by Reid, Stacy
Georgiana expelled a breath she hadn’t realized she held. There was a rustle behind her, and she whirled around to see her brother sauntering over.
“We’ve let the lion close, now we must guard ourselves and not allow him too much room to twist us into knots,” Simon said, staring in the direction Mr. Tremayne had vanished.
She was unable to refute his claims as unnecessary dramatics. The meeting had been brief but charged with tension and awareness she had never encountered before. “You’ve got the animal wrong,” she murmured and then wished she’d kept a tighter lid on her fanciful thoughts.
“What?”
Unwilling to appear flustered, she met Simon’s eyes. “I simply had the thought Mr. Tremayne was more of a jaguar, sleek and crafty, handsome, but unquestionably dangerous.”
The sheer shock that bloomed on her brother’s face pulled a light laugh from her. “Dear Simon, close your mouth.”
“Georgie,” he began warningly. “Mr. Tremayne is not a man—”
“Say no more, brother.” She touched his arms lightly. “I’ll be very careful in my business dealings with Mr. Tremayne.”
“And keep them in the realm of business,” Simon said, his eyes narrowed in warning.
She arched a brow. “But of course, what else could they possibly be? We do not belong to the same society. I cannot fathom why you would think it necessary to issue such a stern warning.”
But Georgiana knew… She had been unable to hide the interest the mysterious man stirred inside her. She was inexplicably filled with a longing that threatened to overwhelm her good sense. The cold nights, the lonely dreams, the one time they hadn’t haunted her waking thoughts was just now.
Mr. Rhys Tremayne was dangerous.
Chapter Three
The skies had darkened, and it appeared that rain would be imminent, allowing Georgiana to postpone her ride with the Marquess of Locksley in Hyde Park. The marquess was quite amiable, handsome, good-humored, and obliging. He had called upon her several times since she had been in town for the season. There was an expectant quality about him when they conversed, and she had slowly realized he was waiting for the opportune time to make his offer. Not one of marriage, but for them to be lovers. As a widow, it was her prerogative to initiate a very discreet affair, with mutual benefits, not exclusive to only pleasures of the flesh. Lord Locksley was indeed a credible candidate, but she doubted he would assuage the loneliness that sometimes chilled her heart. It was an easy conclusion to arrive at, for he had never stirred temptation in her heart.
“My lord, I fear our ride will be delayed today,” Georgiana said with a soft smile as the marquess entered the blue parlor.
“To my everlasting regret.” He was a handsome devil with his dark-blond locks, athletic physique, and blue eyes. The marquess was also a fashionable man, and even for a simple ride, he was dressed impeccably. “Though I will not lament much, for I now have the privilege of taking tea with you in privacy. There is much to discuss.”
His eyes warmed and moved over her appreciatively.
“Is there?” She lowered herself into a single high wingback chair, a strategic move that would encourage him to sit away from her.
The marquess glanced at the sofa beside the chair with a slight frown before sitting on the edge closest to her. “Your Grace.” He cleared his throat. “If you will permit me to call you Georgiana?”
She had danced with him at the last two balls she had attended and had invited him to her box at the opera, but she had not allowed him the intimacy of her name. After the slightest of hesitation, she replied, “You may.”
He smiled, and it transformed his golden features into a picture of perfect male beauty. Yet nothing stirred inside her. Instead, an icy pair of gray eyes wafted across her vision, and she sucked in an embarrassingly audible breath. It was alarming the dratted man appeared in her thoughts at such random moments.
“Please, call me Andrew. I do hope this is a promising start to the relationship I hope we will pursue.”
She canted her head to the side, and he seemed to take it as appropriate encouragement since he leaned forward eagerly.
“You must know I admire you ardently. You are a very beautiful woman, Georgiana, and dare I say it…passionate.” A slight flush covered his cheeks. “I desire to court you.”
She froze. “Court me?”
“Why, yes. I…ah…I spoke with your brother last week and made it known my intentions are purely honorable.”
She had truly expected an offer of an affair. The marquess was the embodiment of a most eligible gentleman—he owned an estate that commanded a significant income, he was respected in the House of Lords, and he was quite handsome with an amiable disposition. He could also certainly have his pick of any of the beautiful young butterflies fluttering through the current season.
“It is not my current desire to remarry,” she said bluntly, then proffered a smile to soften the sting. Though she missed the sweet intimacy of male companionship, she also enjoyed the freedom of being directed by her own desires. Her husband had directed much of her interest, even informing her which literary salon to be a part of. It was only since his death that she had explored her interest and had found an uncommon love with the arts, to which she had become a known patron. It was easy for her to deduce another husband would try to gently steer her in the direction he thought best for her. After all, women were believed to be too frail and gentle and need the supervision of their more resilient husbands. She bit back her snort and affixed a slight smile on her lips for the marquess’s benefit.
He frowned. “Your mother led me—”
“My mother?”
He had the grace to flush before his lips flattened in a firm line. “The morning is not unfolding how I envisioned it. Perhaps it is best we resume this conversation at a later time.”
She took a delicate sip of her tea, peering at him over the rim, before lowering her cup and saucer to the small table with a deliberate and decisive clink. “Am I to understand you spoke with both my brother and mother before approaching me?”
He inclined his head stiffly.
She stood, gently clasping her hands together, lest she did something unladylike like smack him for his indifference to her position, reputation, and power. “I am not a young debutante to be directed by my brother or my mother’s desires, my lord. Pray, do not make such a mistake in judgment again.”
He, too, stood and moved scandalously close, forcing her to tilt her head to meet his regard, for she would not retreat.
“I assure you it will not happen again,” he said with quiet intensity, his gaze never departing from hers. “You are not a debutante, you are young, beautiful, intelligent…and I want you.”
She gasped softly at his uncensored admission.
“Not just as a lover,” he continued earnestly. “But you have the influence and bloodlines to make me a suitable and estimable wife…and I will endeavor to make you comfortable and dare I hope, happy.”
“I—”
“Please do not proffer your reply with haste.” Gently, he took her hands between his. He bent low and lightly kissed her lips. When she did not retreat, he pressed an advantage and deepened his embrace. She allowed herself a soft response, hoping to feel the flare of heat that would indicate a need for more. While his kiss was decidedly pleasant, no hunger fluttered within her breast.
He lifted his head, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “I will not press for an answer, but I ask you to not dismiss my affections so easily. I will ask you again at the end of the season…and do not be alarmed at my ardent admiration before then.”
“I won’t be alarmed.”
She gently turned the conversation to the current political tension, and they discussed a few stirring arguments currently circulating. With subtle encouragement, she steered him to the gardens for a stroll, where they exchanged a few more pleasantries. She found herself relaxing, laughing at his effortless charm. She was delighted with his aff
ability and felt genuine regret she was not more aroused by him. Perhaps the passions the poets spoke of were nonexistent. She had been married to Hardcastle for six years before he died, and while their marital relations had been pleasant, it had not been as earth-shattering as her dear friend Lady Derwood swore it was.
An hour after Lord Locksley departed, Georgiana was comfortably curled on a sofa in the blue parlor, her favorite room in the townhouse, reading Kenilworth by Sir Walter Scott. The passion Robert Dudley displayed for his wife on the pages of Kenilworth made Georgiana’s heart ache. The rain had begun falling in earnest, and she had decided to stay inside for the day, canceling all previous outings. Despite the book being wonderfully entertaining, her thoughts continually strayed to her loneliness. Her darling son filled most of her heart and mind, but the need for something more simply could no longer be denied. She felt haunted by that missing something. An overwhelming ache throbbed behind her eyes. Perhaps it was indeed time to start a very discreet affair. But with whom? Since last year, several gentlemen had hinted their desire to pursue a romantic attachment with her, of the carnal sort. However, none had aroused her interest. It seemed rather pointless to have an affair with only tepid passion.
She’d not had a grand passion with Hardcastle. He had not rushed her to the marriage bed. In fact, he had been so patient and kind that it had been Georgiana, who after six months of being in an unconsummated marriage, had pressed her lips to his one night. The duke had breathed a deep sigh of relief that his customary good-night peck had translated to a warm embrace, and their marital relations had started. They’d had a good marriage, and she had loved him, even though he had not made her heart beat with the wildest of passion.
Despite her desire to procure a lover to assuage the hollow feeling, she was not sure fulfillment was to be found from that endeavor. She was not the passionate type. Yet, she desperately missed intimacy and was almost dizzy with longing. She had been fighting the need to be touched, kissed, stripped bare, and swept away by desire for five long years.
An inexplicable wave of melancholy gripped her. With a groan, she tipped back her head to the ceiling. She had felt terribly restless for weeks, and the dratted feeling would not abate.
A sharp knock had her lowering the slim leather book onto her lap. “Yes?”
Gibbs entered. “A Mr. Tremayne has called, Your Grace.”
The sudden tremble in her heart was appalling. Did he have news so soon? It was only two days past he was given the task of finding information on Jane. “Please show him in to the library.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Gibbs shuffled away.
Gibbs was seventy years of age, well past the time when most men in his position retired with their pensions. His movements had grown noticeably slower in the past year, but she was reluctant to find a new butler, and he was in no hurry to leave. She put aside the book and slid from the sofa. For a disconcerting moment, she considered changing into a more suitable gown. With the intention of turning away all callers brave enough to traverse the inclement weather, she had dressed quite casually, in a simple high-waisted, rose-colored gown. Her hair had been left loose and tumbled down her back in waves. Perhaps she should retire to her chamber and summon Mary, her lady’s maid, to arrange her tresses. Grabbing the thick mass, Georgiana quickly assembled it in a loose knot and pushed her feet back into her slippers. With an irritated sigh, she abandoned the cozy parlor and strode to the library and entered.
Mr. Tremayne turned from the bookshelves, where he was perusing titles, at the soft snick of the door. He had been caught in the downpour, yet he looked nothing like a drowned rat. His clothes were faultlessly tailored to his lean, powerful physique. For a man who reportedly lived in the rougher areas, he was uncommonly elegant.
“Please be seated, Mr. Tremayne. May I offer you some refreshment?” she asked graciously, walking over to sit behind the large oak desk. Instantly some of her apprehension faded as she cloaked herself into the persona of the duchess. At his silence, she lifted a brow. “Well?” she demanded, quite aware of how haughty she sounded.
“No,” he said, ignoring her pleasantries and strolling to the windows. There was an electric vitality to the man that was almost overpowering.
“Then shall we begin?”
He turned and leaned a shoulder casually against the glass of the windows. His gaze measured her expression for several seconds. “Your nursemaid is living in Hertfordshire.”
Oh. She had thought he would have withheld the information until he had extracted something of value from her. “Are you quite certain, Mr. Tremayne? You have only been searching for a couple days.”
He gave her a tolerant smile. “She is the mistress of Squire Redgrave, the wealthiest landowner in the village where she is living.”
Squire Redgrave? The licentious bastard. Several weeks before Jane had disappeared, his carriage had lost a wheel, and Georgiana had trusted him into her home as a guest, and he had lured away a young girl such as Jane. Jane was indeed a beautiful woman, raised as a gentle lady in a respectable house, who had fallen on hard times after the death of her parents in a carriage accident. Georgiana had hired her to be her son’s nursemaid and had given her a generous salary. She had not thought Jane would be so easily persuaded to become someone’s soiled dove. “She is willing?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why she left so suddenly and without giving the proper notice?” Even though it was quite evident the wealth that came with being a squire’s mistress was far greater than being a nursemaid, Georgiana had expected some communication from Jane. Their relationship had been cordial, and she had simply left Nicolas by the lake.
“For all intents and purposes, she is satisfied with her lot in life. As a mistress, she will earn at least three times what she would earn at your household for the year.”
Georgiana frowned. “I see, and is it your opinion that Jane is not interested in returning to work as a nursemaid?”
“It is.”
She stood, painfully aware of the way his darkly disturbing gaze tracked her movements. She could not dismiss him from any part of her awareness. Now for the part she had been dreading. “What do I owe you, Mr. Tremayne?”
Please, for once, say money.
His dark gaze hooded. “There is no charge.”
This she had not expected. “I beg your pardon?”
A fleeting smile touched his lips, rendering him almost charming. “I did nothing, Your Grace.”
She gathered her wits about her, assessing him shrewdly. “You brought me information not even Bow Street was able to unearth.”
“It was only a piddle of intelligence, gleaned quite effortlessly. I do not trade on such meager connections. The favors I collect are too hard to meet by some to be secured for little or no work.” A shade of regret tinged his tone.
Despite his reputation, he brokers with honor.
“I see.” Except she truly did not. Her instinct screamed she did not want to be beholden to this man in any manner. And right now, she could feel an invisible web wrapping itself around her, one she did not understand. “I insist on reimbursing you. That was the premise of our deal, and it would be dishonorable for me to renege. There must be something you need I can assist with?”
His expression became impenetrable, and silence lingered as they took each other’s measure.
“Perhaps you could pay a social call upon me at my home next week.”
A social call at his home? “I will most certainly not, Mr. Tremayne.” Her reputation would come under the most severe of scrutiny. Worse, a social call implied far more intimacy than business. Her heart pounded, and her mouth went dry. Might it be that he wanted to cultivate a relationship? “You must be satisfied with another favor.”
“It is safe to presume we are not to be acquaintances then?” he drawled mockingly, an unfathomable emotion glinting in the dark depths of his gaze.
“You presume correctly,” she said flatly and would make n
o apology for her dismissive tone.
“So imperious…so cold, so ducal,” he said, with such soft menace, he rendered her speechless.
Georgiana became painfully aware they were ensconced alone in her library. It mattered not that the house bustled with dozens of servants and there were sure to be at least two footmen lurking in the hallway, she felt decidedly unsafe. It became even more imperative that whatever connection had formed must be severed and that this man must not believe she was in his debt. It wasn’t to be tolerated. “If I do not owe you, Mr. Tremayne, then our business has concluded. I bid you good day.”
Silence fell between them, thick and oppressive. Dear Lord. He did believe she owed him, she could see the cool sinister knowledge in his distressingly beautiful eyes. “What do you want?” she said with steel in her tone, snapping her spine straight.
“Nothing.”
The smile she attempted felt brittle and tight. “I refuse for you to leave without some form of payment. It will not be said by you that my debt was not settled.”
He gave her an arrested stare. “What I want, Your Grace, and the token you would pay me are not the same.”
A startled laugh escaped before she choked back the sound. “I beg your pardon,” she demanded, truly shocked at the man’s galling temerity.
His silver eyes raked her body, and something in his slow perusal chilled her. “If you insist on settling what you owe here and now…unpin your hair,” he said with such sensual command, she froze.
A strange stirring began in the pit of her stomach and drifted lower. Oh, dear lord. She felt empty and frustrated, so much so that she was feeling desire for the most inappropriate man. That could be the only explanation for the darting frisson of sexual heat to pierce her whenever she met his cool, mocking glance.
He prowled closer. “I desire to see you sprawled in that high wingback chair over there, your legs split wide and each draped upon the arms.”
A startling warmth invaded her, and shock sent prickles all over her body.
