“Yes, my lord.”
Tristan caught up with Georgiana at the music room door. “And where did you go, this morning?” he asked.
She jumped, guilt obvious on her pretty face. “None of your business, Dare. Go away.”
“It’s my house.” Her reaction intrigued him, and he changed what he’d been about to say. “I have a coach and a curricle. Both are at your disposal. You don’t need to hire hacks.”
“Don’t spy on me. And I do as I want.” Georgiana hesitated, as though she wanted to go into the music room yet didn’t want him following her in there. “I am assisting your aunts as a friend. I am not in your employ, and who, where, when, or how I go anywhere is up to me. Not you, my lord.”
“Except in my home,” he pointed out. “What do you want with the music room? My aunts aren’t in there.”
“Yes, we are,” Milly’s voice came. “Behave yourself.”
To his surprise, Georgiana took a step closer. “Disappointed, Dare?” she breathed. “Did you anticipate being able to torment me longer?”
He knew how to play this game. “Any ‘anticipation’ where you’re concerned, Georgiana, had already been satisfied in my case, hasn’t it?” Tristan reached out to finger one of the soft golden curls framing her face.
“Then I’ll give you something else to anticipate,” she said, her jaw clenched. He barely had time to note that she carried a fan before it cracked across his knuckles.
“Damnation! You little minx,” he grunted, snatching his hand back as the broken ivory and paper fluttered to the floor. “You can’t go about hitting gentlemen.”
“I have never hit a gentleman,” she sniffed, and disappeared into the music room.
Tristan stalked back downstairs, refusing to rub his smarting fingers. Now he would have to cut short his luncheon at White’s to go purchase her another blasted fan. He gave a grim smile. Slender as his purse was, buying fans for Georgie was one thing he refused to give up. Nothing annoyed her quite so much as his gifts.
Tristan looked at the herd of young, single ladies gathered at one side of the Ibbottson ballroom. The not-quite-so-young part of the herd stood closer to the refreshment table, as though nearness to food would render them more enticing to the circling pack of male wolves. He had yet to see Georgiana stand anywhere near that meat market, unless she happened to be conversing with some poor unfortunate who’d joined it.
What he would never be able to imagine even in his wildest dreams was the Marquis of Harkley’s golden-haired daughter reconciled to the hopeless spinster section. The idea that she might be forced there because of his actions six years ago was ridiculous. Georgiana was intelligent, well educated, witty, tall, and beautiful. She was also fabulously wealthy, which in and of itself was enough to entice most suitors.
Hell, if he’d known at the time in what poor condition his father would be leaving the Dare properties and title, he might have—would have—made a more serious play for her affections. If she hadn’t discovered the idiotic wager and convinced herself that was the sole reason he’d been in pursuit, they might have found their present circumstances vastly altered.
“Isn’t that your Amelia?” Aunt Edwina said from beside him.
“She isn’t my anything. Let’s please make that clear.” All he needed was another misunderstanding coming between him and a potential spouse. With his money woes, he was on the verge of becoming unmarriageable himself. In fact, he was more likely to end up beside the punch bowl and the sweetmeats than Georgiana was.
“So you’ve settled on a different one?” His aunt wrapped her fingers around his arm and perched up on tiptoe. “Which one?”
“For God’s sake, Auntie, none of them. Stop being such a matchmaker.” She looked downcast and he sighed. “It’ll probably be Amelia. I would like a chance to browse the entire fruit bowl before I select my peach, though.”
She chuckled. “You are becoming reconciled to marriage.”
“However can you tell?”
“Last month, marriage was apothecary shops and poison. Now it’s fruit bowls and peaches.”
“Yes, but peaches have pits.”
A wheeled chair rolled onto his toe and stopped there. “What has pits, dear?” Milly asked.
Milly Carroway was a substantial woman, and her weight combined with that of the chair was enough to make him see spots. The chair’s driver smiled at him, her eyes alight with green devilment. Keeping his gaze steady on hers, he wrapped his fingers around her hand and the back of the chair, and pushed.
She flinched as though he’d struck her, but the wheel rolled back off his toe, and he could breathe again. He would have supposed her treading on his feet was better than being attacked with fans, but that didn’t take into account large aunts and large wheeled chairs.
“Peaches do,” he said.
“And what does that have to do with anything?”
“He’s going to marry a peach,” Edwina offered. “He’s just afraid of pits.”
“I am not afraid of pits,” he retorted. “It’s just a matter of wisdom.”
“So a woman is a piece of fruit?” Georgiana broke in. “What does that make you, Lord Dare?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s leave that question rhetorical, shall we?” he drawled.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Georgiana was in high spirits. On any other occasion he would have enjoyed the exchange, but since he intended on spending the evening convincing himself that he could tolerate the peach known as Amelia Johns, he didn’t want to expend the energy necessary to keep up with his tormentor.
“Why don’t we continue the amusement later?” he suggested, patting Aunt Milly on the shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies?”
Tristan made his way toward the herd of waiting females. Several heiresses were among them, ready and willing to trade their dowries in order to bring a title into the family. Amelia Johns seemed the least offensive of the lot, though they all shared a simpering mediocrity.
“My lord.”
He stopped short at the sound of the female voice behind him. “Lady Georgiana,” he said, facing her.
“I, ah, recall from several years ago that there was one thing you did quite well,” she said quietly, a blush touching her smooth cheeks.
She couldn’t be discussing what he thought she was discussing. “Beg pardon?” he asked, which seemed safer than risking his knuckles again.
“Your waltz,” she said, her voice clipped and abrupt, and her color deepening. “I recall that you waltz well.”
Tristan tilted his head at her, trying to read her expression. “Are you suggesting that I ask you to dance?”
“For your aunts’ sake, I think we should at least appear to be friends.”
This was unexpected, but for the moment he was willing to play along. “At the risk of being turned down then, Lady Georgiana, will you waltz with me?”
“I will, my lord.”
As he held out his hand, he noted that her fingers shook. “Would you prefer to wait for a quadrille? We’ll look just as friendly.”
“Of course not. I am not afraid of you.”
With that she gripped his fingers and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. Tristan hesitated as he faced her, taking her hand more firmly in his and sliding his arm with slow care around her waist. She shivered again, but lifted her free hand to his shoulder.
“If you’re not afraid,” he murmured, swaying her into the dance, “then why do you tremble?”
“Because I don’t like you, remember?”
“You haven’t allowed me to forget.”
For a moment she met his gaze, then looked down at his cravat again. Across the room he caught sight of her cousin, the Duke of Wycliffe, looking at the two of them in obvious amazement, but he had no answer except to shrug.
“I think Wycliffe may faint,” he offered, to have something to say to her.
“I said we should dance to reassure your aunts of our abili
ty to get along,” she returned. “That doesn’t mean you have to converse with me.”
If they couldn’t converse, at least he did enjoy dancing with her; she was lithe and graceful, as much a pleasure to waltz with as she had been six years before. That was part of the problem with having her in his house now—he’d never fallen completely out of lust with her. She had been eager and willing and passionate, and he was perversely pleased to have been her first, even with the eternity of torture she seemed determined to inflict upon him because of it.
“If we’re being friendly, allow me to recommend that you not close your lips so tightly,” he murmured.
“Do not look at my lips,” she ordered, glaring at him.
“Shall I look at your eyes, then, or your nose? Your lovely bosom?”
She flushed scarlet, then lifted her chin. “My left ear,” she stated.
Tristan chuckled. “Very well. It’s a nice ear, I have to admit. And fairly level with the right one. All in all, quite acceptable.”
Her lips twitched, though he pretended not to notice. After all, he was gazing at her ear. And though he wasn’t looking at the rest of her, he could certainly feel her. Her azure skirt swirled against his legs, the fingers of her hand clenched and unclenched against his, and as he turned her, their hips brushed.
“Don’t hold me so closely,” she muttered, her fingers tightening in his again.
“Sorry,” he said, putting the proper distance between them once more. “Old habit.”
“We haven’t waltzed for six years, my lord.”
“You’re difficult to forget.”
Emerald ice looked into his eyes again. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Good Lord, he was going to get himself killed. “No. A statement of fact. Since our…parting of ways, you have broken seventeen fans on me, and now left me with two crushed toes. That is difficult to forget.”
The waltz ended, and she quickly pulled away. “That was friendly enough for one evening,” she said, and with a curtsy glided away.
Tristan watched the sway of her hips as she left. Friendly enough or not, she’d managed to make him forget he was to dance the first waltz of the evening with Amelia. Now that silly chit would probably ignore him for the rest of the evening.
He gazed at her until she vanished behind the next set of dancers. Only one crushed toe and a waltz this evening. And if his suspicions were correct, the mayhem had only just begun.
Chapter 4
Noble madam,
Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues
We write in water.
—Henry VIII, Act IV, Scene ii
Georgiana’s friends pounced on her as soon as she reached the edge of the dance floor.
“So it’s true!”
“I heard that—”
“You actually did it, Georgie? I can’t believe—”
“Please,” Georgiana said, “I need to get some air.”
Together, Lucinda and Evelyn practically dragged her over to the nearest window. Pushing it open, she pulled in a deep breath of fresh night air.
“Better?” Evelyn asked.
“Nearly. Give me a moment.”
“Take several moments. I need one or two myself, after seeing you waltzing with Dare. He actually smiled at you, you know.”
“I saw it, too. Is he in love with you yet?”
“Hush,” Georgiana cautioned, closing the window again and taking a seat beneath it. “And no, of course not. I’m still laying the trap to catch his attention.”
“I almost didn’t believe it when Donna Bentley told me you’d moved into Carroway House. You said you’d tell us what you had planned.”
Georgiana heard the reproach in Lucinda’s voice, but she couldn’t do much to remedy it. “I know, but it happened more quickly than I expected,” she said.
“No doubt. But what about the rumors?”
“His aunts are dear friends of the duchess,” Georgiana countered. “I’m helping Miss Milly while she recovers from the gout.”
“It does make perfect sense, when you put it that way,” Evie said, looking relieved. “And I haven’t heard anything different.”
Lucinda sat beside her. “Georgie, are you certain you want to go through with this? I know we made those lists, but now this is very real.”
“And besides, everyone knows you hate Lord Dare.”
And everyone thought it was merely because he had kissed her and then she’d found out that he’d done it to try to win a wager. No one knew differently: not her aunt, not her friends, not the noblemen of the haut ton—no one but Tristan Carroway. And she intended to keep it that way.
“Don’t you think that’s all the more reason for me to teach him a lesson?” she asked.
“I suppose so, but this could be dangerous, Georgiana. He is a viscount, with several large properties. And he also has a certain reputation.”
“And I am cousin to the Duke of Wycliffe, and the daughter of the Marquis of Harkley.”
Dare had had the opportunity to hurt her reputation six years ago, and he hadn’t done it. Revenge after he discovered her present plan, though, was something else entirely. Georgiana shuddered. If Dare had any notion of fair play at all, nothing would happen.
“I have to admit,” Evelyn said, taking her hand, “it’s exciting, in a way. To know about your plan, when no one else does.”
“And no one else can know, Evie,” Lucinda said, glancing over her shoulder as though she feared they were being overheard even now. “If anyone realizes this is a game, Georgiana could be ruined.”
“I would never say anything,” Evelyn protested. “You know that.”
Georgiana squeezed back. “I’m not worried about that. You are my dearest friends.”
“It’s just that subterfuge is so unlike us,” Evelyn continued.
She was right about that. Georgiana grinned. “Just don’t forget, you two have to do this next.”
“I’m waiting to see whether you survive or not,” Lucinda said, her dark eyes serious despite her smile. “Just be careful, Georgie.”
“I will be.”
“Lady Georgiana.”
The gentleman who emerged from the salon next door was Dare’s polar opposite, thank goodness. She wasn’t up for another sparring match yet. “Lord Westbrook,” she said, relief making her smile.
The marquis sketched a bow. “Good evening. Miss Barrett, Miss Ruddick, greetings to you both.”
“Lord Westbrook.”
“I see you’ve taken on another task for yourself,” he said, returning his calm brown gaze to Georgiana. “The Carroways must be grateful for your assistance.”
“It’s mutual, I assure you.”
“Am I being too optimistic in thinking you might have a space left on your dance card for me?”
She gazed at the handsome, chestnut-haired marquis for a moment. Since Dare was supposed to fall in love with her, she would have to pretend to be somewhat enamored of him, but she liked John Blair, Lord Westbrook. He was more of a gentleman than most of her other suitors—and far more of one than the blackguard Viscount Dare. “I happen to have the next quadrille free,” she said.
He smiled. “I’ll return for you in a few moments, then. My apologies, ladies, for interrupting your conversation.”
“Now that man,” Lucinda said, gazing after him as he disappeared into the crowd, “doesn’t need any lessons.”
“Why is he still unmarried, then, do you think?” Evelyn asked.
Lucinda glanced at Georgiana. “Perhaps he’s set his sights on someone in particular, and he’s just waiting for her to come around.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Georgiana said, rising to go find Milly and Edwina.
“Then why are you blushing?”
“I’m not.” And besides, Westbrook didn’t need her money. So without that enticement he might decide she was markedly less appealing if he were to find out about her indiscretion with Dare. “Come with me and chat with Miss
Milly and Miss Edwina. They say they’re in dire need of some civilized female conversation.”
“Ah, our specialty,” Lucinda said, taking her arm.
“Where are you going?”
Georgiana tried not to jump as she settled Milly into the wheeled chair the next morning. Footmen on either side of her panted from the exertion of bringing Milly and the chair down the curving staircase to the main floor. She finished tucking the blanket around her charge’s hips and her bad foot, then straightened to face the viscount.
“We’re going for a walk in the park,” she said, nodding her thanks to the servants and turning the chair toward the door. Dressed in her ever-present black, Edwina accepted a black shawl and parasol from Dawkins and prepared to join them. “And I thought we’d discussed your not spying on me at every moment.”
His gaze slipped the length of her to her feet and back again, swift but thorough, as though he couldn’t quite quell his all-too-male instincts enough to keep his eyes on her face.
“Here,” he said after a moment, digging into his coat pocket and producing a long, thin box. “This is for you.”
She knew what it was; he’d been giving them to her for nearly six years. “Are you certain it’s wise to keep arming me?” she asked, careful not to touch his fingers as she took the box and opened it. The fan was a soft blue, with a dove appearing on the delicate rice paper as she opened it out. It bothered her that he always knew what she would like.
“At least this way I know what’ll be coming at me,” he returned, glancing at his aunts and back again. “Speaking of which, wouldn’t you rather take the barouche this morning?”
“We wish to exercise ourselves, not your horses.”
“We could exercise together.”
Georgiana blushed scarlet. With his aunts present she didn’t dare hand him the retort he deserved—and he knew it, dash it all. “You might get hurt, in that case,” was the best she could muster, scowling as she snapped the fan open and closed.
“I might be willing to risk it.” He leaned in the morning room doorway, his light blue eyes amused. “And you may receive more exercise than you intend, anyway, pushing that contraption through Hyde Park.”
The Rake Page 4
