The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  Xavier had easily secured Beckenham an invitation. Few hostesses would refuse admittance to an earl. Even fewer hostesses with marriageable daughters would turn away an unmarried earl.

  He wouldn’t be an unmarried earl for much longer. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  Chapter Seven

  For the first time that evening, Georgie felt the tension about her neck and shoulders ease the tiniest bit.

  She enjoyed dancing and tonight she’d chosen partners for their agility and grace. The waltz, so scandalous to the older generation, had surely been put on earth just for her. She thought of nothing but the dance.

  And if every time a tall, dark-haired gentleman entered the ballroom her heart skipped merrily into her throat, that was mere folly. Beckenham never attended society balls. He wouldn’t break any of his cast-iron rules for her.

  Drifting through the crowd at the conclusion of one of the sets, Georgie spied Lord Pearce. Quickly, she turned and headed in the opposite direction, trying not to appear as if she hurried. Drat her hair. He would spot her immediately.

  True to her prediction, Pearce caught up with her in the card room ten minutes later and bowed over her hand. “My dear Miss Black. Were you avoiding me?”

  “Why would I do that, sir?” She slipped her hand from his with more haste than politeness and moved away from him, ostensibly to watch the play.

  He followed, of course. “I’d hoped for a word with you alone.”

  “You won’t get it,” she said through her smiling teeth. “Good God, sir. Haven’t you done enough?”

  His voice hardened. “My dear Miss Black. I haven’t started yet.”

  Her stomach clenched with fear but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her distress. She lifted her chin and joined in the general murmur of approbation when Mr. Tilton won his hand at piquet.

  “Don’t you wonder why I’m back in England?” he said. “My aunt, bless her, is about to cock up her toes. My obscenely rich, horribly high-in-the-instep aunt.”

  “Indeed?” she said. “I would commiserate but I suspect you will be more likely to celebrate.”

  “Oh, yes. For she intends to leave her entire fortune to me.”

  She hissed out a breath but her tension wouldn’t ease. “I cannot conceive what interest you think I have in your fortunes.”

  He raised his eyebrows in gentle disbelief.

  After a pause, he said, “I’d always thought to return to see you comfortably wed with a gaggle of children around you. I am glad it is not so.”

  She stared at him incredulously. He didn’t have the unmitigated arrogance to believe she’d waited for him, did he?

  “You never did anything that smacked of the commonplace,” he added in a curiously husky tone. His gaze ran over her. “I thought you a pearl past price when you were eighteen. I’d never have guessed you’d grow even more ravishing with time.”

  She was too accustomed to flattery to blush and bridle at this sentiment. How like a man to think all he need do was praise a woman’s appearance for her to melt at his feet.

  “And yet, I fear I cannot return the compliment, Lord Pearce. You are quite dreadfully commonplace, you know.”

  Unperturbed, he said, “Oh, not commonplace, surely. Obvious, perhaps. Your beauty is so dazzling, my dear, no red-blooded male could fail to remark upon it.”

  Beckenham had not remarked upon it, she thought. And didn’t know whether to be resentful or grateful for the circumstance.

  Now she came to think of it, not even when she’d stood with Beckenham in that quiet, fraught bedchamber had he made one allusion to her appearance. Granted, she’d worn a mask, but the Marquis of Steyne hadn’t been so reticent a few minutes earlier, had he?

  Perhaps Beckenham didn’t admire her style of beauty. A lowering thought.

  “So solemn,” said that hateful, mocking voice. From the corner of her eye she saw Pearce draw his snuffbox from his pocket. “Are you afraid of me?”

  She sniffed. “You forget who bested whom in our last encounter, my lord.”

  He turned the snuffbox in his fingers. “I would rather call the result of that last contest a draw. And unlike you and my lord Beckenham, I have one last card to play.”

  The blood turned to ice water in her veins. How could she have overlooked that?

  “Yes, I see you remember.”

  The hard knot in her chest tightened. “You’d seek to ruin me.”

  “Not if you give me what I desire, my dear.”

  She forced herself to ask. “And what is that?”

  He laughed softly. “Now, now. Such things ought not to be rushed. All in good time.”

  He took a pinch of snuff and dusted his fingers. “I must compliment you on your charming sister, my dear.”

  So he had known who Violet was at that awful party! Georgie wasn’t controlled enough to conceal her reaction. “Stay away from her,” she hissed. “If you hurt her, I will make you wish you were never born.”

  “I was fortunate enough to meet Miss Violet at—” He tapped his lip thoughtfully. “Now, where was it again? Oh, yes, now I recall. It must have been in Promenade Grove. Or was it at Pavilion Parade, with that dragon of a maid of yours? A vast pity Miss Violet is not out yet. She will take the Ton by storm.”

  “I refuse to discuss my sister with the likes of you, my lord.”

  Georgie could barely move her lips. She felt as if she’d been sculpted from ice. She didn’t know whether to believe him ignorant of Violet’s presence at Steyne’s villa. Pearce was the sort of man who didn’t miss anything. The mere fact her sister’s name crossed his lips was an affront.

  Had he met Violet often in Brighton without Georgie’s knowledge? That could well be the case. Even though Violet wasn’t out in society, she went for walks with her friends and took part in harmless entertainments like picnics and day excursions with other young ladies and gentlemen of her age. All under strict chaperonage, of course.

  But she knew from experience how adept Pearce could be at eluding and confounding chaperones.

  The suspicion that he meant to use Violet to hurt her grew.

  He glanced around him at the card tables. “The play here is remarkably dull. Shall we return to the ballroom, my dear?”

  Georgie’s mind seethed with possibilities. What did Pearce want from her? If she knew that, she might discover how he meant to go about achieving his ends. If he still desired to wed her, he would not publish the letter. If he wanted something else—revenge, perhaps—he need have no such scruples.

  He held out his arm to her with smooth, confident expectation. She didn’t want to touch him but prudence forced her to comply. Laying her fingertips on his arm was like stroking a coiled viper.

  Pearce looked down at her with a glint in his eyes. “Smile like you mean it, dear Georgiana.”

  Gritting her teeth into the semblance of a smile, she replied, “May you rot in Hades, my lord.”

  He laughed as if she’d made some irresistible witticism. “Oh, undoubtedly. But I believe I shall enjoy myself considerably before I meet my fiery fate.”

  She had no doubt he’d enjoy himself by punishing her for what she’d done to him all those years ago. But if tonight’s conversation were anything to judge by, he intended to play with her first. He meant to take pleasure in a slow, drawn-out torture.

  Had she been stupid to give him that kind of power? At the time, she’d seen no alternative. She’d made her decision with nary a thought for herself.

  No, that wasn’t the case. She’d considered the consequences and decided she could bear any punishment Lord Pearce meted out.

  Now she would reap what her eighteen-year-old self had sown. Older and wiser, she was no longer certain she could bear such a bitter harvest.

  She could only guess what he intended, what her choices might be. Ruination, certainly. Marriage to Pearce. Or did he no longer care about wedding her, now that he was to inherit a fortune? Would he insist on taking h
er as his mistress instead?

  Worse than any of those unpalatable alternatives, did he mean to court Violet? Georgie knew—none better!—how beguiling Pearce could be.

  Perhaps, she thought, rather desperately, she might at least distract him from Violet. There was only one way she could think of to do that. She must let him get close to her again.

  And just when Beckenham … Beckenham.

  The thought of him stopped her heart. She could not allow him to be drawn into this mess a second time. History repeating itself with a vengeance.

  Thank God she’d refused him outright during their drive yesterday morning. When he pursued her so doggedly all day, she’d wavered. If only he’d court her properly, she’d thought. No, not court her. Woo her like a lover instead of treating her like a tiresome obligation.

  The hot spike of excitement she’d experienced when a panting Smith scurried into her bedchamber to tell her Beckenham was on his way in to see her bathe that evening had been deliciously intense. She liked flirting with Beckenham. She’d never been able to coax him into such risqué frivolity when they were betrothed.

  Perhaps, she’d said to herself, if he’d only bend, just a little … If she could see a way to make him fall in love with her …

  But now such wistful daydreams had been shattered by the hateful man beside her.

  Her pride raged at being obliged to endure his company a second longer than she wished. Over the past year or so, she’d become accustomed to ordering her life largely as she pleased, with no man to stymie her. No Papa, no Lord Beckenham. Even her trustees were easily handled. She had only to bat her lashes and smile and they would do whatever she wanted—within reason.

  Now she must submit to a more ruthless tyrant than any of them might have been. To think that once upon a time, she’d found Lord Pearce’s smooth dangerousness rather thrilling. Now he took on the grim, sadistic aspect of a jailer.

  Fortune did not favor her. As soon as they reentered the ballroom, the musicians struck up for the waltz.

  Without a word to her, Pearce slid an arm around her waist and drew her swiftly into the dance. As one who had the right.

  * * *

  As soon as he entered the ballroom, Beckenham’s gaze flew to Georgie like iron filings to a magnet. She was dancing with Pearce. Damn him to hell!

  “So it’s true our friend is back,” said Lydgate as if he’d read Beckenham’s mind. “Thought he’d never show his face again.”

  “You underestimated his gall.”

  Lydgate might be abreast of the latest news, but Beckenham had made his own inquiries about Pearce. The dog had returned to his kennel, all right. Hoping to get his hands on a sizable inheritance.

  After six years, it seemed everyone was prepared to forget Pearce’s transgression. At least until they knew whether he’d succeeded in securing his aunt’s fortune. Despite the veneer of gentility, the Ton was a venal, fickle lot.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about his aunt,” said Lydgate. “Rich as Croesus, so they say. Holed up in Bath on her deathbed, besieged by adoring relations.”

  Beckenham nodded. He didn’t care about Pearce’s prospects. He was far more interested in the way Georgie seemed to hang on Pearce’s every word.

  The years rolled back. He remembered other nights, in other ballrooms, where he’d propped himself against the wall, watching Georgie and Pearce waltz. All that raw emotion flooded back. He wanted to pummel the smiling villain into a bloody pulp.

  How dare he so much as speak to her? How dare he touch her hand?

  Beckenham had believed Georgie when she told him there was nothing between her and Pearce all those years ago. Now, watching them entertain each other, he began to wonder. How had Pearce come by that lock of hair?

  But Georgie was no liar, and she’d denied all knowledge of the incriminating ringlet. Call him gullible, but he still believed her version of events.

  That didn’t mean he was happy to see her whirling down the floor in Pearce’s arms, looking delighted to be there.

  As they spun past, Beckenham had a fierce urge to thrust his hand out and yank Pearce away from her by the absurdly high collar of his immaculately cut coat.

  “From what I hear, it’s by no means a foregone conclusion where the aunt will leave her fortune,” Lydgate was saying. “That’s why Pearce felt he had to come back here to turn her up sweet. Rumor has it the old lady is very haughty and as shrewd as she can stare. Not pleased about his fall from grace over the duel. She won’t see him, so he’s come to Brighton to lick his wounds and regroup.”

  Beckenham had a fair idea of the reason Pearce was in Brighton now. Well, whatever the case, he could forget about trying to get his hooks into Georgie.

  The waltz ended and the two of them were swallowed by the crowd.

  “Hold this, will you?”

  Beckenham shoved his glass at Lydgate—who muttered something about not being a damned footman—and headed in Georgie’s direction.

  He spent some little time searching the throng before he saw Georgie. Alone now, she moved with her usual grace but in an inexorable fashion toward the ballroom’s entrance.

  Without appearing to hurry, Beckenham lengthened his stride to catch up.

  As if she knew he followed her, Georgie darted a glance over her shoulder. Alarm flared her nostrils, widened her eyes. Her entire body seemed poised for undignified flight.

  The reaction was brief. She appeared to collect herself sufficiently to stand her ground and make a regal curtsy as he bowed deeply to her.

  He held out his hand. “My dance, I think.”

  She hesitated, then rewarded his bold assurance. Her fingers trembled a little as she placed her hand in his. He saw the defiance in her glinting smile.

  “You seem very cozy with Pearce tonight,” he muttered as he led her back to the floor.

  “How on earth can one be cozy in the midst of a crush like this?” Her voice was light, a little shaky.

  “Oh, I think you know precisely how. You waltzed with him.”

  She nodded, not meeting his gaze. “I have danced with many other gentlemen, too.”

  And not just this evening. No doubt she’d danced with hundreds since she’d last taken the floor with him.

  The feel of her in his arms, even with the regulation distance between them, was so all-consuming, he could scarcely think straight. He might almost pity those other poor sods who would never in their lives get closer to her than this.

  Her scent drifted to him, light and floral but with the merest hint of some exotic, smoky note. The flagrant femininity of her flooded his senses.

  He’d known many women intimately, yet he felt as if he’d lived without the mere sight of one for the past age. Nothing compared to his hand clasping Georgie’s, his arm around her waist, the top of her head tantalizingly close to his lips.

  “I must suppose you know the reason I’m here,” he said.

  She looked up. “Yes. But I wish you had not troubled yourself. My answer has not changed, my lord.”

  Something plummeted in his stomach. “Nevertheless, indulge me with a stroll on the terrace.”

  He realized the request had come out as more of an abrupt order, but he was put out by how much more welcoming she’d been toward Pearce. With Pearce, she’d laughed and flirted and tossed her head.

  Her eyes narrowed, presumably at his tone.

  He rephrased. “My dear Miss Black, you appear a trifle overheated. Might I escort you to the terrace to take the air?”

  Her lips twitched. Then she gave a rueful sigh. “Very well, my lord. Since you ask so nicely.”

  * * *

  They did not linger on the terrace for long. Moonlight streamed through the trees, making shifting patterns on the soft turf beneath their feet. A number of couples had accepted the invitation provided by paper lanterns that lined the walks throughout the garden to lose themselves for a minute or an hour in the sylvan setting.

  Georgie slipped outside her own bo
dy to watch herself with Beckenham, desperate to capture and remember the perfection of this moment. A quiet interlude with the man she … With Marcus. The fresh, ocean-washed air seemed sweet with promise, tantalizing. She might still turn back from her purpose, fling herself into his arms, sob out the whole story, beg him to keep her safe.

  His solid, large presence beside her invited her trust. But trust had never been the problem between them. She’d trust him with her life. She simply did not trust him with his own.

  It didn’t help to tell herself that until that day, she’d no hope of ever having even this much from Beckenham. Somehow, it seemed doubly cruel that any chance they might have had together would be snatched from her a second time.

  Perhaps she’d been wrong all those years ago. Perhaps she ought to have behaved like a lady and let him fight that duel. If she had, he might have won it by shooting Pearce in the shoulder or some such civilized method, while Pearce’s shot missed. They would both have lived, honor satisfied, and she would have wed Beckenham as planned.

  But at the time, the affair had seemed momentous to her, a clear-cut matter of life and death. Had that been mere vanity on her part? What girl doesn’t dream of men fighting over her? How her friends sighed and exclaimed over it when they’d heard. But she’d always been a practical woman, impatient with such fancies.

  Afterwards, Lady Arden had accused her of deliberately engineering the situation.

  She hadn’t meant to do it, but that didn’t lessen her culpability. Perhaps it made it worse. Stupid, stupid girl!

  She still thought that Pearce, at least, had held a deadly purpose in provoking the challenge. And her intervention had achieved its aim, hadn’t it? Beckenham was neither dead nor living in exile as an escaped murderer. They’d been free of Pearce for six years. If it hadn’t been for this aunt and her fortune, they might never have seen him again.

  But no matter the rights and wrongs of her behavior, she couldn’t go back and change the past. And even if Pearce hadn’t returned, she couldn’t accept Beckenham.