The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere

by Anna Bradley

  Georgiana jerked her head up, nearly sagging with relief when Lord Haslemere’s dark eyes met hers.

  “Ah, Haslemere. Here you are at last.” The duke tossed the chip in his hand back on the table. “I thought perhaps you’d gone.”

  “Gone? Come, Kenilworth. Do you think I’d leave without collecting my treasure?” Benedict nodded at the table in front of Georgiana, but the way he curled a proprietary hand around her waist made it clear he wasn’t referring to the wager.

  “Quite a treasure, indeed. I admire you, Haslemere. You’ve accomplished a great deal in just a few short days. You’ve only just arrived in London, and here you are with a pile of coins in front of you and a new chère amie on your arm.”

  “No sense in wasting time, is there?” Benedict shrugged, but his fingers tightened in warning on Georgiana’s waist.

  “No, indeed. But I’m sure your sister told me you intended to remain in Surrey for the season. What brings you to London?”

  “Boredom, primarily. There’s only so much rusticating a man can do before he goes mad, Kenilworth. I confess I didn’t have much hope for London, either, but I find myself pleasantly surprised at the company this season.”

  “I see that. How odd, though, that I don’t recall ever having seen Miss Georgiana’s face before.”

  The duke was smiling as his gaze swept over Georgiana, but his tone wasn’t quite friendly, and Georgiana couldn’t suppress a shudder at the shard of ice in his voice. Those cold, narrowed gray eyes seemed to see everything, to peel away everything one wished to hide, their secrets and lies and sins, like peeling flesh from the bone.

  “My dear, may I present the Duke of Kenilworth?”

  If Kenilworth heard the reluctance in Benedict’s voice, he did an admirable job of pretending he hadn’t. “Oh, we’ve met already, much to my pleasure.” The duke seized Georgiana’s hand and bowed over it.

  “Your Grace.” Georgiana fixed a smile on her lips, but the duke’s grip was tighter than it needed to be, and it was an effort not to snatch her hand away.

  In a thousand years, Georgiana could never have predicted what would happen next, and it passed so quickly it was over before she realized it had begun. She felt Benedict go rigid beside her, and the next thing she knew his long fingers closed around her wrist, and he tugged her toward him until she was nearly sprawled in his lap.

  “A trifle possessive, are we, Haslemere?” The duke released her hand and turned his attention to Benedict, Georgiana wholly forgotten. “She’s lovely. Wherever did you find her?”

  “Lady Wylde’s masque ball.” He raised Georgiana’s hand to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss to her gloved knuckles. “Quite a successful evening all around.”

  “For everyone but Lady Wylde, yes.” The duke studied Benedict for another moment, his gaze speculative, then his lips stretched in a cool smile. “But she has a new admirer in Lord Harrington, so it seems she’s landed on her feet, as all cats do.”

  Benedict didn’t appear to have anything to say in reply to that, and a heavy silence fell between them until the duke rose to his feet and offered Georgiana a bow. “Have a pleasant evening, Miss Georgiana. I trust I’ll see you again very soon.”

  The duke nodded at them, then turned and made his way across the room, pausing once or twice to greet acquaintances. They waited until the duke had disappeared into another room before Benedict caught Georgiana’s hand and tugged her away from the faro table. “Collect your winnings, Georgiana. We’re leaving.”

  “No. Not yet.” Georgiana spoke through gritted teeth, that frozen smile still pasted to her lips. “He’s likely still watching us. It will look suspicious if we flee the moment he’s out of sight. Another game, and then we’ll go.”

  Benedict dropped into the chair beside her without a word, but all Georgiana’s pleasure in the play had evaporated. Her chest was tight, and she was no longer able to concentrate on the cards. The pile of coins in front of her shrank as she lost one hand, then another, until Benedict lost patience, and with a low grumble snatched her hand and hurried her through the crowded rooms and out to the pavement, where Grigg was waiting for them.

  * * * *

  Benedict handed Georgiana into the carriage, threw himself onto the bench beside her, and slammed his fist against the roof with enough violence to make her jump.

  Damn it. He never should have agreed to let Georgiana accompany him to Lady Archer’s this evening. He’d been a fool to let her talk him into it. He didn’t like the way Kenilworth had looked at her, and he didn’t like the way he’d touched her. The second the duke lay a hand on her, Benedict had envisioned, in lurid and realistic detail, ripping the man’s arm from his body.

  Until tonight, he would have said he knew Kenilworth well, but the man they’d left just now—the man who’d grabbed Georgiana, and seemed to take pleasure in frightening her—he didn’t know that man at all.

  London was overflowing with scoundrels, but Benedict had never heard any ugly rumors about the duke. His Grace didn’t engage in any of the usual aristocratic sins and foibles that characterized so many gentlemen of the ton. He didn’t drink, wager, or keep mistresses. There’d never been as much as a whisper against him, and this was London, where everyone was always whispering about everyone else. The man had a spotless reputation.

  Too spotless.

  Every single aristocrat in London had felt the sharp edge of the gossip’s tongues. Everyone, that is, but Kenilworth. Benedict had never thought it suspicious before, but after his conversation with Lady Archer and that disturbing scene with Georgiana, he couldn’t help but wonder if he ever truly knew the duke at all.

  “Do you think he believed we’re…do you suppose the duke believes I’m your mistress?” Georgiana asked, once Grigg closed the door and they were tucked into the carriage and waiting in the queue to turn onto St. James’s Street.

  “No.” Benedict didn’t see any point in pretending. Kenilworth’s suspicion had been plain enough.

  Georgiana was quiet for a moment, then she muttered, “No. I don’t imagine he did. Lady Trowbridge seemed to accept it readily enough, but she’s an elderly lady. The duke is too worldly to believe such an unlikely story.”

  Benedict was peering out the window, but the strange inflection in her voice made him abandon his watch and turn toward her. “What do you mean? Why shouldn’t he believe it?”

  She frowned at him. “You just said yourself he didn’t believe it.”

  He had said so, but not, he suspected, for the same reason she did. “I know why I think he wouldn’t believe it. I want to know why you think so.”

  “Well, why do you think he didn’t believe it?”

  “Because Kenilworth was likely suspicious of us before he arrived at Lady Archer’s tonight. Bagshaw will have told him all about our visit to Jane this morning, and Bagshaw, curse him, has a talent for embellishment. After Bagshaw bent his ear, Kenilworth was bound to be skeptical of anything we said. Why do you think it?”

  “Well, because I’m not…I don’t look…” Georgiana waved her hand over herself, as if it clarified everything. “I don’t look like a mistress.”

  What the devil did that mean? “Just what do you suppose a mistress looks like, Georgiana?”

  She blinked. “Well, I don’t know, exactly. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one before. I just mean I don’t look like the sort of lady who’d have a protector.”

  Benedict made an impatient noise in his throat. “I don’t see why not.”

  She laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. “Oh, come now, my lord. I’m nothing like Lady Wylde, am I?”

  Lady Wylde? What did Lady Wylde have to do with anything?

  After struggling through an hour of the woman’s tiresome company this morning, Benedict could no longer recall why he’d ever considered making her his mistress. The red lips, the fluttering e
yelashes, the exposed bosom—it was like hanging thick wallpaper over flaking, cracked plaster. Cracks tended to make themselves known, sooner or later.

  Sooner, in Lady Wylde’s case.

  “No, you’re nothing at all like Lady Wylde.” And thank God for it. Lady Wylde’s voice alone was enough to curdle the blood of a saint, and Benedict was no saint.

  “Well, then.” Georgiana straightened her shoulders, her tone brisk. “We’re in agreement. Only a certain type of lady stirs a gentleman’s amorous inclinations, and I’m—”

  “Amorous inclinations?” Where had he heard that phrase before? It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite recall where he’d…

  Damn it. The first pangs of anger flickered in Benedict’s belly as it dawned on him what she meant.

  Those ladies who don’t excite your amorous inclinations must be governesses.

  “Are you saying, Georgiana,” he asked through clenched teeth, “that you think you’re the sort of lady a gentleman wouldn’t want for his mistress?”

  Her eyes widened at his tone. “Are you angry?”

  “That depends,” Benedict gritted, his jaws grinding together. “Are you, or are you not, saying you think you couldn’t attract a protector?”

  She drew herself up with a sniff. “I don’t see why you’re falling into a temper over it. After all, you mistook me for a governess the first time we—”

  “No, I didn’t. You said I looked like the sort of gentleman who thought every woman I didn’t want to bed must be a governess, and I said—”

  Georgiana gasped. “You’re mad! I never said a word about anyone bedding anyone else!”

  “And I said there was nothing wrong with governesses, and you said the fault didn’t lie with the governesses, but with me, and then I asked why you thought I wouldn’t want to make you my mistress!”

  She blinked. “I think I’ve lost the thread of this conversation.”

  “Damn it, Georgiana. How much champagne did you have? I asked why you think Kenilworth wouldn’t believe you’re my mistress, and the next I know you’re spouting some nonsense about Lady Wylde!”

  She jerked her head toward him, startled by his vehemence. “There’s no need to become so agitated, my lord. I only meant there are a great many beautiful faces and figures for the gentlemen of London to choose from. Lady Wylde, for instance—”

  “Devil take Lady Wylde! A man can’t walk down a street in London without stumbling over a dozen women just like her. There’s nothing special in Lady Wylde, whereas you, you’re…”

  What? Benedict trailed off into silence as he struggled to come up with words that might encompass the entirety of who she was, and found he couldn’t do it. Georgiana Harley was so many things, each one more surprising than the last, and all of it wrapped up in the most brilliant, alluring package.

  Clever? Yes, she was clever, but it wasn’t only that. He’d known clever women before. Ill-tempered? Yes, she was that, too. An unwilling smile tugged at his lips at the thought of her sharp tongue, but there was more to it than that. There must be, otherwise he wouldn’t find her so endearing.

  As for her appearance…Benedict stared at her, the desire simmering in his belly rushing to the surface, stealing his breath, and sending a surge of hot blood to his cock.

  The intelligence in her eyes, the way they couldn’t decide if they were green or gray or brown, but changed with her moods and the light and the colors she wore. Her hair, those strands of gold hidden like buried treasure in the thick waves, and the smooth, creamy skin she didn’t seem to realize was a temptation, luring his fingertips, making him ache to touch her, and her mouth, those sweet, plump pink lips hiding that tart tongue…

  She was right about one thing—she was nothing like Lady Wylde, who was interchangeable with every other dark-haired London beauty. No, Georgiana was far more tempting, with a unique beauty that was wrapped up in everything else about her, and wholly her own.

  She was gaping at him, her eyes wide with shock. “I don’t understand why you’re arguing the point with me, Benedict. You just said yourself the duke knew we were lying about my being your mistress, so I don’t see what—”

  “Yes, but not because a man wouldn’t want to bed you!” Benedict’s anger was flaring to life again. “That’s bloody nonsense.”

  Georgiana crossed her arms over her chest with a huff. “Is this your idea of flattery, my lord? Because I assure you, I don’t need your empty praise, or—”

  “Not another word,” Benedict hissed through tight lips. “I’m warning you, Georgiana.”

  “How dare—”

  That was as far as she got, because Benedict seized her wrists, tugged her against his chest, and took her mouth with his.

  For the first few seconds, the kiss wasn’t so much an expression of desire as a battle of wills, with Georgiana determined to have her say, and Benedict just as determined to silence her.

  But then…then, somehow, her mouth softened under his, and his tongue found its way between those irresistible pink lips, and the kiss became something else entirely.

  Wild, passionate, a tiny spark busting into flames. He’d had a taste of it earlier, when he’d pressed his lips to the soft skin of her wrist and felt the wild flutter of her pulse under his tongue, but this…nothing could have prepared him for this.

  The seductive heat of her mouth, her plump lower lip caught between his teeth, and her breathy little moan as he sucked and nibbled her there. Her hands on his cheeks burned his skin, the scent of her hair dizzied him, the sensual stroke of her lips against his maddened him.

  In an instant he was hard for her, every inch of him aching to get closer, to have more of her. Her mouth was eager but hesitant, her tongue stroking his before darting shyly away again, and the tease only served to arouse him further. “Georgiana,” he whispered through strangled breaths, sinking his hands into her hair to still her for his mouth. “Let me…give me your mouth.”

  He’d felt the tug of desire in his belly before, had kissed dozens of women before her, had taken them to his bed, but no woman had ever affected him as she did. He couldn’t get close enough to her, couldn’t take her mouth deeply enough, and passion made him desperate.

  “Come here, princess.” He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her into his lap, a strangled groan escaping his lips when she sank against him without a moment’s hesitation. She was trembling in his arms, but not from fear.

  For him. She was trembling for him.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he whispered against her lips. “Yes, like that. Dear God, Georgiana, you feel so…”

  Perfect.

  The slender curves of her hips in his hands, the soft swell of her breasts against his chest, her hair spilling from its pins, the wayward strands teasing the narrow strip of bare flesh between his gloves and his coat sleeves—such a tiny, fleeting caress—but enough to drag a helpless moan from him.

  Dear God, if another part of their bare bodies ever touched, it might kill him.

  “Is this what a mistress does? Shamelessly kisses her protector in his carriage?”

  Benedict could hear the smile in her voice, and his own lips curved in response. “It’s a start.”

  Her fingernails stroked lightly over the back of his neck. “What else does she do?”

  “Ngh,” Benedict said, his eyes sliding shut. How did she know just how to touch him? She was an innocent, he was certain of it, but her shy, eager caresses were driving him mad. He arched his neck, begging without words for more of those tiny kisses. “Nughh.”

  She drew back, a shaky laugh slipping from her lips. “I didn’t quite understand you.”

  “Are you teasing me, princess?” Benedict breathed, regaining his wits with an effort. God, he loved this playful side to her, all the more delicious because he’d never expected it. She was so serious most of
the time, and kept such tight control over her emotions, but now she’d let herself go, she was reveling in her freedom.

  He wanted to see her like this always, with that little smile on her lips, and desire turning her eyes a warm golden brown.

  Benedict cupped her hips and dragged her closer, but resisted the temptation to thrust against her. He was as hard as iron, and he didn’t want to frighten her, but he kissed her everywhere. Her lips, over and over again. He pressed a tender kiss to her temple, then ran his tongue around the shell of her ear before sliding lower to nip and tease her earlobe, smiling when she gasped. Her hands twisted in his hair when he suckled at the tender skin of her throat, and she let out a soft cry when he buried his face between her neck and shoulder, sliding his lips over the sensitive arch there.

  By the time they came to a stop, they were both panting. Grigg, bless him, had turned down a side street instead of pulling directly in front of the school, likely in an effort to keep Brixton from tearing Benedict limb from limb if he happened to look out a window.

  Still, he had to stop now, before he gave into the temptation to take her back to his townhouse and take her to his bed. Benedict forced himself to release her and set her back in her seat, then he had to resist the urge to drag her right back again. “I think you’d better go, Georgiana.”

  She caught his hand in hers when he reached for the carriage door. “No, there’s no need to escort me.”

  He frowned. “I’m not going to drop you off on the street, Georgiana.”

  “It’s best this way. If Daniel sees you looking so disheveled, he’ll have your head.”

  “Humph. I told you before. I’m not worried about Brixton.”

  “Well, you should be.”

  Benedict tweaked one of her loose curls. “What about you? You look disheveled, as well.”

  “Yes, but my head is safe from Daniel.” She pressed one last quick kiss on his lips, then slid across the bench toward the door. Grigg was waiting to hand her out, but Benedict caught her elbow before she could slip away.

  “Wait.” He held her gaze as he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss into her palm. Even in the dim moonlight, he could see a surge of color rush into her cheeks. “Goodnight, Georgiana.”