to locate other transport after making sure my coachman wasn’t injured and—”
His gloved hands rose to frame her chilled cheeks. “Georgie girl, hush. I’m here. It’s okay.”
She broke down then, absolutely distraught. Agonized pleas he couldn’t make out mixed with sobs and hiccups. Worry about his finding his duchess at a musicale or on the street in front of a millinery.
Her adorable hysteria dropped him deeper in the pit of love.
Taking her by the arm, he guided her up the steps and into St. George’s while murmuring soothing words. The vestibule was deserted, hushed, except for the sound of ice striking a high windowpane and the stifling aroma of frankincense and myrrh. “Don’t cry. Please, you’ll break my heart with your tears. I would have gotten inebriated and stormed over to your townhouse in a manner of hours anyway. It was already in the planning area of my brain, even if I’d like to deny it.”
She sputtered out a la
ugh, sniffled, swallowed. When she lifted her head from her study of the marble floor, her eyes were as bright and moist as bluebells soaked in dew, her lashes dark, her skin flushed. With a breathy sigh, she charged into her confession in a most appropriate spot. “I’ve made a hash of this. Us. Since Christmas. Ungrateful, too, not thanking you for the gifts. I’ve worn the brooch every day and made the tea and eaten the chocolate and looked at the map a thousand times when I left Derbyshire without—”
“Stop,” he pleaded, catching her around the waist and bringing her up on her toes. Cradling her face, he slanted his head and took the kiss to a magical place only those who fit together seamlessly could reach. Her gloved hand met his cheek, slid into his hair, tangling as a moan slipped from her throat. Going on instinct, they offered themselves without words, without thought.
“I love you, Dexter Reed Munro,” she whispered against his lips. “I always have.”
Dex dropped his brow to hers, his chest as tight as if a metal band had been fastened around it. He drew in the scent of the church, of lavender and nutmeg, of Georgie. “I’m the sorry one. I made the mistake of leaving England without you before.” He moved back enough to see her eyes. “You’re going to say yes, right? Make the Duchess Society the genuine article? Make a life with me? Have my children? Grow old with me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, a tear streaking down her cheek. “I am.”
He brushed it aside with his thumb. “No more of this. Don’t you know? You’re the most suitable suitable. And I would have waited for you. I would have gone to the ends of the Earth before I gave up on us. I just would have, I’m stubborn that way. My heart was dented, it’s true, but it would’ve mended enough for me to fight for you had you not hung out of a hackney racing dangerously down Great Russell Street and brought me quickly to heel.” Dex was not a religious man but taking in the space where they stood—the paschal candle, the baptismal pool, the wall-mounted founts, the glistening wood, and aged velvet, the feeling of permanence and glory—he decided this was the ideal place to start their life together.
