by Anna Bradley
Georgiana turned to look, curious to see the house, and also relieved to have an excuse to look away from Lord Haslemere, who was being altogether too charming for her liking. They were traveling down a rutted country road lined on both sides with a hedge so thick it was difficult to see beyond it, but after a moment she caught a fleeting glimpse of a corner of a stone manor house. “Yes, I think I see…”
She trailed off with a gasp as they came to a slight gap in the hedge, and the whole of Cliveden House in all its breathtaking splendor appeared in the valley below them, like a warm, honey-colored jewel set into endless rolling acres of verdant green. “Oh,” she breathed, raising her hand to her mouth. “It’s magnificent.”
Indeed, Georgiana found it difficult to tear her gaze away from it. She’d never seen a house so grand as this one. It was enormous, seeming to sprawl from one end of the valley to the other, and even from here she could see a patchwork of formal gardens and walkways branching out from the main house.
“Is your own estate anything like it?” She knew, of course, that gentlemen of rank had handsome country estates—everyone in England knew that—but it had never occurred to her to wonder what one might be like.
“Haslemere House is a monstrous old pile of rocks.” Benedict chuckled. “Damp, and the eastern roof leaks every winter, at least half a dozen of the fireplaces bellow smoke, and the glazing seems to require constant repair. But I’m rather fond of it, despite its many quirks. I find I spend more time there than London these days. I imagine I’ll give up on London entirely at some point, and spend all my time in Surrey, rusticating.”
“You’d give up all your London frolics in favor of country living? You shock me, my lord. Whatever will London do without you?” Georgiana smiled to take any sting out of her words, but in truth, she really was shocked.
He laughed. “There are only so many footraces a man can run before he becomes bored of them, Georgiana.”
“But you’re…” Georgiana found she had no idea how to explain what she wished to say, and lapsed into silence.
Benedict raised an expectant eyebrow at her. “Yes? What am I?”
“You’re…you’re Lord Haslemere,” Georgiana replied, then immediately felt foolish. He knew he was Lord Haslemere, for pity’s sake. What she meant was, he was a darling of the ton, the upper ten thousand’s most beloved rake, pursued by the most beautiful belles in the city, and flattered by everyone else. “I would think it would be quite satisfying, to be you.”
She hadn’t really given much thought to it before, but over the last few days she’d begun to consider the enormous power a man like Lord Haslemere commanded. She’d been in the habit of thinking of fashionable rogues like him as rather useless people, but…
She glanced back down at Cliveden House. An estate of this size would have hundreds of tenant farmers working the land, all of whom depended on the lord to ensure their livelihood. It was a staggering level of responsibility.
“I think Haslemere House must be lovely, my lord.” She hesitated as she sneaked a glance at him. “But perhaps rather lonely.”
He’d been looking past her at Cliveden House nestled into the valley below, but now his gaze shifted to her face. His eyes held hers as he murmured, “I confess I don’t fancy rusticating on my own, but perhaps someday I can persuade someone to come live at Haslemere House with me.”
Long, silent moments passed, then Benedict cleared his throat and looked away. “High Wycombe isn’t far now. We’ll have a warm fire and a bed soon enough.”
He said no more, but turned his attention back to the road, leaving Georgiana to attempt to hide her blush as she contemplated his singular use of the word bed.
She’d never been to Lord Gray’s hunting box, never mind the gamekeeper’s cottage, but Sophia had mentioned once the hunting box was at the western edge of the property, and the cottage nearby, half-hidden among a forest of towering old trees. Once they arrived it took a bit of poking about to find it, but they stumbled across it eventually.
“We’ll be safe here from the duke’s men, that much is certain.” Benedict leapt down from the curricle and offered her his hand. “No one will think to look for us here.”
Georgiana let him help her down and surveyed the cottage, her hands on her hips. It was square and small, made of dark stone with a thatched roof, and with a thick chimney made of the same stone. “It’s not the sort of place you’d come across by accident, is it?”
“No. One would have to know it was here to find it.” Benedict peered through the window, then turned back to her with a shrug. “I hope you’re fond of rusticating. It appears sound enough, but not extravagant.”
“I don’t need extravagances.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Miss Harley, because you won’t find any.” His dark eyes twinkled at her. “What it lacks in charm, it makes up for in dust. I saw a cobweb in there bigger than my fist.”
Georgiana marched to the door. “I’m not afraid of spiders, Lord Haslemere.”
“Good, then you can protect me from them. I detest the things.”
Georgiana couldn’t help but smile at his exaggerated shudder. Really, he was the most teasing man she’d ever come across. Endearing, though, with that boyish grin on his lips. “How shall we get inside?”
Benedict strode across the narrow dirt drive, put his shoulder to the door, and gave it a good shove. It opened with a creaky groan, and he turned to Georgiana with an elegant bow. “After you, madam.”
Georgiana peeked through the doorway. The air inside was stale and musty, and there were a shocking number of cobwebs, just as Lord Haslemere had said, but it was a cozy space for all that, with a massive stone fireplace at one end, flagstone floors covered with a threadbare carpet, and low, beamed ceilings. A few thick logs rested on the hearth, and several chairs were scattered about. A rough-hewn wood table stood near a grimy window, and a bed with a patchwork quilt was pushed against one wall.
Only one bed, but to Georgiana’s relief, she spotted a set of narrow wooden stairs leading to a second floor. The bedchambers must be up there. “I’ll just have a look upstairs.”
She crossed the room, pausing at the bottom of the staircase. The first step appeared sound. The second and third steps let out protesting squeaks when she put her weight on them, but they were steady enough. The real trouble began when she ventured onto the fourth step, which let out a menacing crack under her foot.
That was when she realized her mistake.
“Georgiana, wait.”
She froze, but by then it was too late. The step shuddered and then splintered under her foot, upsetting her balance. “Oh!” Her arms pinwheeled as she struggled to stay upright, but between her skirts and the disintegrating steps, it was hopeless. She squeezed her eyes shut as she fell backward and braced herself for a bone-rattling thud.
But it never came.
She heard Benedict shout her name, then there was an explosion of movement behind her, and instead of the flagstone floor rushing up to meet her backside, his muscular arms closed around her, and his hard chest appeared under her palms.
“It’s all right. I’ve got you.” He was short of breath, not from exertion but from alarm, for he lifted her easily, carrying her down the stairs and depositing her carefully on the edge of the bed. He crouched in front of her, his concerned eyes on her face. “Are you all right?”
Georgiana stared into those lovely, melting dark eyes, so close to her own, and for a single, breathtaking moment she wanted nothing more than to tuck herself against him and feel his arms around her again. “I…yes. Quite all right. Thank you, my lord.”
“Perhaps we’d better not venture upstairs again.”
Georgiana nodded, her heart still pounding, though she couldn’t have said whether it was from the near fall, or from those few brief, glorious moments she’d been in his arms.
“
That, ah…that leaves us with only one bed.” Benedict glanced around the room, as if he could conjure another bed simply by force of will alone, then returned his gaze to hers, his throat moving in a swallow. “I’ll sleep in one of the chairs.”
Georgiana opened her mouth to tell him they could each take a side and share the bed, but then she closed it again without a word. Sharing a bed had seemed like a harmless enough idea last night, but he’d nearly broken his neck to get away from her this morning.
No, she couldn’t go through that again. So, she swallowed her words and nodded. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea, Lord Haslemere.”
From now on, it was best if they kept their distance.
Chapter Eighteen
When Benedict woke the following day, his neck was stiff and his back cramped from sleeping on the chair all night. If it hadn’t been for that—well, that and the Duke of bloody Kenilworth trying to kill them—it would have been the most pleasurable morning of his life.
He opened his eyes to the soft sound of Georgiana’s deep, even breaths, and raised himself up onto his elbow, hoping to steal a peek at her face before she awoke. He was treated to a delicious glimpse of her long eyelashes resting on her flushed cheeks, and her loose, mahogany-brown waves spread in wild disarray across the pillow.
Benedict let out a sigh and flopped dramatically onto his back, like every lovelorn fool before him. It wasn’t the first morning he’d woken with a lovely lady in his bedchamber, but it was the first time his chest pinched with longing and despair as it did now.
He’d never felt about any of the others the way he did about Georgiana Harley.
She wasn’t a distraction, nor was his attraction to her a passing thing, sure to pall with familiarity. When they’d paused to look down on Cliveden House yesterday, he’d pictured Haslemere House in his head. He’d imagined bringing Georgiana there with him, leading her from room to room, and showing her all the private corners and nooks he’d taken such delight in when he’d wandered those halls as a child.
That had never happened before. He’d never even considered bringing a lady to Haslemere House, but kept his liaisons confined to the London townhouse. Now here he was, wishing he could fling open the front doors of his most sacred place and reveal everything about himself to her.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Or about her. He couldn’t have her. Even if they did find Clara Beauchamp and learned the duke’s secret, there was no way of knowing how the discovery would affect Freddy and Jane. As long as they remained in England, the duke had complete control over them. If the only way to keep them out of Kenilworth’s clutches was to leave England, then that’s what he would do.
North America perhaps, or—
“Benedict?”
He turned his head, warmth flooding through him at her soft murmur, his Christian name on her lips. “I’m here.”
The coverlet rustled as she shifted in the bed. “What time is it?”
He fumbled for his pocket watch and flipped open the lid. “Early still. Go back to sleep, sweet—go back to sleep, Georg—er, Miss Harley.”
She let out a little sigh that went straight to his cock. “It’s not yet calling hours?”
Benedict chuckled. “Are we observing calling hours? Given we’re sneaking through the forest to pay a secret visit to Draven, I thought we might dispense with the proprieties.”
“Well, let’s see.” Georgiana rolled from her back to her side to face him. “We’ve kidnapped a duchess and her son, stolen a duke’s carriage, and you’ve assaulted his coachman and footmen. So yes, I suppose there’s no point in fussing over a call.”
“No, especially since we may be forced to break down Draven’s door to gain admittance to him. Something tells me he won’t be pleased to find us on his doorstep. If he’s even conscious, that is.”
“Poor Lord Draven.” She was quiet for a moment. “What if he isn’t conscious, or is, but sends us away without speaking to us? I suppose we’ll have to quiz the servants then, though I don’t know how far that will get us, as most of them have only been in Lord Draven’s service since the attack.”
“Not far. We’ll just have to hope Draven has regained consciousness and is willing to talk to us. I’ve no doubt he knows Kenilworth’s secrets. If we want to find them out, we have to move quickly, before Kenilworth has a chance to organize his men.” Benedict heaved himself up from the chair, wincing as he stretched his cramped muscles, then padded across the cold flagstone floors to the door of the cottage. “Are you hungry?”
As if on cue, her stomach let out an insistent growl that made him grin, and her cheeks flush. “Why, are you preparing breakfast, my lord?”
“Certainly not. I haven’t the first idea how to do so. I did, however, have the foresight to request provisions from Madame Célestine.” He disappeared through the front door, and returned a few moments later bearing a large hamper. “Here we are.”
Georgiana blinked at it, then struggled upright in the bed. “My goodness. I’m impressed, my lord.”
“I don’t fancy starving in the woods.” Benedict was busy unloading the hamper as he spoke, but he watched from the corner of his eye as Georgiana swung her legs over the side of the bed and approached the table. She’d slept in her dress again the previous night, and her long hair was tumbling over her shoulders in a ripple of unruly waves. “What shall I serve you?”
“Hmmm. If you’re offering to serve me my breakfast in bed, Lord Haslemere, perhaps I’ll return to it.”
A shy smile crossed her delectable lips, and Benedict was assailed with a vivid image of the two of them lying in bed together while he fed her the choicest morsels from the hamper. It was too tempting to resist. “If you wish me to serve you in bed, princess, I will. What will you have first?”
“Hmm. Fresh strawberries? Warm scones with clotted cream? Hot tea, or…no, I think I prefer chocolate.” Her lips curved in a teasing smile. “Surely you have all that there, my lord?”
Benedict swallowed, and returned to rummaging through the hamper to keep himself from staring at her mouth. “No, but I did ask for…ah, here it is. I believe I owe you a jar of preserves, Miss Harley?” He held the jar aloft triumphantly, quite pleased with himself, but to his surprise she looked taken aback. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no. I’m just…amazed you thought of the debacle with the preserves.” She flushed, then looked away.
“How could I not? My valet was in despair over the sticky mess it left on my evening shoes. He grumbles every time he looks at them.” Benedict spoke lightly, but when Georgiana still avoided his gaze, he lowered the jar of preserves to the table with a defeated thud. “I don’t understand, Georgiana. I thought you’d be pleased, but you seem upset.”
“No, no. That is, I am pleased. Indeed, it’s a kind gesture on your part. I just didn’t think…”
“Didn’t think I was kind?” He gave her a half smile even as he hoped that wasn’t what she’d been about to say. He had dozens of flaws, but he’d never been accused of unkindness before.
She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I mean. I just never imagined you’d paid much mind to the…preserves.”
She said “preserves,” but it wasn’t what she meant. This wasn’t about the bloody preserves. What she meant was she hadn’t imagined he’d paid much mind to her. How incredible she should think so, when he’d thought of nothing but her since he’d returned to London—
No, that wasn’t true. His preoccupation with Georgiana Harley had started before that.
She’d haunted him since he’d first laid eyes on her.
The truth was, it had started in Maiden Lane, when she’d emerged from the darkness like an avenging angel, her tongue sharpened to a fine edge and wearing that damned brown cloak and the ridiculous hat she used to hide under. Only it hadn’t been enough, that hat. He’d seen beyond her
disguise, had noticed the vulnerable curve of her lower lip, the slight shake of her hands when she’d delivered him a set-down he wouldn’t soon forget.
He’d seen her. Once he had, he couldn’t unsee her, and now…now he could see nothing but her. The smooth, creamy skin that made his mouth water to kiss, to taste, and the rich brown tresses his fingertips itched to caress. Her slender curves, so sweet, that fit into his hands so perfectly, as if she were made just for him, and her hazel eyes, that flicker of temper in their depths he’d grown to crave, replaced now with a softness he’d never seen in them before.
Benedict cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I’m fond of…preserves. Perhaps you didn’t realize how fond I am of…preserves.”
Christ, was he talking to her about preserves?
If Georgiana thought it odd, she didn’t say so. “Oh, yes. Preserves are…” Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “Irresistible. The sweetness, you know, and the, ah…the pleasing thickness on one’s tongue.”
Her husky murmur, the unbearable eroticism of hearing the word tongue on her lips—Benedict’s eyes slid closed as he prayed for strength. When he opened them again, her gaze had dropped to his mouth.
A groan tore from his chest, but he didn’t kiss her lips. He wanted to—God, how he wanted to—but they were alone in a cottage half-buried among the trees. It was a great deal of privacy for an amorous gentleman like himself. One kiss would lead to another, then another, and then…
No. He wouldn’t think about it.
He leaned toward her, and pressed as chaste a kiss as he could manage on her forehead. Then he stepped back, and busied himself with unpacking the remainder of their provisions from the hamper. “Since we both dote on preserves, shall we have some?”
* * * *
Georgiana had expected they’d leave for Lord Draven’s estate as soon as they’d finished their breakfast, but Benedict kept them in the cottage until the bright morning light had waned, so there was less of a chance they’d be detected moving through the forest.
