by Reid, Stacy
The silver in his gaze darkened. “You’re so damn beautiful.”
A breath caught in her chest at the husky timbre of his voice.
“Are you spoken for?” Rhys asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you committed to someone else?”
He sounded uncertain, and instinctively she recognized such a state was unfamiliar to this man. His hesitancy did not quell the fear rising in her heart. With a kiss, he had shown her what little control she truly had over her passions.
Dear God, what have I done?
She had almost made love with this man at a ball, in a library…on a desk, with her brother, mother, and some of the most influential people of society only a few paces away in the ballroom. She had wanted to lose herself in him, to lay her body across the desk and offer herself up to him. With a few stolen moments in a darkened library, Rhys Tremayne had rewritten Georgiana’s knowledge of herself. She had abandoned all sense of decorum, and her wits needed to be regained.
“Georgiana—”
“Don’t,” she snapped, despising the tears prickling behind her lids.
The hands that had been reaching for her lowered slowly, and an indefinable emotion pierced his silver-blue eyes.
Tension threaded through her. “This…” She pressed a hand to her lips. “Whatever this is will never happen again.”
The strong line of his jaw grew even more rigid. The air was thick and tense with silence. After a few seconds, he gave her a curt nod. “As you wish.”
Why did he have to be agreeable at this moment? Why did she have to feel so uncertain? She took a deep breath, collected her panic-stricken and very aroused senses, and retreated a few steps. He moved with her and cupped her cheeks in his hands and tilted her face to his. He searched her face intently, and his predatory gaze pierced her with a flood of erotic awareness. He desired her still despite her impassioned rejection, the force of his need was tangible, and her heart quivered.
“Good-bye, duchess,” he murmured and pressed the softest of kisses to her lips.
Her lashes fluttered close, but she fisted her hands to her sides, fearing she would pull him to her and offer herself up for his seduction. Good-bye.
Yet she did not move.
“What are you afraid of?” he murmured.
“Myself.” The admission had rushed from her before she had the presence of mind to contain her thoughts.
“I watched you at the ball. Though your lips smiled, your eyes were empty of enjoyment. Just now, you came alive, and you burned us, duchess. The thing you should fear is retreating to that hollow place.”
She stared at him helplessly. How could he have seen so profoundly into her heart, when her stable of friends could not see beyond the mask she showed to the polite world?
“You speak nonsense.”
“I do not. I know emptiness when I see it, for I have endured it. Perhaps for a different reason, but I saw your eyes, my lady. We will be lovers.”
It was at that moment she realized he was a man who liked to win and conquer. With such a drive, she could understand how he would become so powerful the government had used his secrets to tip the scales of war.
And he had set his sights on her.
How would she resist his advances? A startled jolt went through her. Therein lied the distressing conundrum. She did not want to resist. This was the first man in her whole life that had made her experience an extraordinary passion.
Something reckless, wild, and improper stirred inside her. “Perhaps we will be, Mr. Tremayne. I ask the question of you—how can two people of such wildly different backgrounds and circumstances have a very discreet night of pleasure?”
With a pleased, wicked look and an arrogant tone, he said, “I am The Broker. I have the means to arrange many very discreet nights of pleasure. Perhaps I’ll send you an invitation soon, with explicit instructions for you to follow.”
“Then I shall look forward to it…Rhys, and perhaps I will respond. I make no promises.”
She fixed her dress, tidied her hair, and exited the library, her heart racing, feeling more alive than she’d ever felt before, but with so many things she held dear now endangered.
Chapter Six
The duchess’s lips were full and soft, and they’d trembled so lightly against his. Her taste, mysterious and sweet, a beckoning lure to madness. Hers was a mouth to savor. He’d never believed hunger could swallow him up and leave him trembling with the need to ravish and plunder.
With long strides, Rhys left the library and the townhouse. Once outside, he took a deep breath of chilled night air into his lungs. He needed the long walk home to clear his head and regain his perspective. Because everything had been indelibly shifted the instant he’d tasted her.
“Lydia, Joanna, Grace,” he whispered in the cold night air.
How in God’s name had the encounter with her in the library devolved to an almost seduction? He’d wanted to meet with her, to calculatingly assess if she had any need he could fulfill in order to draw her into a web of his making. Instead… Hell, he would ruminate on their encounter for the rest of his natural life, and he would never understand what the hell had happened.
A clank in the dark had Rhys pushing all thoughts of the perplexing duchess from his thoughts. Though he was in the upper West End, he needed to be vigilant always. Moving with stealth through the night, and with an awareness of every darkened corner, he made his way home within several minutes. He let himself in and prowled toward his study. Rhys entered and crossed the room to the small table near the fireplace, picked up the crystal decanter, and splashed brandy into a glass. He downed the contents in one long swallow, then refilled his glass.
The unsettled feeling still lingered, the ache in his gut growing worse. What he needed to do was visit the gambling club and take a woman for the night. It had been months since he’d bedded a woman, more because of his busy lifestyle than lack of want. That’s what he would do, head down to The Asylum, procure one of the working girls, and tup her for the night to purge the duchess from his thoughts.
Yet the visions that crowded his thoughts were of her, seated deep on his cock, riding him, her head thrown back, her breasts arched perfectly to his mouth. The images came out of nowhere, searing and intense. Rhys’s hand tightened violently around the brandy glass.
How can two people of such wildly different backgrounds and circumstances have a very discreet night of pleasure?
God damn it.
Why did he even want her? She was not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, nor was she the most provocative. But he had never felt this depth of desire to bed any of them, much less hold a conversation.
It’s her eyes.
They held mysteries and secrets he wanted to unlock. Devil take it. He was being fanciful, and he was not that sort. He thrust his free hand into his pocket, staring into the flickering fireplace. Rhys was never the type of man to shy away from what he wanted. He’d built his empire of secrets, his shipping, and other businesses through a ruthless desire to ardently pursue what he hungered for. It was an ingrained code he had nourished over the years and the reason he attributed to the success he had gained. And he wanted the bewitching and haughty beauty.
But why would she want a man like him in her life…and in her bed?
Perhaps I will respond. I make no promises.
He doubted she would succumb to the burning desire between them. With a frown, he recalled their time tonight. He had not been the only one who had lost control in the library. The duchess’s response to him had been unmistakable. She desired him…a criminal at the best of times, a man who had sunk to deep levels of depravity for the benefit of his family. He had been raised on the edge of dark and dangerous things. Their social divide was so wide, there was no reason for her to want him, but her reactions had been so honest and pure. There was no other explanation unless the duchess was just a passionate woman who had such a response for all her lovers.
Then he remembered her impossible tightness, as if she hadn’t had a man in years. She had struggled to accommodate his fingers as he’d worked to prepare her, as he’d had all intention of placing her atop the desk, plunging his cock deep, and then riding her like she was his mistress and not a genteel lady.
It was going to be a long night. The duchess was too riveting, too compelling for him to try and assuage his longing for her with another woman. He would simply have to suffer the tormented memories of her passion until he had the woman herself.
The door creaked opened, but he did not glance around. From the lavender scent wafting closer, he knew it was his mother.
“What are you plotting here in the dark alone?”
That was putting it mildly. His mind was seven steps ahead, wondering how to make the duchess his lover for more than one night, too. An impossible desire he wanted to take to bed with him, and perhaps he would then dream of her.
“Well?” his mother demanded at his silence.
“I’m merely thinking of business.” He did have work to attend to. A war was being waged in Greece, and he had been contacted to broker an armed deal for more weaponry.
“You seem troubled.”
A smile tugged at his lips. His mother always did that very strange thing mothers seemed to do—pick up on their children’s disquiet without a word being proffered. “The better question, Mother, is why are you awake?”
“I grew tired of knitting, nor could I sleep.” With a sigh, she moved to sit on the sofa, at the far end. “Then the girls exhausted me with their chatter of this prestigious ball you had gone off to. My curiosity also keeps me from my warm bed. You seemed very perturbed. I’m here if you need a listening ear.”
“I’ve met someone, and I am at a loss as to why thoughts of her haunt me.”
His mother’s breath caught audibly. “That is wonderful, Rhys.”
“Not particularly.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said warmly. “You are an eligible catch, and I am not saying so because you are my son.”
He contained his chuckle. Eligible? With his notoriety and links to the criminal world? Only his mother would believe so.
“Who is it? I thought Miss Helena seemed to be of particular interest.”
Miss Helena? Ah…his lawyer’s daughter. Now that his mother mentioned it, the man’s daughter had been particularly attentive for the past few weeks. He’d recently met Mr. Sharpton when Rhys had retained the man to craft a will that would see his wealth divided equally between his sisters after his mother’s portion had been secured. One of his instructions to his lawyer had been to ensure that even if his sisters married, their wealth would remain their own. Their dowries were generous, thirty thousand pounds each, making them heiresses, but he would protect the rest of their wealth from possible fortune hunters.
“I do believe it’s time for you to take a wife and have a nursery of your own,” his mother continued happily.
A nursery of his own? His heart was at times so blackened by his deeds of the past, he hardly spared any thoughts for the future. Rhys had never really thought about settling down, finding a wife, or filling his house with children. For some reason, he’d simply left those peculiar desires to his sisters. It wasn’t that he had an objection to marriage, Rhys had simply never met a woman who inspired him to want more. “No.”
“Why ever not? Surely there are times you are lonely.”
A man couldn’t tell his mother he tupped women when he felt the need for companionship. “Mother—”
“I’m not talking about a woman you go to assuage those needs,” she said primly. “I am talking about a friend, a companion, someone to have and to hold, someone to love, to support you through the dark times, and to celebrate with you through the good times,” she ended bluntly.
Sometimes he forgot his mother had been there with him and his sisters as they scrabbled and fought for a better life from the gutter. His mother was the daughter of an impoverished viscount who had all about sold her to Mr. John Tremayne, an Irish cloth merchant, who had been a mean drunkard who had beaten his wife fiercely. She had fled with Rhys when he’d only been ten years old, Lydia had been three, and his mother had been pregnant with the twins. The dark memories of those days, and how they had suffered, stirred within him. He ruthlessly suppressed them.
“This woman will never be for me. I am uncertain as to why I even mentioned her to you.”
“Why is she not for you?” she questioned with clear affront.
The sensation of restlessness grew stronger. “She is a duchess, a dowager duchess,” he said, finally shifting to face her.
An acute silence fell in the study.
She slanted him a quick, searching glance. “A real duchess?”
“There are other kinds?”
She scowled. “Are you going to court her?”
An unamused bark of laughter escaped him. “I see you are going to ignore the fact she is a duchess.”
“Your grandfather is a viscount,” his mother said softly. “You do have some ties to the nobility. I…I could reach out to my brother, the current viscount Westcott—”
“No,” Rhys said flatly. His mother had once turned to her brother and begged for his help, and that pompous blackguard had refused to aid his sister, insisting she return to her abusive husband. “We have never lived a noble life.”
“Isn’t that what you have been working for the girls to achieve? Life amongst the aristocracy?”
His sisters had been bred for a much higher position in the social hierarchy than the one in which they existed. In fact, his mother had been engaged to an earl before the greed of her father allowed him to sell her into hell.
“Why not seek a similar connection for yourself?”
“You should know, Mother, of all people, that an unwanted connection to a viscount would not make me suitable for a duchess. I…I’ve done things,” he said gruffly. “I have no aspirations regarding her.” Except wanting her quite desperately in his bed. “Forget I said anything, thinking of her was…an aberration. She is simply a means to an end for the girls.”
Liar. He’d never had an attachment before. He’d also been single-minded in his desire to make a better life for his family. There had never been a moment in time before when he had wished for a permanent lover or a wife. The notion simply had not appealed to him. He’d allowed nothing to distract him from his purpose. It was damn stupid of him to allow a distraction in the form of a woman whose shadow he could hardly stand in. She had effectively disrupted his ordered and driven existence. Instead of feeling frustration at the idea, he was intrigued.
“The duchess is simply another pawn in the game we all play.”
He lied, unless she succumbed to the heat between them and became his lover. Then she would be something more to him, certainly more than a willing body with which to slake his lust. Rhys frowned. Had he ever laughed with a woman, bantered with one, even had dinner with a lady other than his sisters? Hell. His mother looked unconvinced. And he said nothing further, for he wasn’t so convinced, either, and any protestation falling from his lips would be a lie.
…
Georgiana had fled London to Kent as if the devil had been nipping at her heels. And perhaps he had been, in the guise of Mr. Rhys Tremayne. She’d had to escape. Georgiana was thoroughly vexed with herself. Nothing she did would take the flush from her cheeks. She wasn’t a blushing virgin to be so flustered three days after her encounter with that dratted man in the library. Worse, every night she rehashed the encounter in her dreams. She would awaken sweaty, wet and aching, her fingers twisting the sheets in a tight grip. It was appalling that she would lust after a man so unsuitable in such a manner. But something had to be done, and she wanted to dive off that cliff of insanity, and with him, too. So far, no invitation had been delivered inviting her to an illicit meeting at a secret location. One she was now positive she would accept.
“Mamma, he caught it,” her son, Nicolas, cro
wed as their wolfhound puppies, Calliope and Barnaby, ran over to them. Barnaby had a stick in his mouth, and he dropped it, tail thumping and wagging.
With a chortle, her darling boy tipped back his head and laughed, a joyous and full sound that was so uniquely his. She didn’t recall ever being so uninhibited with her laugh as a child. Even in that, she had observed proprieties.
He grabbed the stick and tossed it even farther, to the dogs’ delight. Barnaby and Calliope bounded away, but instead of following, Nicolas turned and flung himself at Georgiana, sprawling against her, his head resting in her lap. She stroked his hair before bending to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Did you receive my letters when you were in town, Mamma?”
“I did, and I was certain I responded to all of them. It is quite strange for you to be in doubt, hmm?” she said, tickling his underarm.
His peal of laughter melted her insides.
They had been outside for an hour already, taking advantage of the pleasant weather. They sat beneath an apple tree by the Southside gardens.
The butler rounded the corner. “Lord Fairfax has come to call, your ladyship. He is breaking his fast.”
It was barely nine in the morning. For Simon to have arrived so early, he would have needed to have traveled for a few hours from town. Only the scandal of her dancing with Mr. Tremayne would have her brother descending on her without the good manners of sending a note. Or perhaps it was something else. It had, after all, been three days, and dear Daphne had sent Georgiana no scandal-sheet clippings.
“Ask Mrs. Huxley to prepare Lord Fairfax’s room. I’ll be there shortly.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
“Are we to read, Mamma?” Her son asked hopefully.
“Yes, we are.” Taking a long walk after breaking their fast was a part of her and Nicolas’s routine. Then she would read a story to him, and they would play for a short while before he would be collected by his nursemaid. He would then be in the schoolroom with his tutor until luncheon. She cherished their times together and missed him dreadfully whenever she traveled to town.
