by Anna Bradley
“Is…is Lady Archer perfectly awful?” The high, panicked note had left Georgiana’s voice, and her slender body, so rigid only moments before, had relaxed.
Benedict smiled. “Not really, no. She’s a product of the fashionable world, certainly, but no worse than the rest of them. Lady Trowbridge is among the best of the lot. Oh, she’s as foolish as any of them, but she’s got a kind heart, and she’s amusing.”
“An aristocrat with a kind heart, my lord?” Georgiana shook her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Benedict had never been happier to hear that sharp tongue than he was right now, and relief swept over him. “It’s rare enough. Of course, not everyone is agreeable, the guests being mostly ton, and the ton being mostly rather awful people.”
Georgiana still hadn’t withdrawn her hand from his. “Why do you say they’re awful?”
“Why? Well, consider the Marquess of Templeton, for instance. Dreadfully high in the instep. He takes great pleasure in lording it over everyone, but he’s squandered a substantial fortune at faro, and left his elderly mother and three younger sisters without two farthings to rub together.”
“That’s dreadful.” Georgiana’s voice was soft.
“It is, yes. Not uncommon, though, sadly.” Benedict lowered his gaze to their hands as he played with her fingers, then raised his head and looked directly into her eyes. “The point, Georgiana, is that Lady Archer’s guests might be ton, but under their rouge and feathers and jewels, they’re people with the same faults and flaws as anyone else in London.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “Most people don’t bother to look beneath the rouge and feathers and jewels, my lord.”
“Perhaps not, but that doesn’t change a thing. None of them are any better than you, Georgiana,” Benedict murmured, with a squeeze of her fingers. “And most of them are a great deal worse.”
“I daresay they think they’re better than me.” But even as she said it, the hint of a smile was back, the curve of her lips tugging the most fetching dimple into her cheek.
How have I never noticed that dimple before?
“They’re wrong. But if you don’t want to come inside, then you don’t have to. You can wait here for me in the carriage. I’ll go in, have a quick word with Lady Archer, then come back out at once and take you back to Maddox Street.” A slight grin curved his lips. “Daniel Brixton will be very relieved to have you back so soon.”
They were both quiet for a long moment. He wasn’t aware he was stroking her knuckles with his thumb and tracing her fingertips until he heard her breath catch. When he turned to her, he found she was watching him under cover of her thick, dark lashes, and her face…
Her pallor had fled, leaving a soft, pink blush on her cheeks. Her lips were parted, her mouth soft. She was still hiding her eyes under her lashes. It was shyness, not flirtation, but Benedict’s body didn’t give a damn. His blood began to stir, and within seconds, his heart was thundering in his chest. “If you do decide to come in, there is one thing you should be aware of.”
“Oh?” She sounded as breathless as he felt. “What’s that, Lord Haslemere?”
“Benedict.” He continued his stroking, back and forth over her fingers. “You promised you’d call me Benedict, Georgiana.”
Her eyes seemed enormous, and such a vivid green in her flushed face. “Benedict.”
A thrill shot through him at his name on her lips, and he was obliged to clear his throat before he spoke. “Lady Archer’s faro tables are infamous for attracting adventurers and scoundrels. Rakes and rogues will be lounging against every wall and crowded into every table, all of them on the hunt for deep pockets, or a pretty face.”
This time when Benedict reached for her, he knew precisely what he was going to do, where he was going to touch her. Softly, gentle as a whisper, he dragged the back of his gloved fingers down her cheek.
Georgiana sucked in a quick breath. “But…how will I know one when I see him? A rogue, I mean.”
Benedict stared at her, heat flooding through him, all the desire he hadn’t felt for Lady Wylde—for anyone—gathering in his lower belly and burning hotter until it released in a heady rush into his groin. His cock hardened in an instant, leaving him dizzy and panting.
Dear God, he wanted her mouth open under his, wanted it with such visceral hunger he could already taste her, sweet and warm on his tongue, quince preserves and something else, something unexpected, a hint of tartness, just enough to drive him mad.
But if he took her mouth now, he’d never let her go. So, instead he caught her fingers in his, lifted them to his lips, and met her gaze over their clasped hands.
Her black pupils had swallowed the warm hazel irises of her eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, the space between them crackling with tension. “What…what will a rogue do?”
“A rogue won’t be satisfied with kissing your glove.” His voice was deep and husky, his fingers shaking as he turned her palm up, and with a gentle tug, peeled her glove back to bare her wrist. “He’ll kiss you here.”
He brought her hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips over the beating pulse point there, grazing the delicate blue vein. She let out a soft cry, and Benedict’s eyes fell closed at the feel of her skin against his lips, the warm rush of her blood under the tip of his tongue.
Chapter Eleven
The moment Benedict’s lips touched her skin, every thought fled Georgiana’s head. The fear, the anxiety and panic that had tried to swallow her when they’d arrived at Lady Archer’s vanished into mist, chased away by a rush of desire so sweet it left her dizzy, breathless.
Those dark emotions were no match for a kiss from a rake.
No match for him.
The warm clasp of his fingers around hers, his tentative smile and the gentleness of his touch, the soft murmur of his voice…somehow, he’d known just what to say, just how to reassure her.
She gazed down at the dark head bent over her bare wrist and her lips parted, her heart thrumming madly in her chest as his mouth grazed her pulse, his kiss both comforting and devastating at once. Once she did manage to withdraw her hand from his she was dazed, her head spinning and her pulse beating wildly under the tingling skin of her wrist.
Could he even be called a rake at all?
Georgiana hardly knew how to think of him now, but she knew she would think of him, long after he’d taken her home tonight. She’d lie in her bed and remember his whispers, the hot brush of his lips against her skin.
If Benedict noticed her agitation, he didn’t remark on it. His hand was warm and firm around hers as he handed her from the carriage, his arm reassuringly steady under her trembling fingertips as he escorted her to the entrance of Lady Archer’s townhouse.
“Good evening, Lord Haslemere.” Lady Archer’s butler, a somber-looking fellow in a royal blue coat with sumptuous gold-braiding on the cuffs, ushered them into a grand entryway with black marble floors and blazing chandeliers hanging in matched pairs from the ceiling.
No soft, comforting glow for Lady Archer, but a hard, bright light pouring down onto the unsuspecting heads below until it was absorbed into the pit of black marble under their feet.
Oh, dear. Lord Haslemere was right. It was quite the ugliest marble Georgiana had ever seen, and no matter which way she turned, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a gilt pier glass.
She looked…strange. Pale, but with burning eyes and bright spots of color in her cheeks. Was she feverish? She started to lift her hand to her cheek, but Lord Haslemere caught it and lowered it to his forearm.
“I can feel you trembling.” His voice was low, and his warm breath stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple. “I thought we agreed there’s no need for you to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” It wasn’t a lie. Whatever nerves still lingered after those moments alone in the car
riage with him were gone, but the delicate blue vein at her wrist was still throbbing, as if clamoring for his mouth. “What makes you think I’m nervous?”
Nerves weren’t the reason her knees were weak, or tiny shivers were chasing each other over her skin. It wasn’t nerves causing the warm, melting sensation in her lower belly, or the dizzying flutter of her heart against her ribs.
It was him, and he’d only kissed her wrist. If he ever kissed her mouth, she’d likely swoon. Georgiana couldn’t tell if she found the thought titillating, or terrifying.
“If you’re not nervous, why are you squeezing my arm so tightly you’re about to tear my coat sleeve to shreds?” He smiled down at her.
“Oh.” Georgiana glanced down, saw her knuckles had turned white, and loosened her fingers. “I beg your par—”
“Lord Haslemere, you naughty thing!”
Georgiana turned, her eyes widening as a plump lady in a bright green satin gown bore down on them, her hands outstretched. She was half-smothered in diamonds and emeralds, and she wore such enormously tall blue and green peacock feathers they threatened to touch the candles set into the chandelier and set the whole arrangement ablaze.
“My dear Lord Haslemere!” the lady gushed. “Why, what extraordinary luck, to find you here this evening. It’s been an age, has it not?”
“Good evening, Lady Trowbridge.” Lord Haslemere took the lady’s hand and raised it to his lips in a gesture so gallant Lady Trowbridge, who couldn’t be a day under sixty years of age, succumbed to a girlish giggle.
“Ah, charming as ever, I see, you wicked man. Have you come for Lady Wylde? I saw her just a moment ago, at a table with your friend, the Earl of Harrington.” Lady Trowbridge’s merry brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “He’s caught you out there, I’m afraid.”
Lord Haslemere chuckled. “Not as much as you might imagine, my lady. May I introduce you to my friend, Miss Georgiana?”
He didn’t give her last name, but Lady Trowbridge didn’t seem to notice. “How do you do, my dear?” Her shrewd gaze swept over Georgiana with undisguised interest. “Friend, is she? She’s not in your usual style, Haslemere. Pretty all the same, though.”
Not in his usual style? Dear God, did Lady Trowbridge think she was—
“Do you play, my dear?” Lady Trowbridge waved her fan toward the back of the house, setting her peacock feathers quivering.
Georgiana glanced over Lady Trowbridge’s shoulder and saw the doors between the rooms had been thrown open and crowded with tables and dainty gilt chairs upholstered in red satin. Aristocrats of every age, size, and description were perched atop them, chattering like monkeys and flirting, gossiping, and tossing cards about with wild abandon.
Goodness, what a spectacle. Even from here, the din was deafening. It put Georgiana in mind of one of the battle reenactments at Astley’s Amphitheater, but less entertaining, and with a greater likelihood of bloodshed.
“You look positively terrified, you poor thing.” Lady Trowbridge tapped Georgiana’s arm with her fan. “It is a bit of a crush tonight, but I daresay we can squeeze you in somewhere.”
“I, ah…I’m afraid I don’t know how to play, my lady.”
Lady Trowbridge gave her a blank look, as if Georgiana were speaking in another language. “You mean to say you’ve never played faro?”
Georgiana shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not.”
Lady Trowbridge’s eyes went wide. “What, never? Why, how perfectly charming you are! Wherever did you find such a sweet little thing, Haslemere? I’m quite mad for her already.”
Lord Haslemere gave an indulgent laugh, and Georgiana glanced up at him to find him looking down at her with a fond expression that must surely be feigned. “You can’t expect me to tell my secrets, my lady, but perhaps you’d like to join us at a table? You can tutor Miss Georgiana on the play.”
“I shall, indeed. Someone must take care of her, and you’re a shamelessly negligent attendant. Come along, my dear.” Lady Trowbridge linked arms with Georgiana. “You’re sure to enjoy yourself. What could be more delightful than squandering Lord Haslemere’s money?”
Georgiana didn’t quite know what to say to that, but she let herself be led toward the back of the house. The air grew thicker and the buzz of conversation louder as they neared the drawing room. It was disorienting. Georgiana, who’d never been fond of crowds, stumbled a bit, but Lord Haslemere pressed a strong, reassuring hand to the middle of her back to steady her as they made their way toward a table in the corner.
“It’s terribly warm, is it not, my dear? I’m parched.” Lady Trowbridge plopped herself down in one of the gilt chairs and fluttered her fan vigorously in front of her face. “Fetch us some champagne, won’t you, Haslemere? There’s a dear boy.”
Georgiana perched on the edge of the red satin chair Lord Haslemere secured for her. Directly across from her a gentleman presided over a green baize board with two rows of cards arranged by suit spread across the top, some with neat piles of chips placed in front of them.
“That gentleman there is the banker. You, my dear, are a punter, or more simply put, a player.” Lady Trowbridge twittered on, pointing out different aspects of the game and explaining how to place a wager. Georgiana nodded politely, but one sharp glance had been enough for her not only to see how the game was played, but to calculate the odds of winning or losing on each turn of the cards.
She hadn’t lied to Lady Trowbridge—she’d never played faro before—but it was a game of numbers, much like every other card game. It was not, however, a particularly complicated game, nor was it a game of chance.
Not for anyone who could count, that is.
“Your chips, my dear.” Lord Haslemere reached over Georgiana’s shoulder, placed a tall pile of chips to one side of her place and a sparkling glass of champagne on the other, and took the opportunity to murmur in her ear. “I’ll keep an eye out for Lady Archer while you play. Do make an effort not to lose my fortune, won’t you?”
Georgiana heard the smile in his voice, and her own lips curved in response. “I make no promises, my lord.”
He straightened, chuckling, and said little from that point on, leaving her to the tender ministrations of Lady Trowbridge, but he never stirred from behind her chair, and she was acutely aware of him there, very close, the heat from his long, lean body teasing her senses.
Georgiana didn’t anticipate getting much pleasure from the game, but between Lord Haslemere’s strong, tantalizing presence at her back, Lady Trowbridge’s endless stream of entertaining nonsense, and the cool, delicious tickle of the champagne on her tongue, it wasn’t long before she was having a perfectly lovely time.
And then, of course, there were the cards.
She didn’t have fond memories of her time spent on the London streets, yet Georgiana couldn’t deny playing at cards was a bit like seeing an old friend again—a friend as accommodating now as it had ever been.
The trouble was, once one knew how to count cards, one couldn’t not count them, particularly when the banker was marking each card off on an abacus it was played. Georgiana couldn’t understand it. It was almost as if they were inviting her to cheat.
How was it that aristocrats lost entire fortunes at this game?
“My goodness, Miss Georgiana, you’re doing very well for yourself,” Lady Trowbridge exclaimed as the chips on the table in front of Georgiana continued to grow. “How lucky you are!”
“It isn’t luck, is it?” Lord Haslemere whispered the words directly into her ear, his voice low and dark and amused. Georgiana went still but for a deep shiver at that seductive whisper, the faint, intoxicating scent of peppermint lingering on his skin.
She’d always had a weakness for peppermints.
“No one would ever guess how wicked you are, would they? Not with those innocent eyes of yours.” His soft laugh wasn’t so much a sound as
a breath, the warm rush of it against her ear making her quiver. “But I know your secret, Georgiana.”
Georgiana gripped the edge of the table to steady herself, dazed at the powerful tug of desire in her lower belly. Dear God, he wasn’t even touching her, but his seductive whisper made her nerve endings spark, made the fine hairs on her neck rise, made her as dizzy as if she’d drank a half-dozen glasses of champagne.
“So clever, aren’t you, princess?” He crooned, a silken whisper in her ear. “Such a clever, wicked lady.”
* * * *
He didn’t touch her. He wanted to—wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything—but he didn’t dare.
He imagined it as he stood there behind her, inhaling her scent, taking it inside himself in one rough breath after the next, his gaze on her hands, the fingertips of her gloves damp with condensation as she toyed with the stem of her champagne glass.
Imagined touching her…
In some strange, fevered dream he saw himself leaning over her, opening his mouth against her smooth, pale neck, teasing the loose tendrils there with his tongue, sinking his hands into her hair, plucking out her pins one by one until the soft, thick locks spilled into his palms, and he drew her head gently back so he could take her lips…
A low, frustrated groan rumbled in his chest. Good Lord, what was happening to him? He hadn’t even touched her, but he’d never been more aroused in his life.
He was shaking with desire, drowning in it—
“Well, Lord Haslemere, here you are at last. I’d begun to believe you’d remain in Surrey forever. What a delight to have you back in London again.”
Benedict tore his gaze from the back of Georgiana’s neck to find Lady Archer at his elbow, an amused smile on her lips. “How do you do, Lady Archer? It’s a pleasure to see you.”
She pouted as he raised her hand to his lips. “Is it really, my lord? If I hadn’t spoken to you, I doubt you would have noticed me at all.”
Benedict let his lips linger just a touch too long on her glove. “That would be impossible, my lady. Why would I have come tonight at all, except to see you?”
