The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  He didn’t love her, and that was that.

  In a quiet stand of trees, Beckenham stopped and suddenly, she was in his arms. A shiver of longing and desire ran through her. How could the strength and warmth of him feel so utterly perfect, when everything else was all wrong?

  He bent his head toward her, but all of a sudden she couldn’t go through with that part of her plan. She’d wanted to give him a disgust of her by playing the wanton, but she wasn’t strong enough to let him kiss her. Not tonight. Or ever again.

  She gathered all her strength and pressed her palm to his shoulder, holding him at bay. “Marcus, I meant what I said. I will not marry you.”

  He stilled. Then his arms slowly dropped to his sides. It seemed to her that he paled, though that could have been the moonlight. “Why not?”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth, so she made herself give a careless shrug. “I’d be a fool to marry. I want for neither position nor fortune. In a very few months I shall be my own mistress. I find I like that idea very much.”

  “You cannot mean it,” he said, incredulous. “You wish to remain a spinster?”

  She laughed, though she felt the reverse of mirthful. “You say that as if it’s a dreadful fate. Don’t you see how I should loathe being at any man’s beck and call?”

  “Our marriage would not be like that.”

  She snorted. “Oh, would it not, Marcus? The first instance of defiance and you would be quick to show me who was master.”

  He fell silent for a time. Then he said, “You cannot deny the passion between us. At least be honest about that. It was you at Steyne’s villa, wasn’t it?”

  How fortunate he couldn’t see her blush. She made herself give a throaty laugh. “Yes, it was I. Of course it was.” She waved her hand. “There. I’ve admitted it. Make of it what you will, I am sure I do not care. But cease all this nonsense about marriage. No one knows what happened between us that night. There is no need to make a martyr of yourself over it.”

  “It is not martyrdom to act as a man of honor,” Beckenham began.

  If she heard one more word about his confounded honor, she’d scream. “Answer me this, Marcus. Do you—?”

  She broke off. She’d almost asked him if he loved her. But she couldn’t bear to see the look of pure astonishment on his face at the very notion.

  Instead, she said, “If you had not met me at Lord Steyne’s that night, it would not have occurred to you to propose to me. Would it?”

  “But I did,” he said with irrefutable logic. With a touch of impatience, he added, “Come now, Georgie, it’s not like you to be missish.”

  She gasped. “Missish?” To require that her husband love her, choose her as a bride freely, with no suggestion of duty or obligation?

  His brows drew together. “I’m offering a practical solution to our difficulties. I compromised you. What else are we to do but get married? It’s not as if my situation in life has altered since you accepted me the first time.”

  “So you are saying we should just pick up where we left off, is that it? How prosaic.”

  If she weren’t so humiliated and furious, she could have flung herself on the ground and sobbed. Good Lord, could the idiot not see what she wanted from him? What she’d always wanted?

  She’d retrieve her tattered dignity if it killed her. “I cannot marry you, my lord. Thank you for the honor you do me, but the answer must be no.”

  “Georgie, I need a wife,” Beckenham said. “It was my intention to look for one. In fact, I came to Brighton to … Well, never mind that. But it seems to me as if our meeting again like this was somehow…” He shrugged uneasily, as if the notion didn’t sit well with him. “Fated, I suppose.”

  Her heart smacked against her ribs, as if trying to escape her chest.

  He captured her hand, gazed down at her with those serious, dark eyes that never failed to melt her a little inside. “Marry me, Georgie. Let’s forget the past. Let’s forge a future together.”

  His hand enveloped hers in a strong clasp. They both wore gloves, yet the gesture felt searingly intimate. It spoke of all she could never have from him.

  Georgie gathered every last vestige of courage within her and drew her hand away. “No, Marcus. The past cannot be undone.” How she wished it could be wiped like chalk from a slate. “I will not marry you. That is my final word upon it.”

  His jaw was set so hard, she thought it might crack. There was a fierce look in his eyes, as if he’d been forced to accept defeat in an unfair fight. Then he stepped back with a short, sharp nod. “So be it. If that is your final word.”

  Georgie turned and left him in that quiet grove, her head as high as a queen’s. But the lights from the ballroom took on a nimbus through a sheen of hopeless tears.

  Chapter Eight

  Beckenham sighted the target, took aim, and fired. A splinter on the left edge of the playing card exploded into the air.

  Not good enough. He was off his game this morning but he’d put a hole through that pip if it took him all day. He reloaded and took aim again.

  “Your pistol throws to the left. Try mine,” said Xavier, offering him an ornate ebony-handled dueling pistol.

  Beckenham shook his head. “It’s a poor tradesman who blames his tools.”

  He’d deliberately chosen the old pistols from his coach to give himself the added handicap. He needed something that required all his concentration, so his thoughts wouldn’t return constantly to her.

  They both took another shot. Xavier, relaxed, annoyingly negligent in his deadly accuracy. Beckenham, vibrating with suppressed emotions, wound tight as a spring.

  Damn her! Damn him for being so ridiculously hopeful that she’d accept him. What idiot wouldn’t have learned his lesson and let her be?

  Lydgate moaned softly from his prone position on the lip of the fountain. “Barbarians. I wish you wouldn’t. Not at this hour.”

  Xavier sent him a mocking glance. “Deep doings last night, coz?”

  Beckenham picked up another pistol ball. “Go away if you don’t like the noise.”

  “No,” said Lydgate. “Not until you tell me what happened last night.”

  “Nothing happened.” He wasn’t about to share his folly with anyone, least of all his cousins.

  He squeezed the trigger, obliterating Lydgate’s next remark with the explosion of the pistol. The shot went wide, and the acrid stench of gunpowder filled his nostrils.

  “What did you say?”

  Lydgate raised his voice. “I said something happened between you and Miss Black at the ball. You might as well tell us what it was. And Pearce dancing with her, too, for all the world as if they were old friends.”

  “I always rather liked Georgie Black,” drawled Xavier. “She seemed a little less pointless than most of her ilk. At least, no one could describe her as biddable.”

  Lydgate snorted. “Between virago and milksop there is a happy median.”

  Beckenham sent Lydgate a warning glance but said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak of her. He just wanted to forget.

  “I hear Pearce has been called back to his aunt’s. They say the end is nigh.” Xavier smiled faintly. “They also say she has the constitution of an ox and merely wants to throw her avaricious relations into a flutter.” He paused. “One wonders the lengths Pearce would go to secure his fortune.”

  “What? You suspect foul play?” said Beckenham.

  “If there is, I shall know it,” said Lydgate.

  Xavier dropped his pistol arm to his side, regarding Lydgate critically. “You never fail to amaze me. Why should you care about Pearce’s aunt?”

  Lydgate put his hands behind his head and stared up into the blue summer sky. “It never hurts to know things.”

  “Perhaps you might busy yourself finding me a bride rather than prying into matters that don’t concern you,” Beckenham tossed over his shoulder.

  He felt, rather than saw, his cousins exchange significant looks.

&n
bsp; “Oh, that’s back on, is it?” said Lydgate. “Right-ho. I’ll have an itinerary ready by the end of the week.”

  Beckenham cursed under his breath. He wanted to leave Brighton and never return. Now he’d have to endure both Brighton and his cousins’ company for another seven days. As long as he avoided seeing Georgie, he might just manage to retain what sanity he had left.

  * * *

  “Oomph.” Her maid grunted as Georgie inadvertently elbowed her in the chest.

  “Oh, Smith, I am sorry,” said Georgie. “It’s so close and dark in here, I can hardly see what I’m doing.”

  They struggled in an awkward embrace inside one of Brighton’s famous bathing machines, attempting to change Georgie out of her gown. Georgie cursed under her breath and swept her hair away from her neck so Smith could unbutton her gown.

  Remaining in Brighton while she knew Beckenham stayed at the seaside resort also was a bitter torment. On the one hand, the raffish gaiety of the place threw Georgie’s desolation into high relief. On the other, the mournful cry of the gulls seemed to echo the emptiness inside her.

  Lady Black seemed determined to try every cure Bath offered before they left the town to stay at Lady Arden’s country house. Georgie knew that vapor baths and sea bathing were no more likely to cure her stupid melancholy than they were to cure her stepmother’s nervous complaints, but the amusements enjoyed by her peers in the seaside town held little appeal. And besides, at balls and parties and picnics she routinely ran into Pearce.

  He hadn’t made any further mention of that confounded letter, but the threat of it always hovered between them, forcing Georgie to be civil. If he’d hoped such tactics might eventually win her over, he didn’t know her very well. The feeling of submitting to his will, even if it only meant exchanging pleasant words with him when they met, was abhorrent to her.

  She was grateful that here, at least, they would be safe from running into Pearce. No men were allowed in the vicinity of the women’s bathing machines.

  Her stepmother was already being dipped into the sea, if various squawks and exclamations heard over the pound of the waves were anything to judge by. Violet was ready and waiting for her turn, sitting on the step of the wagon with her face lifted to the sunlight and spray.

  After another few contortions, Smith managed to dress Georgie in a generic yellow bathing costume and turban they’d hired for the purpose. Georgie plucked at the neckline and sniffed the voluminous garment suspiciously. She didn’t like the idea that someone else had worn this before her. And no wonder these burly, red-faced women were required to dip one into the surf. One would surely drown under the weight of one’s skirts otherwise.

  She thought of the lake at Winford and those daring moonlit swims, bare-skinned and free. But Cloverleigh was no longer hers. If she ever swam nude in a lake again, it would not be on Lord Beckenham’s estate.

  No. Even when Violet finally inherited Cloverleigh, Georgie would stay away.

  Smith finished tying her turban and said, “There, Miss G. Mind how you go.”

  “Why don’t you come in with us, Smith?” said Georgie.

  “Me, miss?” The maid eyed her as if she was cracked. “You won’t catch me going in there. Nor manhandled like a sack of grain by those old harridans.”

  “I can’t say I blame you.” She was beginning to regret her own decision to join in.

  Georgie seated herself next to Violet on the edge of the bathing machine, curling her bare toes over the step.

  Her sister had a dreamy, pensive look in her blue eyes. With a dart of fear, Georgie wondered if she thought of Pearce. Violet couldn’t be smitten with him already, could she?

  Georgie had no way of knowing how many times they’d met. She’d warned the maids never to leave Violet alone when they went out walking with her, but she hadn’t wanted to raise the subject with Violet again for fear of goading her into contrary behavior.

  She forced lightness into her tone. “What are you thinking of, my dear? You look far away.”

  “Hmm?” Violet turned to focus on her. “Oh, nothing.”

  She nodded toward the wailing, splashing figure of her mother. “I think she must feel very poorly to subject herself to this.”

  The stocky woman charged with “dipping” Lady Black in the ocean spoke to her in a firm, matter-of-fact tone, as a nanny might to a child. But it made no difference. Lady Black whooped and shrieked out her complaints. The water was too cold. The salt stung her eyes. She was sure to catch her death, and so on, until a rogue wave reared up and smacked her in the face, knocking her turban askew.

  “I don’t think I’ll go in after all,” Georgie said to her sister, raising her voice a little above her stepmother’s hysterics. “I was right. The entire process is simply too undignified.” She put her hand up to her head. “And this turban itches in a most suspicious manner.”

  With a surge of revulsion, she plucked it from her head and tossed it back to Smith, who caught it as deftly as she did everything else.

  Then Georgie turned back and took Violet’s hand in hers. “Darling, I want you to tell me if you are happy.”

  Violet gave a tiny start of surprise. “Happy? Of course I’m happy. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  A wispy blond ringlet had escaped Violet’s headdress and Georgie tucked it back inside with a gentle finger. “You seem distracted lately. Not quite yourself. In fact,” she added carefully, “ever since that night at Lord Steyne’s—”

  “Good gracious, is that all?” said Violet, laughing. “Nothing of the sort. It is merely that I—I wondered if I might rather stay with Lizzie for the rest of the summer while you go on to Lady Arden’s.”

  Georgie’s brow furrowed. Lizzie lived in Bath. And Bath was where Pearce intended to return to await his aunt’s demise, if the gossip was true. “But we mean to plan your come-out next season. Lady Arden would think it quite odd if you were not there, too.”

  Violet looked so downcast that Georgie said, “Could not Lizzie accompany us to Lady Arden’s, perhaps?”

  That didn’t cheer her sister in the least. Violet shook her head. “Lizzie is to be married soon and there are all manner of preparations to be made. She will not be permitted to leave Mr. Dartry, in any case.”

  “Ah, of course,” said Georgie. She hesitated, wondering how to ask about Pearce without mentioning his name. “You do not mind that your friend is to be married before you, do you?”

  “As if I would be so petty,” said Violet. She was silent for a time. “Only, it does seem to bring home the fact that I am old enough to have a husband of my own, doesn’t it?”

  Choosing her words carefully, Georgie said, “Is there any particular gentleman you have in mind for the role?”

  Violet threw Georgie a laughing glance. “Of course not, silly.”

  But Georgie noticed that her sister’s lips were compressed rather tightly when she returned her attention to her miserably wet mama.

  * * *

  Beckenham ran his gaze over the list of eligible ladies his cousin provided, two weeks later than initially promised. “I know some of the families, but I’m not acquainted with any of the girls.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t lived like a hermit these past six years, you would be,” responded Lydgate. “Some of them only came out in the spring, of course. Why the frown?”

  Beckenham glanced up from the list. “Doesn’t madness run in the Maxwell family?”

  Lydgate ran the feather of his quill between his fingers. “Eccentricity, yes. Madness, no. Never fear. Miss Jennifer Maxwell doesn’t seem to have a tendency to wear a flowerpot on her head instead of a hat or anything like that. You’ll have the opportunity to observe her when you meet her at Petridge Hall.”

  “No. She won’t do.” Beckenham took up his pen and drove a straight, uncompromising line through the unfortunate young lady’s name.

  “Bit harsh, old fellow,” protested his cousin. “I mean, after all, who doesn’t have a few lunatics in their fami
ly? What about poor Uncle Pemble? He used to hide in the water closet when it was time to go to church on Sunday. And when Aunt Winifred did manage to drag him there, he howled like a dog through all the hymns.”

  Lydgate didn’t mention Beckenham’s own grandfather, and for that, Beckenham was grateful. It had been his life’s work to erase the damage the third earl had done, both to the estate and to the family name.

  Unimpressed, he replied, “I’m not keen on the stable, Lydgate. I’m afraid Miss Maxwell will not do.”

  Lydgate held out his hands, palms facing outward. “Say no more. Miss Maxwell will be dropped from the list. Any other objections?”

  Before he could reply, Xavier strolled in. Wearily, he drawled, “You two still here?”

  Beckenham lifted the sheet of paper on which Lydgate had written out his itinerary. “Now that I have what I came for, I’ll remove myself.”

  “What’s this?” Xavier plucked the paper from Beckenham’s hand and frowned over it. “Ah.”

  He glanced at Lydgate. “You’ve been hard at work, I see.” He turned the page over, as if looking for something that wasn’t there. “But how remiss of you, Cousin. You left out the most obvious candidate.”

  Lydgate straightened, darting a glance at Beckenham, who shrugged. “Have I? And who might that be? Not Georgie Black.”

  “Of course not. The younger sister. Miss Violet Black, of course.”

  Beckenham snatched the paper back. “Violet Black? Are you mad? The girl is an infant.”

  “On the contrary,” said Xavier. “About to turn eighteen, and as different from her spitfire sister as she can be. Out next season but I think you could persuade Lady Arden to give you first right of refusal.”

  “You speak as if the girl’s a piece of land,” Lydgate protested.

  “And isn’t all this simply a form of commerce?” said Xavier, flicking a dismissive hand at Lydgate’s list. “Forgive me. I’d no idea your sensibilities were so delicate.”

  Beckenham said nothing. He only vaguely remembered a quiet little fair-haired child playing with dolls at Cloverleigh Manor years ago.

  The prospect of courting Georgie’s sister made his stomach churn. “No. She’s too young.”