by Anne Gracie
The last—no trouble—was clearly nonsense, but at least she wouldn’t bore him. She wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him—not by his title, not by his manner. And obedient was probably the last adjective one would apply to her. That would have to change, of course, but from everything he’d learned about Lady Georgiana Rutherford so far, the rest was true.
His main reason for marriage was to get an heir. Did it really matter what his wife did after that? Especially if she wanted to live in the country, raising her horses and dogs and children. Leaving him to get on with his life. It would be better than having a wife cuckolding him in London, as many married men had.
There was about her the air of a free spirit. Could she be tamed? Would he want her tamed, or was that part of what currently appealed to him?
He thought of how she appeared on horseback. A magnificent horsewoman, a veritable young Amazon—born for the hunt, of course, though she didn’t believe it. And yet, what she’d said about hunting—it wasn’t the usual sentimental claptrap some ladies bleated on about. There was passion and fury beneath her convictions. Mistaken as they were.
She didn’t know what she was talking about. Get her out on that stallion of hers one crisp winter’s morning, with the hounds baying and the excitement of the chase alive in the air. He could just see her—
Hart stopped dead in the street, staring blankly into the shadows between two gaslights.
He had seen her. Dammit, it was some years ago, but now he’d made the connection, it was all coming back to him.
No wonder the sight of her galloping over the heath on that black horse of hers had nudged at the edge of his memory. It had puzzled him, that faint sense of recognition, because he knew very few youths, and the only jockeys he knew were his own. But that horse . . .
Now he remembered. He had seen her, met her—so to speak—one winter morning, three or four years ago.
He’d been avoiding Christmas, as usual. After his father died, Christmas had become more unbearable than ever. Not because his mother was grieving—although of course she put on a fine show of it—but because his own grief was real and deep. And private.
Then, once he turned twenty-one, she’d started throwing eligible young ladies at him. Inviting them to house parties at Everingham Abbey. And enacting him tragedies when he showed no interest.
It was easier to stay away, so when Stretton, an old schoolfellow, had invited him to visit, promising some good hunting, Hart, of course, had accepted, taking the invitation at face value.
More fool he. It turned out that Stretton’s two unmarried sisters were the quarry he was expected to hunt. Hart had gravely disappointed them.
On New Year’s Day, an actual foxhunt was arranged, and that was when he’d first come across Lady Georgiana Rutherford. Not that he knew her name, or that she was a lady. He hadn’t even realized she was female.
The hunt had started well. It was a crisp, icy, glorious morning, and it hadn’t taken the hounds long to catch the scent of reynard. The chase was on.
Over hedges, across ditches, mud flying, cold air scouring his lungs, the baying of the hounds, the sound of the horn—this is what he lived for, why he adored hunting. His horse’s hooves shattered the thin layer of ice from the previous night’s frost, tossing up mud and the scent of the earth, a distant hint of summer hay, long dead but still sweet.
Utter exhilaration.
Then without warning . . . it all fell apart. The hounds stopped, scattered, distracted, the fox seemingly forgotten.
The master swore and threw down his whip in disgust. “One of these days I’ll murder that hell-born brat!” He’d shaken his fist in the direction of a boy sitting bareback on a young black stallion watching them from the crest of a hill. Relaxed, gleeful—his very pose expressed contempt.
Other men joined in. “I’d like to strangle the little wretch.”
“Needs a damn good thrashing!”
Stretton came puffing up to join Hart. “Oh, I say, not again. Bad show that.”
“What’s going on?” Hart asked him. The sudden cessation of the hunt had left him feeling hollow, yet keyed up, disappointed and frustrated.
“Local pest.” Stretton indicated the boy on the hill. “Makes a point of ruining every hunt possible.” He indicated the confusion of hounds. “Scatters food around, destroys the scent with smoked herring heads, even been known to blow false horn calls that confuse the hounds.” He shook his head in disgust. “Blasted fox will be well away now, dammit.”
“Why does nobody do anything to stop him?” Hart demanded, gazing at the bold figure on the hill. “Teach him a lesson in interfering with a gentleman’s pleasures.”
Stretton eyed him. “Why don’t you?”
“Dammit, I will.” And Hart urged his horse after a different quarry, an insolent boy riding a black horse, bareback.
He recalled the fury that drove him that day, his determination to catch the little wretch and give him a good hiding. The lad rode brilliantly, his horse was young and fleet, but like the boy, not quite into his full growth.
Hart’s horse was bigger and stronger and Hart gradually gained on him, the thrill of the chase firing his blood again.
He’d drawn alongside the lad and reached out to haul him from his mount. There was a struggle and they’d both come crashing down onto the muddy ground. The boy didn’t move and for a moment, Hart feared that he’d killed him.
But he’d only knocked the breath from his body, and when he took a great, gasping breath, and opened those dazzling smoke-colored eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes, Hart had realized what he’d done. Dragged a young girl off her horse and hurled her roughly to the ground.
He hadn’t known what to say. He was shocked. Appalled. Had no words to explain. He’d never laid a finger on any female, not in violence.
“I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know,” he stammered. “Are you all right?”
She’d given him a long hard look as she gasped to recover her breath. She’d opened her mouth and he’d sat back, waiting to hear what she’d say. Then without warning she kneed him in the balls, scrambled out from under him, swung lithely onto her horse and galloped away, leaving Hart curled in agony on the ground.
Lady Georgiana Rutherford. Not that he knew that back then. The men of the hunt knew she was female—damn them! They’d deliberately misled him—but as far as they knew she was just some rich man’s by-blow. Not that that was any excuse.
Stretton had sent Hart, in his ignorance, to give a young girl a thrashing.
Hart had confronted Stretton immediately. “Did you know you were sending me after a young girl?”
Stretton had snorted. “Of course. The little bitch needed a lesson. I hope it hurt when you knocked her off her horse. Pity she didn’t break her neck.”
Thoroughly disgusted, he’d slammed a fist hard into Stretton’s face and left the district immediately. He’d never spoken to him again.
He’d put the whole shameful incident out of his mind. Until now.
Hart glanced around him in faint surprise. Somehow he’d gotten himself home. He was in his library, sitting in his favorite leather chair. He had no memory of walking home, none of opening his front door. He could have been attacked by footpads—he’d taken absolutely no notice of his surroundings. He’d even poured himself a brandy. He sipped it now, enjoying the smooth burn as it slipped down his throat.
Lady Georgiana Rutherford. Elusive, rebellious, untamable.
He always did enjoy a hunt.
* * *
* * *
Try as she might, George could not get the thought of that kiss—those kisses really, because there were at least two, and there might have been more except she wasn’t quite sure when one kiss had started and another ended. All she knew is that they were extremely . . . disconcerting.
And not just because of
the effect they had had on her.
Never in her life had her knees turned to jelly, and she didn’t trust any man who had the power to do that. To her knees or any other part of her.
Why had he kissed her? It wasn’t as if he liked her. It wasn’t as if she liked him either. So what had been his purpose?
He’d claimed he wanted to discover whether she had an antipathy to men—and she’d told him she had, especially to him. Surely that was clearer than any kiss. Kisses.
So why?
Was it some kind of payback for what she’d said to him at the opera? Or in the conservatory? Or was he still angry that she’d refused to sell him Sultan?
She’d heard people refer to a “punishing kiss.” Was that it? Though it didn’t feel very punishy. More disturbing.
She decided to ask Lily and Rose about kissing. Just in a general, nonspecific, casual way. No one must know that the duke had kissed her. If they did there would be a fuss, and she hated fusses.
She asked them after breakfast the following morning, when they were upstairs. Rose was getting ready to leave for her new home with Thomas.
“Have you ever heard of people’s knees buckling after a kiss?” George asked casually.
“George!” Rose whirled around from the mirror where she’d been tidying her hair. “You’ve finally been kissed!”
“No, it was just—I heard some girls talking and I wondered—”
“Who was it?” Lily asked. “It must have been a good kiss if your knees buckled.”
“Was it at the ball?” Rose asked. “I was so distracted by what was happening with Thomas that I didn’t notice who you were with.”
“She was with the duke for a good part of the night. Two dances and supper,” Lily said.
“No! So it was the duke.” Rose turned to her, her eyes wide. “The duke kissed you?”
“No, of course he didn’t. I dislike him intensely. Why would I let him kiss me?”
But Rose took no notice. “The duke, how strange. Throughout our short courtship he only ever kissed me once, and it was as chaste as chaste can be. Nothing to turn legs wobbly.”
“He must have kissed her verrrry thoroughly if her knees went away,” Lily said, grinning.
“Stop it,” George said, flustered. “Nobody kissed me. It was just—I heard someone saying their knees buckled, as if they’d turned to jelly, and it seemed so unlikely, that’s all.”
Rose laughed. “George Rutherford, if nobody kissed you last night, explain to us now why your cheeks are on fire.”
George pressed her hands to her cheeks. They felt very hot. “All right, somebody did—but I’m not saying who, but—”
“It was the duke,” Lily said. “I’m sure of it.”
“It wasn’t the duke, it was just . . . some . . . man.”
“What man? Who?”
“I didn’t catch his name.”
“A man with no name? Intriguing—if unbelievable.”
“But he did have a mouth.” Lily giggled. “And possibly a tongue.”
“Definitely a tongue if he turned her knees to jelly.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re both being ridiculous. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” It had been a foolish idea to ask them about it. Both Lily and Rose were madly, giddily in love with their husbands, and of course they wanted her to be in love as well—which was never going to happen. She’d never get a sensible word out of them.
Besides, her cheeks were about to burst into flames. George turned her back on them and made a dignified exit. Or it would have been if their giggles hadn’t followed her all the way down the stairs.
In any case their knowledge was of no use to her, she decided. Both Lily and Rose were in love. To them kissing was all about love and the effects were an expression of that love.
George didn’t love the duke; truth to tell, she disliked him intensely. It was just that his kisses disturbed her.
* * *
* * *
In the days following the night of the ball—George couldn’t help but think of it as the night of the kiss, even though several momentous things had taken place that evening—she was braced to run into the duke at other society events. She had mentally prepared for it. Had armed herself for it. Was ready and waiting.
She was sure he would come to Lady Pentwhistle’s rout. Everyone who was anyone had been invited; it was expected to be the most tremendous squeeze. The duke would arrive, looking sardonic and intimidating—if one allowed it, which she would not. She would ignore him completely—unless he asked her for the first dance, giving her no choice but to accept him, unless she wanted to sit out the night on the wallflower benches, because if she refused him, the conventions of the polite world obliged her to refuse all other gentlemen who asked her that night.
Which of course he would know. Little did he know George was prepared for the sacrifice. An evening of being a wallflower was nothing compared to the look she’d see in his eye when she blithely refused him. Because nobody ever refused the duke.
The duke didn’t come to Lady Pentwhistle’s rout.
He didn’t attend the Heatherton ball, either, or the betrothal party for Charlotte Sandford, or Lady Marclay’s Venetian breakfast or any of the other engagements to which she’d been invited.
It was as if the duke had simply disappeared off the face of the earth. Or else returned to his previously unsociable existence.
It was a good thing, George told herself. It was better not to expect to see him anywhere, though she would quite like to encounter him one more time—she’d now thought of several beautifully scathing things to say to him.
Eventually it became clear that the duke wasn’t going to appear at any of the events she attended. Despite that, she couldn’t help looking for him.
And every time she looked, there he wasn’t.
His disappearance was a very good thing, she told herself. The sooner he was removed from her consciousness the better. Then perhaps she’d stop having those hot and sweaty dreams, where she woke up during the night, gasping, her nightdress all twisted up, her body sticky and overheated. Reliving that kiss. Those kisses.
She tried to get on with her life. She tried to exercise him away. She rode at dawn, in the daytime and at dusk, riding herself and Sultan—and poor Kirk—almost to exhaustion. But all it did was fill her dreams with that glorious chase out on Hampstead Heath. Which in her dreams ended with a kiss—and how wrong—and ridiculous—was that!
She suspected she knew what the matter with her was, and she was fairly sure the problem would pass in a few weeks. All she had to do was to endure the discomfort and the irritation. And wait.
Patience had never been one of her virtues.
The duke continued to stay away, but the dreams didn’t. Which was very annoying.
George’s life fell back into her usual routine: riding at dawn, morning calls and shopping, walking in the park with Aunt Dottie in the afternoons and then in the evening some party or other.
Rose and Lily had gone to the country, Emm was so near her time she stayed home most days, and George was bored—bored and frustrated. Life had become flat and uninteresting.
Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, could anything be more dreary? Aunt Dottie loved the gentle exercise and the gossip. George loved Aunt Dottie but she hated gossip and found the fashionable hour more tiring than a ride to Hampstead Heath and back.
Three steps along, stop, bow. “Lady So-and-So, how do you do?” Stand for five minutes making boring small talk. Three more steps. “Lady Whoever, what a beautiful hat. Wherever did you get it?” Another few paces. “Did you hear what happened at Lady Somebody’s ball the other night? I know! Shocking, isn’t it? Do you think . . . ?”
Sometimes the ladies noticed Finn, and the conversation was marginally more interesting. But all too often it was, “No, he do
esn’t bite. Yes, he is big . . . His name is Finn. A wolfhound . . . Yes, he does eat a lot . . . Yes, he is a dear doggie.” That last said through gritted teeth. Dear doggie indeed. As if her noble Finn was some kind of pampered lapdog.
There were times she wanted to scream and run off with her dog into the wilderness. Only there was no proper wilderness, not in London. Only slums and dark alleys and endless hard, unfriendly streets, and she didn’t want to run into them at all.
“There’s Mrs. Prescott,” Aunt Dottie said one day, and when George looked blank, she added, “The lady whose dog you rescued that time.”
Mrs. Prescott came bustling up. “Where’s FooFoo?” George asked after they’d exchanged greetings and small talk.
“I sent her to the country. She’ll be back as soon as her”—Mrs. Prescott glanced around and lowered her voice discreetly—“condition has passed.”
“Condition? You mean she’s breeding?”
“No, no, of course not. At least I hope not!” Mrs. Prescott said. “I am haunted by the thought that one of those nasty beasts—no! It’s unthinkable. Not my dear little FooFoo.”
“Let’s hope not,” George said in a bracing voice. They walked on. Poor little FooFoo, she was at the mercy of her animal nature. George knew just how she felt.
“I bet her precious FooFoo is breeding,” Aunt Dottie said. “And to the ugliest brute in the pack.” She chuckled. “Mind you, the ugliest ones are often the most attractive. It’s not all about looks, you know.” She stopped, her gaze across the park, and said with frank appreciation, “Though one must admit that a handsome man is a thing of beauty, particularly on horseback.”
George followed her gaze. There, mounted on a magnificent bay gelding, was the duke. He was a picture of masculine perfection. His coat was exquisitely cut to show off his lean, powerful build; his buckskin breeches clung to long, hard, muscular thighs. His horse gleamed, his boots gleamed, his tack was immaculate. Hard gray eyes glinted as he met her gaze and inclined his head slightly.
