Surrender

by CJ Archer

  "Me! Good lord, whatever for?"

  He leaned forward, closing the gap between them. "That's what I'd like to know." He touched her knee with his fingertip, circling it slowly. "Are you trying to make me jealous, Georgiana?" That impenetrable, searching gaze lifted to hers.

  Her breath caught in her tight chest. "Of course not. There is no reason to be jealous." She pushed his hand away. "I am not interested in either Lord Northbridge or yourself, Mr. Redcliff. And I expect you to continue to call me Miss Appleby."

  He sat back with a shrug. "Very well. I can promise to call you Miss Appleby but I can't promise I won't become jealous. That's beyond my control." He gave her a smile of pure boyish impudence. "Lady Twickenham mentioned you too," he said.

  "Oh?"

  "She said you looked like a nursemaid. I told her that I disagreed since the only other nursemaid I've met was a dour old thing with the wit and face of one of my brother's hounds and that you were the complete opposite. That shut her up."

  Georgiana laughed. "Thank you, Mr. Redcliff, although you shouldn't feel compelled to defend me."

  His only answer was to stare at her for some time, a troubled frown creasing his handsome brow. Then he suddenly shrugged, as if dislodging a heavy weight from his shoulders, and the frown disappeared. "She didn't speak to me for the rest of the evening, thankfully." He told her about the other people who'd been there, the instruments and pieces played and—jokingly—how badly. He passed on gossip and gave his opinion on what was said, so that after half an hour she felt like she knew everyone who was there and every conversation he'd had.

  It was really quite pleasant talking to him in such an easy manner, particularly because he made it all sound very entertaining with his unique style and wry sense of humor. She found herself laughing out loud several times and wasn't even aware how tired she was until he stopped.

  She yawned and he frowned. "I'm sorry, Miss Appleby, I've kept you up." He stood. "Please allow me to escort you to your room." She hesitated and he held up his hands. They shook a little. It was the first sign of his addiction she'd noticed all evening. Although admittedly she'd been so captured by his soothing voice she may not have noticed earlier anyway. "I promise I won't try to come into your room," he went on. "I won't even kiss you."

  Disappointment tugged at her limbs. She shoved it away. "Very well." She stood. "But first, I must ask you to try not to smoke—."

  "Don't." His voice sounded strangled, caught. He gave her a weary smile and held out his arm. "Shall we?"

  She sighed and took it. She was beginning to think he would never listen to her on the matter of his opium smoking. How long could either of them play this game? Could he shrug off her concerns forever? At what point did she admit defeat and give up?

  But she had never given up on any of her patients—not even Lawrence—and she wasn't about to start now. No matter how hard Redcliff tried to seduce her.

  Carrying a lamp, he led her through the sleeping house. The hush of darkness made their breaths seem loud, their footsteps heavy. Her fingers flexed around his arm, enjoying the feel of solid muscle and heat radiating off him. It wasn't until they stopped at her door and he handed her the lamp that she realized he could be warm because of his need for opium. The hair around his ears was damp with sweat. "Take it," he said when she refused the lamp. "I know my way in the dark."

  She accepted it but before she could open the door, he caught her hand in his shaking one. He pressed it to his lips and something inside her shifted. Her heart gave a single, resounding thud that echoed through her body, right down to her toes. She felt as fragile as a dried leaf, as if she might break apart at any moment and the brittle pieces of her would form a pile at his feet.

  Her gaze connected with his and he could see into her core, she was sure of it. He must know she wanted him to break his promise and come into her room. Desperately, desperately wanted it.

  But he abruptly let go of her hand as if it had burned him and stepped away. "Good night, Miss Appleby." His voice was harsh, strained. "Sleep well."

  She watched his hurried retreat and tried unsuccessfully to ignore the growing hollowness inside her. He had kept his promise. He was a true gentleman after all and just when she didn't want the gentleman but the rough, raw man.

  She drew in a shuddering breath, went inside and lay down on the bed. All her strength seeped out of her. Everything ached. All she wanted to do was sleep but once again it eluded her.

  When the fever of desire finally burned itself out some time later, an overwhelming feeling of gratitude swamped her. She was grateful that nothing had happened between them.

  Because nothing could.

  It was imperative she close her heart to Redcliff, and never kiss him again.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sleep didn't descend on Georgiana until very late. Unwelcome heat flooded her from the inside out, causing her to toss the night away. Refusing Redcliff wasn't supposed to be so tortuous. She was supposed to feel relieved and stronger for the decision, but she did not.

  A restless night meant a late start to the day. She joined Phillippa who was already eating breakfast with the sort of tenacity she reserved for the things she loved. Lady Weatherby and Redcliff were nowhere to be seen.

  "They've already gone out," Phillippa said, heaping a second serving of bacon onto her plate. "Aunt's gone to see Staunton and Alex refused to tell me where he was going. 'Man's business,' he said." She pushed out her bottom lip. "He can be such a bore."

  Georgiana begged to differ. There was nothing of the bore about Redcliff. Even when he wasn't speaking he was far from dull. All one had to do for entertainment was watch him—the elegant lift of his eyebrow, the quirk of his lips in amusement or displeasure, the strangely compelling beauty of his eyes, even when they were surrounded by the dark swelling of bruises. Georgiana could watch him all day and not experience a moment of boredom.

  Madness was another matter. That was the only way to explain the fierce ache swallowing her this morning.

  What would it take to relieve it?

  Exploring that thought would only lead to a headache. Think about something else. The only other great problem in her life was Phillippa herself. Georgiana felt a kind of responsibility for her. Lady Weatherby was unaware of the girl's wanderings and Redcliff wasn't equipped to deal with young women. He was like a blunt axe hacking away at a massive tree trunk. He would not make much progress if he continued to operate with insensitivity. The aunt would fare little better if her sternness with Georgiana was any indication of how she dealt with issues of the matchmaking kind.

  So it was up to Georgiana to find out more.

  "Were there any interesting gentlemen at Lady Bromley's soirée?" she said, choosing her approach carefully.

  Phillippa licked butter from her fingers. "Only Lord Northbridge."

  Georgiana dropped her knife onto her toast and stared at Phillippa. Not Northbridge. No, please don't let her liaisons be with him. Redcliff would be devastated to learn his friend was seducing his sister. But would he be surprised? Northbridge struck her as the sort of man who would have a reputation—all the doe-eyed girls simpering at him in Hyde Park were a fair indication of that. Lord Northbridge, however, didn't seem to notice them.

  Phillippa grinned and leaned forward. "Do you think he's handsome?" she whispered loudly.

  "He's a very fine looking gentleman." But not a patch on Redcliff. Redcliff had hair like midnight and eyes the color of endless summer skies. His skin was as smooth as her best leather gloves.

  "You're blushing!"

  "No I'm not." Georgiana cleared her throat. "Lord Northbridge is quite handsome but not in a way that tempts me." She leaned forward too and lowered her voice. "Does he tempt you?"

  Phillippa giggled. "Of course! All those curls and such...delicious lips. Don't you think he has delicious lips?"

  "Why were you looking at his lips?"

  "Well, he was talking a great deal so naturally I was looking at
his lips. Surely you've noticed how full they are. And wide." She nibbled at her bacon and searched her plate for either more bacon or inspiration. "Now, let's see if I have this right. He's fond of riding, hunting and driving."

  "Only three things? And all of them involving horses too. Dear me, that's rather...limiting."

  "Oh, and hawking! I knew there was one more. So that makes four. And hawking doesn't involve horses. Is that more acceptable?" She popped the last piece of bacon into her mouth and watched Georgiana expectantly.

  "More acceptable for what?"

  "For marrying of course!"

  Georgiana sighed. If only Northbridge was considering Phillippa as a future wife none of this would be necessary. But if he wanted to make clandestine assignations in Hyde Park then she could only assume his intentions weren't of the matrimonial kind.

  "Aunt said he would be an excellent catch," Phillippa went on. "She said he's very rich and comes from a long and distinguished family. Or is that large and distinguished?" She shook her head. "Never mind."

  "Your aunt is correct. He would make an excellent catch but your brother assured me only last night that Lord Northbridge is not looking for a wife."

  "Of course he's looking for a wife. All titled men of fortune want a wife. He just hasn't found the right woman yet. But that is all about to change." She winked over her teacup.

  Had any of their conversation from the day before sunk in? "Phillippa, I don't think this is wise."

  Phillippa waved her hand, drank her tea then replaced her teacup in the saucer with a clatter. "Wise? Good lord, I hope not. My aunts are always despairing at my unwise choices as they call them."

  "As are you brothers," said Redcliff, newly arrived. He made straight for the sideboard and poured himself a cup of tea and took a slice of toast.

  "Back so soon?" Phillippa said.

  "Yes and stop avoiding the subject. What was the unwise thing you were about to do, dear sister?" He bit into the toast and sat beside Georgiana. She dared not look at him for fear she couldn't look away again. Even so, she was aware of every movement he made, every ripple of muscle.

  "This is a conversation between ladies, dear brother, and I will not divulge its nature to you." Phillippa stood and collected her plate, cup and saucer. "I must go. I've got things to do."

  "As have I," Georgiana said, standing quickly. She hadn't finished her breakfast but a little hunger would be much easier to bear than being alone with Redcliff.

  "Aren't you going to at least ask how I'm faring this morning?" he said as she placed her breakfast things on the sideboard. He sounded so calm but she had the distinct feeling it was all a ruse.

  She risked a glance and was rewarded with one of his enigmatic smiles. "You look well enough to me," she said.

  Phillippa left and Georgiana tried to follow her but Redcliff was out of his chair, blocking her exit faster than she could draw breath.

  "I'm certainly not well," he said, his voice a mere hum through the air. "I can't stop thinking of you. Of how you looked before we parted last night. I wanted to savor the heat in your eyes and the way your hand felt in mine and against my lips. Soft and slender like an exotic bird." He shook his head as his fingers stroked her cheek, a gliding touch that was so achingly gentle. "I want you, Georgiana." He held up a hand as she began to protest. "I'll call you that if I wish, this is my house and you are mine. My physician," he added as if it were an after-thought.

  She should say something, tell him he must stop taunting her and distracting her from her work. Good lord, she was known for her wit and presence of mind, surely she could think of something appropriate to say. Something other than Come to me tonight.

  "Well, my little Bird Of Paradise, what do we do now?"

  "Do?" she whispered.

  "I want you. You want me. Shall we explore the desires that are driving us both to distraction?"

  She swallowed hard. Surely his offer was another attempt to frighten her away—send the prim and proper spinster off by talking about desires and exploration. Only she was neither prim nor proper, and although she may be a spinster, she was not a virginal one. Not that she would let on. It worked in her favor to have him believe it.

  "I am not your Bird Of Paradise," she said. "I don't even have the right colored feathers." She smoothed down her pale gray dress, wondering what had possessed her to say such a ridiculously inane thing. She must have taken leave of her senses. "And what I want is for you to cease smoking opium. Until then, there will be no exploring. Now step aside, please, I wish to leave."

  He hesitated then moved out of her way. She had to walk sideways through the doorway so as to avoid touching him but the maneuver was no barrier against his clean, masculine scent. It stayed with her for the remainder of the day.

  ***

  Georgiana managed to avoid Redcliff for most of the day but she was not so lucky in avoiding Lady Weatherby. They met in the library, a place Georgiana often retreated to when the walls of her tiny bedroom felt too close. She'd not once come across Lady Weatherby there however, until now.

  "I think it's time we discuss the length of your employment," the marchioness said without preamble.

  Georgiana closed her book. "My commission is for as long as necessary."

  "Necessary?" Lady Weatherby stamped the point of her black lace parasol on the Persian rug. "I think my interpretation of necessary is markedly different to yours, Miss Appleby. If it were up to me, you would have left by now. Alexander is in fine health, a few bruises not withstanding."

  Georgiana acknowledged her concerns with a nod. There was nothing else she could do. Not knowing about Redcliff's opium smoking, the marchioness was quite correct and Georgiana couldn't defend herself. Sir Oswyn didn't want anyone to know about the addiction and Redcliff himself would have told his aunts if he'd not cared. That in itself was interesting and she sat up straighter, struck by the thought. Was he embarrassed? Did he think they'd consider him a weakling for taking it? Or did he know that smoking it was ultimately bad for his health and he didn't want them to worry?

  From what she'd seen of Redcliff, he was not a man who embarrassed easily and he was certainly no weakling.

  "Young people today are too feeble," Lady Weatherby said. "In my time, when we were ill the apothecaries made up some vile smelling concoction and sent us on our way. That served us well enough for anything from a cough to a lost limb. We certainly didn't have nurses coddling us when we should have been fulfilling our duties." She turned and stalked out of the room, the tap tap of her parasol echoing through the tiled hall and up the stairs.

  Georgiana sank into the chair and closed her eyes. Lady Weatherby had raised a good question. How long was Georgiana going to be holed up in Redcliff's townhouse? She wanted to get home and out of London before the heat of summer. It might be still a month or two before the city grew hot but she needed to get away nevertheless. Before she did something she couldn't undo.

  ***

  Waiting up for Redcliff to return with his sister and aunt from their evening entertainments had so far gotten Georgiana into too much trouble. So she decided to go to bed early and avoid meeting him altogether. Her attempts to dissuade him from using opium before he retired had fallen on deaf ears anyway and there was no other reason for her to stay up. None at all.

  Only she hadn't counted on Redcliff returning early. She opened her bedroom door on his knock, thinking it was a servant, and stared at the heart-stoppingly handsome gentleman standing there in elegant black coat, crisp white neck cloth and tight, white breeches. His heavy-lidded gaze raked her roughly. Crudely. Possessively.

  "Do you have a headache?" she asked, putting a hand to the frilled collar of her nightgown. The pulse in her throat drummed a dramatic rhythm against her fingertips.

  He leaned against the door frame, crossing his ankles and arms in a laconic pose. As if she needed any more reasons to desire him. "That's what I told Aunt Harry," he said.

  "And it was a lie?"

&n
bsp; "Yes."

  She felt hot all over and that throbbing pulse moved down to her thighs. "What do you want?" But she knew what he wanted. It was written in the gleam of his eyes.

  "I want..." He shook his head and looked down at the floor. "Christ. I shouldn't be doing this." He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. "You're a guest in my house, I should be protecting your virtue from men like me."

  "It's not entirely your fault." She touched his cheek and he responded with a low moan deep in his chest. She was aware—so very aware—that her simple gesture was the start of something that could quickly spiral out of control. It was too late for common sense to get through the thick wall of desire that had been building within her ever so slowly. The only way the wall could crumble now was to hit it head on. "And I am not as virtuous as you think."

  He captured her hand and kissed the palm. "Are you trying to justify this to me? Or to you?"

  She shuddered, a bone-deep trembling that shocked her. Thrilled her. Terrified her. It served to reinforce what she already knew—she could not stop what had begun the moment she met Alexander Redcliff.

  She didn't want to stop it.

  Whatever the consequences, she would face them afterwards. But for now, she was capable of one more clear thought—this time would be different. Redcliff was not like Lawrence. Her own feelings were not the same, and she was older, wiser and stronger.

  She gave in to the desire coursing through her and reached for his hands. She dragged him inside and he shut the door with his booted foot. He drew her to him and kissed her fiercely, as if kissing her could save his life. It shattered her.

  Georgiana leaned into him, unable to get close enough. She wanted skin against skin. She wanted to touch him everywhere and feel him inside her. She wanted to know him in the deepest, fullest sense of the word.

  She fumbled with the brass buttons of his coat and he laid a hand gently over hers. "Allow me." He finished the task and shrugged out of his coat, letting it slide to the floor. She helped him with his neckcloth and the starched linen went the same way as the coat. Discarded. Forgotten. Together they removed his waistcoat and shirt and finally he was gloriously, beautifully bare-chested.