Delight soared through her. Chocolate and meringues were poor sources of pleasure when compared to the simple feel of his arms about her. She arched her head up, taking in his towering presence. His shoulders began where her eyes were placed, and she took in the dark strands of his hair and the man’s emerald eyes.
“I desire you,” Hamish growled.
Georgiana’s heartbeat quickened. “Because I said I was Miss Valentina?”
The words were clumsy, and she waited for the man to laugh, but instead he tilted her chin, holding it between his fingers. “No. You’re better. You’re you.”
She must have appeared confused, for he continued. “I’ve never met a braver lassie. You’re clever and quick thinking—”
“And I get myself into trouble,” she interjected.
This time he did smile. “I believe you’re not the only troublemaker in this room.”
“Are you referring to sneaking into my room?”
“I did think you were your sister. But I’m very glad I was wrong.”
His eyes twinkled, and despite all the impropriety, she found herself smiling back.
“You’re loyal,” he added solemnly. “Perhaps you get yourself into some trouble, but it’s only to protect others. And I can’t see that as a bad thing.”
No one had ever viewed her impulsivity in this light before. She was still as he continued to catalogue her advantages, even though no one, ever, took the time to praise her.
“And of course,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”
“You mustn’t be polite.”
“I’ll remember that next time I’m confronted with a door when I walk with you.”
Her lips twitched. She had no doubt that Hamish would continue to do the right thing and open it for her.
He was continuing to look at her solemnly. “Your skin is so soft, and your eyes are a vivid shade of brown.”
She decided not to remind him that people seldom raptured about skin that contained freckles and that brown was not a color that most people referred to as vivid. “Dull” and “a shame” were the phrases her relatives had most commonly used when referring to them. Words were things she’d once been able to form, but her throat seemed dry, and speaking seemed an elaborate process impossible to contemplate.
Life consisted only of Hamish and her.
The world had become narrower and yet richer than she’d ever been able to imagine.
“I want to be with you,” Hamish said. “I want to—”
“Yes,” Georgiana said quickly.
He paused. “Are you certain?”
Georgiana knew the correct answer was no... She was from the country. She’d had some independence. One didn’t spend one’s whole life being warned against doing something and then never wonder what that thing entailed. And yet.... Soon they would arrive in Gretna Green, and she would join her sister’s protection, hopefully now imbued with all the dignity of a married woman. How could Georgiana return to her quiet life now? Would her parents be grateful that at least one daughter had married and whisk her away to the Norfolk countryside? A fate of organizing her father’s library and taking over household duties from her mother had seemed a relief sometime after the end of her second season. She’d grown tired of the assessing looks from the men she was introduced to during the season. She’d been dismissed as too bold, too lively, without the virtues of peaches-and-cream skin, flaxen hair, and blue eyes from which might alternatively conjure similes about cerulean skies or azure oceans, depending on their preference.
If her life was to return to the calm of Norfolk, did she want to leave without experiencing everything life had to offer? Being proper wasn’t what had compelled her to board Hamish’s coach in, albeit mistaken, pursuit of her sister. Being proper was something that other people advocated, and something that she suspected was of greater convenience to themselves. Being proper would be a possibility tomorrow once she caught up with her sister. It was not a necessity for tonight.
No.
“I want...everything,” she murmured.
His face lit up, and she hadn’t realized how constrained, how on edge, he must have been.
He pulled her into his arms, but this time, he lifted her and carried her toward the bed. This time she didn’t struggle. This time she only marveled at his strength, and she felt secure in his arms.
“Beds,” he declared, “Are a marvelous invention.”
“Indeed?” she breathed.
“Aye,” he said solemnly. “Particularly on this sort of occasion.”
“And what sort of occasion is that?” she asked, her voice somewhat faint.
“The very best sort.” He placed her on the bed, and she sank against the cool bedspread. The quilted texture prickled her skin, but in the next moment Hamish lay down beside her, drawing her closer to him.
She might desire this, but this was still new, and uncertainty rippled through her.
It wouldn’t do for Hamish to think she was being anything except practical. He might admire her, but he didn’t want to be saddled with a wife, particularly one of the English variety, a strain of British that compelled him to leave no insult unused.
The single tallow candle flickered light about the room, and she angled her head away from it, lest she gaze at Hamish in unbridled adoration and he feel honor-bound to halt their delightful explorations of flesh.
No, it was far better for him to think her merely curious, the sort of thing that had compelled Her Grace, the Duchess of Alfriston, to seek a career in archeology and which had made Miss Louisa Carmichael, the duchess’s sister-in-law study everything she could about marine life. Tonight he should think himself a replacement for a book or of some animal for Georgiana to dissect.
But then he kissed her, and when he lifted his head and smoothed her hair from her face, his gaze seemed to be one of such open wonder, that Georgiana decided that feigning coolness was an unnecessary task when there were so many pleasurable ones: such as kissing every inch of the man’s flesh.
The fire and candlelight flickered golden light over Hamish’s skin, and she inhaled his manly scent. She’d grown accustomed to that peculiar mix of cedar and cotton, but now with their bodies pressed together, she allowed herself to succumb to the novel sensation.
Chapter Twenty-five
She was magnificent.
Poets could compose sonnets about the color of her hair and her large dark eyes.
Hamish was no poet. There was one thing he wanted to do: ravish her.
He had no time for musings. It was simply obvious that no loch, no meadow, no hilltop—no matter the clearness of any water, the composition and variety of any flowers, and the intriguing slope of any incline—could compete with the simple image of her on the bed beneath him.
Because the simple fact was that he adored her. In fact, Hamish was quite certain there was a stronger word that better expressed how he felt about her.
I love her.
It was a word he hadn’t used with anyone before, but he mused over its significance as their lips danced and swayed together as they kissed.
I will marry her.
It didn’t matter if they found Georgiana’s sister or not. It didn’t matter if Georgiana’s sister was already a duchess and could craft the loftiest, most believable excuse for Georgiana.
He still wanted to marry her. Georgiana had brought everything wonderful into his life, and there was no way he would deposit her at Gretna Green into her sister’s care, as if nothing in the world had changed.
“You’re smiling,” Georgiana breathed.
“I have you.”
The sentence made her moan, and Hamish concentrated on making more lovely moans come from her throat. She tasted like vanilla, and his nostrils flared. Her skin was soft, some delicious combination of silk and velvet, and he tore his lips from hers and pressed kisses against her long elegant neck, her collar bone, all the places of such beauty that he sought to memorize them for all time, as if the action of
kissing them might imprint them on his mind.
Then he smiled.
He wouldn’t need to memorize anything. He intended to have her here, by his side, for the rest of their lives.
Right now he faced a more immediate problem: her dress.
The gown was beautiful of course, no matter how he teased her. It was feminine. Something about the gauzy overlay and the flowers sewn on it was charming, even if she wouldn’t have looked entirely out of place on one of the Regent’s elaborate desserts at the pavilion in Brighton. But the dress was entirely too constrained, and it was absolutely necessary to remove her from it. Immediately. He wanted Georgiana, and he wanted her naked, without even the finest textures to separate them.
He traced the curve of one breast with his hand, indulging in the soft sensation of her luscious form. He wanted to bury himself in her bosom, to never let her go, but for now he turned her over, even though the action seemed absurd. Not seeing her face seemed a vast disadvantage to seeing her face, but he stared at the column of buttons on her back and resisted the urge to curse.
He’d always prided himself in the large size of his hands, but now they seemed an impediment. He moved his fingers slowly over her back. The mesh overlay felt suddenly impossibly fragile, and the frills and ribbons on the top of her gown seemed like an unwanted deterrent. Each flounce and ribbon seemed as forbidding as one of Bonaparte’s finest forts.
He moved valiantly, undoing each ribbon. It wasn’t the first time he’d removed a woman’s dress, but it was the first time that the action seemed imbued with such urgency. There seemed something sacred in the action, and as he slid the dress over her hips, a sense of almost trepidation moved through him.
Because no matter the carnal pleasure he took in the act itself, no matter the baseness of the sensation of flesh against flesh, sweat merging with sweat, the fact was that Georgiana mattered.
He turned her over, staring into her beautiful brown eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
She tensed beneath him, and for a horrifying moment Hamish thought that she would confess that she had no such desire.
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “I mean... If you still desire—”
“Naturally,” he said, enveloping her mouth once again in an embrace, and despising that he’d for a moment made her feel uncomfortable. “A thousand times yes.”
It was not the sort of question he was accustomed to asking before such acts. The women he’d seen in Edinburgh, bored wives eager to invite young men into their beds, seeing the action as diverting as hat shopping or selecting various haberdasheries, would have laughed at it. Georgiana was different. If she desired to bed him, it was not out of a sense of anger that gossipmongers were reporting that her husband was frolicking once again with one of her friends or that the maids always seemed unduly nervous in her husband’s presence and she was never able to get a governess to stay long with her children. It was certainly that she was not one of the wives who saw Hamish as capable of fulfilling pleasures that her husband had long ago abandoned or had never been able to adequately meet, perhaps because of age or the oddities of appearance or demeanor had never drawn their wives to them, at least not as much as their titles, wealth and the encouragement of the women’s parents had done.
He removed her dress, folding the delicate gown with reverence and placing it on a nearby chair. The bed sank as he moved back, tumbling him closer to her, and he once again succumbed to kisses. Kissing had always seemed perfectly pleasant, but the act now seemed imbued with greater significance and far greater pleasure.
Her shift, though, would also need to come off. The long linen fabric looked as complex to remove as any dress, especially given the woman’s tightly drawn stays that further enclosed her chest, even as it managed to arrange her bosom in a particularly alluring manner. The coarse tightly woven fabric of her stays was rough against his hands, and he yearned to touch her skin. It didn’t matter in the least how daintily tied the ribbons were, or how fetching and becoming the light pink color of her stays looked against her skin.
Tomorrow they would reach Gretna Green and Georgiana would join her sister.
And yet, if he was honest, he’d always been aware of the extent of Georgiana’s charms. She’d made his heart lurch from the moment he first saw her, and it hadn’t simply been from seeing her in her night rail.
He undid the tightly pulled stays, wondering how the woman could have worn something so obviously uncomfortable for so long without complaint. He removed the garment slowly. His hands shook, even though his hands never shook.
Georgiana assessed him. “Do you intend to keep your tailcoat on?”
“No,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.
She smiled. “Then I believe you will need to remove it.”
He nodded, and in the next moment her hands were on his. She brushed her fingers against the fabric, and he remembered that she’d worn it herself. He slid the tailcoat off.
This time he did not bother folding it.
It could remain utterly wrinkled for the rest of the trip, and he did not care. If it meant he had a moment more of kissing her, then it was worth it.
His sleeves billowed, unconstrained now by his coat. Georgiana, though, was more interested in his vest, or at least, the process of removing it. Her fingers were gentle but not without efficiency. He decided to get to work on his cravat and unwound the linen fabric. Before long his chest was bare, and Georgiana traced his muscles with her fingers. Her silky touch managed to send fire jolting through his body, and he ached to be inside her. His muscles flexed at her touch, and her cheeks pinkened. “Continue,” he said.
“It’s so hard,” she said.
He smirked, and her blush deepened.
“And your body is delightfully soft,” he said.
She bit her bottom lip, and he feathered kisses over her face. He pulled the pins from her hair, so her luscious locks fell to her pillow. He ran his fingers through her hair, moving the satiny strands to her waist.
“You’re glorious,” he said. “Utterly glorious.”
She wrapped her arms around him, as if to clasp him more tightly to her, as if she agreed that any space between them was to be avoided. She combed his hair with her fingers and wrapped her ankles around his.
For some strange reason Hamish felt that he belonged to her every bit as much as she belonged to him.
It was sentimental nonsense of course. Utter balderdash, the sort of thought that would make him roll his eyes if another man expressed it, and yet, here he was, in Georgiana’s arms, thinking the thought himself.
He was hers.
He wanted to pleasure her.
She was his queen.
Evidence of his desire arched against her. He craved her, and the urge to raise her shift and slide into bliss thrummed through him.
He resisted the temptation. This was about Georgiana.
The shift didn’t come off. Kissing was becoming far too interesting, and separating from her again to tear off further garments seemed like an inefficient use of time. Her skin was warm against his, and he smiled, knowing that the fire that blazed through him was not imaginary.
He craved her, and she, despite her propriety, gave every evidence of craving him.
He cupped her breast, and even through her shift, he felt her quiver beneath him. Her cheeks darkened, and her eyes widened as she gave a sudden moan. She hooked her ankles more tightly around him, as if realizing that it was his body that could bring her relief. Beads of sweat lined her brow, and he wiped them away with his hand.
It didn’t matter that he was the brother without a title, the brother who had been just a bit too late. It didn’t matter that he didn’t spend his time in gaming halls and that, unlike his cousin Lord Rockport, he didn’t top lists of rogues. He spent too little time in high society for women to decide whether to adore or avoid him.
“If you were to seduce me,” Georgiana asked, “Would you be wearing pantaloons?”
&nbs
p; He grinned. “Absolutely not.”
“Ah.” She lay back onto the bed, and her eyes glimmered. “Perhaps you should demonstrate.”
He tore his pantaloons off. His valet would have been impressed by his speed, and Hamish flung the pantaloons in the general direction of the door. The one good thing about staying in a posting inn would be that there would be no maid to come to light a fire in the hearth who might be shocked by his behavior.
Georgiana had removed her gaze from Hamish’s face, and it was now pointed directly at the evidence of his desire.
Her eyes were wider than before. “That is—”
“Massive. Magnificent. Mighty.” Hamish grinned. “I want to spare you the bother of making conversation.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Is that how you seduce women?”
It wasn’t, he realized. Those situations had been formal in their own way, comprised of each party giving a series of appropriate compliments as they entered each stage of the act. He’d already spent more time with Georgiana than he had with any other woman, and somewhere along the way he’d found an easy comfort with her.
The ropes sank between them, tumbling her closer to him, and she laughed.
“That shift is going to have to come off,” he growled.
“That shift is the only item keeping me proper.”
“Then I despise it,” he said, directing a glower at the coarse linen.
She laughed. “Then I think you’ll have to remove it.”
“I will.” Hamish clutched both sides of the bottom of her shift and pulled it over her head. He’d already removed her stays, and he removed the shift without a great deal of effort.
And then he was silent.
Transfixed.
Georgiana was still in his arms, but this time she was utterly naked. His pulse quickened. His desire throbbed, jutting into her soft flesh.
He drank her in. Imbibed her. She surpassed the finest wine, the finest whisky. Her skin was luminescent, save for the auburn curls on her intimate part. Her waist was slimmer than he’d imagined, fragile in his arms, though her hips splayed in a delightful, rounded manner. Her bosom was perched high, and he circled her rosebuds with his fingers, tracing the manner it pebbled against his hand.
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