by Lorri Dudley
She could return to Julien. The thought passed through her head before she could stop it. No, she would never betray Harrison. Besides, it was ridiculous. Mr. Rousseau’s suspicions were unfounded. “You’re asking me to spy on Mr. Wells?”
“Not spy on him, merely keep your eyes and ears open for me.”
She recognized jealousy in his voice, and his eyes shone with malice, but why would he be jealous of Harrison?
Rousseau lifted his glass and gulped down a big swallow.
She didn’t trust him, and she didn’t like the idea of him publicly humiliating Harrison. Maybe she should keep a closer eye on Mr. Rousseau?
“Let me consider it.”
A large smile swept across his face. “I knew, from the moment I met you, that we would get along famously, Miss Lennox.”
Uncomfortable under his wolfish gaze, she peered down into her half empty cup. “I should probably return to my father. He doesn’t like me to be gone long.”
“Of course, let me escort you.”
She placed her hand on the smooth, luxurious fabric of his coat sleeve and straightened her shoulders to shake off the tingle of unease prickling the back of her neck. She’d dealt with men of a higher caliber than Mr. Rousseau. She could hold her own. There was no reason to be concerned.
Chapter 17
…How did you know you were in love? Did it feel like you’d swallowed live caterpillars? Were you constantly aware of his presence? Did you go to extremes for a glimpse of him and feel elated when you spotted him?
—From Georgia Lennox (who never intended to post it) to her sisters
Harrison knew the second Georgia walked in the room, knew the same way a planter feels a storm coming. Excitement hung heavy in the air, raising the hair on his arms.
She’d felt it too. He could tell by the way her countenance changed when she spotted him. Sincere pleasure lit her eyes like the luminescent glow of the fireflies that flickered in the underbrush at night.
Then he’d spied Rousseau. The scoundrel carted her over to the refreshment table, licking his chops like the villain in one of the Brothers Grimm tales. Harrison’s fingers curled into fists, but he reined his temper in before Rousseau approached. He couldn’t stop his teeth from clenching at the sight of the wretch’s hand wrapped possessively around Georgia’s arm, but he managed to observe them with what he hoped was cool detachment.
“Delightful party, Rousseau. Thank you for returning Miss Lennox. She’s promised me the next dance.”
Before Georgia could balk, he threaded his hand through her other arm and ushered her onto the ballroom floor. The violins started an up-tempo waltz. His eyes met hers as they assumed the dance position, and it wasn’t hard to miss the tempest swirling in their depths at his audacity to claim this dance. But something else flickered under those fringed lashes he couldn’t quite figure out—excitement, admiration, maybe awe? He tried to look away, but couldn’t seem to pull his gaze from this beauty before him, full of sugar but matched with spice. Harrison’s hand came to rest on her lower back, and she stiffened. Her pink lips parted.
“Don’t concern yourself.” The husky tone of his voice surprised him. “I asked your aunt for permission to dance the waltz.”
One graceful brow arched up. “That wasn’t necessary,” she informed him. “The waltz is danced at Almacks.”
“Is it now?”
Things had changed in London since he’d left. The once controversial dance, due to the proximity in which the dancers stood, apparently no longer created a scandal. He drew her close and locked their position in a stance he knew Lady Jersey and the beau mode society wouldn’t approve. “Waltzes here in the islands are a little less … refined.”
He might have been a little rusty, but he made up for it with gusto as he swept her around the room until her eyes shone bright and her cheeks grew flushed. He’d disliked these events in London, but here on the island, no one thought twice about a schoolmaster dancing with a beautiful high-society woman.
“So, they’re dancing the waltz at Almacks?” He noted her gown as the music lulled. “Let me guess, and now the color red is the height of fashion?”
“No, it’s pink.”
“Oh yes, I remember.” He cast her a knowing smile “Because it’s a feminine color. I hate to point it out, but you, my dear, are wearing red.”
“It’s not red.” Her eyes danced, but her face remained utterly impassive. “It’s dark pink.”
Harrison threw back his head and laughed. A few surrounding couples whispered, probably about his uncivil behavior, but he didn’t care.
He leaned in closer to her ear and whispered, “You look ravishing in dark pink.”
He felt her shiver, despite the heat.
“Mr. Wells…”
“Please, call me Harrison. Your father has practically adopted Max and me into the family. I believe we can cut the formality now that we share meals together, work together, dance together.”
He spun her to the edge of the dance floor as the song drew to a close. He bowed, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and rested his other on top of it.
“Harri…” She hesitated, as if her lips were testing out the word.
“Ah, but not Harry.” He worked for a cheeky grin. “Harry is what my mother called me when I was in grave trouble. The reminder makes my left ear hurt.”
A puzzled expression muddled her blue eyes. “Just your left ear?”
“Indeed. I towered over my mother from age twelve on, but a good ear pull was the perfect height equalizer and mother was right-handed. One tug and I was on my knees pleading for forgiveness.”
She giggled with an inelegant snort that could only be called adorable. “How often did you hear the name Harry?”
He peered into her gaze. “Quite often.” He pointed at his left ear. “If you look closely, you’ll notice that ear is slightly lower than the other.”
She laughed then, a glorious resounding laugh. She tried to hide her outburst behind her hand, but failed miserably. That was a sound he would hear more of if he possibly could.
“You jest.” But then she slowly sobered. Her eyes narrowed in on his face. “No, wait.” Her gaze volleyed from one ear to the other. “You’re right. One ear is lower than the other.”
Her eyes were so wide, her expression so shocked, that Harrison raised his hands to his earlobes.
She laughed even harder.
As he realized the joke, he should have been perturbed, but he couldn’t summon anything except the warm tightness in his chest. “Now who’s the jester?”
His eyes never strayed from her face, but he knew Georgia’s hearty amusement would draw unnecessary attention, so he pulled her off to the side of the dance floor to compose herself before others began to stare.
Harrison shook his head, but couldn’t subdue the smile stretching across his lips. He must appear like a smitten fool. He snatched his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her so she could wipe the tears from her eyes. When she’d finally dampened the laugh to only the occasional snicker, he said, “You should have been an actress.”
“I am quite good”—she pinned her lips together for a moment as she quelled another bout of giggles—“aren’t I?”
“I wouldn’t get too boastful about it.” Then she peered up at him with a pair of open blue eyes, shining brightly with residual laughter that made his chest unable to draw breath.
The bold and vibrant red suited Georgia. Pastel pink had fit Laura. Whereas Laura had been gentle and compatible, Georgia was unpredictable and extreme. Similar to this island, she could simmer and rumble like Mt. Nevis, but then bait you with a beautiful sunset and a laughing breeze. Laura would have liked her immensely.
Guilt shot through him. How could he be callous enough to compare the two? Georgia couldn’t replace his wife. She couldn’t fill the hole left by Laura’s loss.
God will fill the hole with Himself. It was the phrase he’d told Max to help the boy through
his grief. Now the thought awakened within his own mind. Had he let God fill the emptiness in his heart? Had he ignored the truth and instead clung to the emptiness he felt he deserved?
He stared at Georgia. Could he move past the pain and live a life with another woman? He needed to talk to God about this more, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts intact with Georgia’s wildrose scent filling his nose and her soft lips tempting him.
He scanned the room, then nodded in the direction of Aunt Tessa. “It appears the vicar and your Aunt might make the match of the evening.”
Georgia blinked at the change in topic. Was she losing her senses or had Harrison been flirting with her? What disturbed her even more was that she welcomed it. Why would she prefer the attention of a schoolmaster over a wealthy sugar plantation owner? Arrogant men had never bothered her before.
Perhaps her aunt and the vicar were a safer focus. She turned her gaze that way and studied them. Aunt Tessa and Mr. Clark appeared to be competing for her father’s attention, each one becoming more animated than the last to convey their story.
A deep ache tightened around her heart. “It’s terrible that I never noticed before how lonely she was in London.”
Mr. Clark leaned in and listened with rapt attention, and Aunt Tessa flirtatiously fanned herself.
“Once you peek over your fortress walls, princess, you’ll discover a whole new world just waiting to love and be loved.”
She turned to him. “What walls?”
“The ones you wield to protect your heart.” His dark eyes were a rich amber, drawing her in.
She forced herself not to get lost in his gaze. “I don’t have walls.” But her voice lacked conviction.
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, you do. For everyone else, you put on an act, but I’ve seen glimpses of the true Georgia.”
She looked away from him, but with a gentle touch, he turned her face back to meet his gaze.
“And you know what?”
She swallowed. A mix of hope and fear warred within her as she braced for his next words.
“She’s funny, passionate, and kind.” He released her chin. “It’s strange, but when you allow yourself to be vulnerable, you can recognize the hurts in others and find compassion.” He glanced back at her aunt. “Besides, I don’t think Lady Pickering is lonely anymore.”
His brown eyes returned to hers and held.
“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Not any longer.”
“I know you didn’t want to come to the island, but I’m glad you did.”
“You are?” She hated the childlike hope in her voice. His warm, unwavering gaze pierced through her defenses, and she was transported back to a golden-haired child eager for any kind word to let her know she was worthy of love.
“Indeed.”
She watched his lips form the words, and it barely registered that she swayed toward him.
“You’ve brought the light back into your father’s eyes.”
“My father?” Georgia stiffened. “Yes, of course.”
“He adores you.”
She fought to maintain eye contact, even though her chest constricted and a lump formed in her throat.
Her walls didn’t feel thick now. Her jaw tightened, and her heart battled against the all-too-familiar ache of rejection. She didn’t want to feel … not like this. She needed those walls.
“He loves you. You can see it every time he looks at you.” Harrison’s gaze scanned the room, then met hers once again. “There’s a ship that’s coming to port in a week. I hope you plan to stay—for Fredrick’s sake.”
Not for your sake?
She eyed him coolly. “I’ll stay until Julien sends for me.”
His eyes darkened, and whatever had been between them seemed to dissipate.
“Ah, yes, prince charming.” Sarcasm laced his words.
“At least I know where I stand with Julien.”
“Do you? Will a cad like him stay faithful? Will he still enjoy your company when you’re old and wrinkled? Will he love all your quirks? Because believe me, princess, you’ve got quite a few.”
“I don’t need to listen to this from the likes of you.”
She turned to go, but he grasped her arm. “You’re better off forgetting about him and acknowledging the people who truly care about you. The ones right in front of you.”
Her eyes blazed. “Are you saying you’re one of those people?”
Harrison stared at her. His lips parted, but he didn’t say the words.
“I didn’t think so.” In a whirl of skirts, she left him standing there.
Georgia returned to her father’s side and smiled, despite the rush of heated blood roaring through her veins.
“Lovely party isn’t it, princess?” Papa smiled at her.
“Quite.” She said through tight lips. Harrison had the gall to call her the same nickname moments ago.
“Georgia.” Aunt Tessa placed a hand on her arm. “Mr. Clark here has told me what a wonderful thing you are doing by helping out at the school.”
“She has a way with children.”
Her spine stiffened as Harrison’s voice boomed behind her.
“Well, I’m glad she gets to see how normal boys and girls behave,” Aunt Tessa said. “No offense dear, but Fanny’s and Eleanor’s youngsters are wild little terrors. I’ve found it’s best to make yourself sparse when they’re around. I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you didn’t want anything to do with children. Last time they visited my country house, they glued a toy saddle and doll to the back of Fluffy, my poodle. It took my maid four hours to get the saddle off. We couldn’t save Fluffy’s coat of fur. We had to cut it off, and the dog had to wear sweaters all winter to keep from freezing at night.”
A surge of relief ran through Georgia. Until she’d been around the island children, she assumed all youngsters were of such ilk, and Max was the exception. She liked his company. But when she began working with the school children, how amazed she’d been to learn that they were a joy to watch and a pleasure to teach. Even though they could be rowdy at times.
“I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves.” Edward Rousseau appeared on Georgia’s left.
Her father peered at him through his wire glasses. “Jolly time, Rousseau. You do always put on a good show.”
“Indeed, quite lovely,” her aunt said.
“Miss Lennox, I promised you a look at our prize-winning gardens.”
“Oh, I…um.” The last thing she wanted was to be alone with the man.
Harrison’s hand grasped her elbow. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
All eyes turned to him. Georgia registered the firm set of his jaw and his commanding glare. Even if he disliked the man so much, this hardly seemed a battle worthy of such vehemence.
A crease formed in Aunt Tessa’s brow. “Maybe another time perhaps.”
“Ah, but the garden is transformed tonight under all the lights and fullness of the moon. Miss Lennox will be in good hands.”
Harrison’s gaze became volatile. “She might catch a chill.” His words emerged through clenched teeth.
Rousseau picked up the challenge. “The night air is still quite warm.”
“Perfect,” Georgia said before Harrison could retort. There was no sense in them making a scene. “I’ve been looking forward to it all evening.”
A victorious smile spread across Rousseau’s face.
Harrison’s eyes met hers with a lethal intensity.
“On second thought, Rousseau is right.” Harrison never took his eyes off hers. “Taking in the air would be most agreeable.” He then turned to her aunt. “Lady Pickering, would you care for a stroll?”
Now, it was Mr. Clark’s turn to be taken off guard. He half-stood and looked like he would offer to assist her himself, but Fredrick stilled him with a hand. “Wonderful idea, my boy. My sister would love to see the gardens. Enjoy yourselves.”
Throughout the stroll, Georgia replayed the men’s verbal sparring. W
hile Mr. Rousseau boasted about his imports from London and Aunt Tessa babbled on about the vicar, Georgia fought to suppress her rising ire.
How dare Harrison interfere in her life? One minute he melted her heart with his sweet words and laughing smile, the next he berated her like a wayward child. She could feel his eyes boring into her from behind as they stopped to admire a Grecian statue of a scantily clad woman clasping a watering jar near her head. Rousseau explained about the piece and the artist.
“How fascinating. You have a superb eye for the arts.” Georgia fawned over him, just like she’d done with all the eligible men back in London. “Very few men are as cultured and refined as you.”
Rousseau puffed up at the compliment. “I believe it is my duty to expose the islanders to a new level of sophistication.”
“You are very kind.” She smiled at him through lowered lashes in a way that she knew displayed the coquettish dimple in her left cheek.
As he guided her to the next statue, his hand warmed her lower back, and his thumb stroked a small path along her spine. Rousseau paused at a marble statue of Cupid and, before naming the sculptor, brushed a stray lock of hair from her face with his index finger. Georgia glanced at Harrison, who’d apparently caught the intimate gesture, for his face hardened into a steely glare that made him look as though he was deciding whether to break the man’s fingers or nose.
She turned away as Rousseau led her to the next statue.
“Alas,” he continued, “some of the islanders appreciate my efforts, while others do not.” He turned to face the statue and pulled Georgia beside him. She peeked over her shoulder at Harrison, but the moment she did, she regretted the look. Harrison stifled a yawn. He met her eyes and lifted a belittling eyebrow that stated, I know what you’re doing. Don’t waste my time.
