The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

Abruptly, he said, “I never fought Pearce, you know. He didn’t show up.”

  He watched her closely, but the only sign she gave in response was a certain tautness about her neck and jaw.

  Finally, she turned her head to face him. “I know that.”

  “How did you know?” He’d broken the first promise of his life by not sending her word of the outcome.

  “Do you think I could rest until I knew?”

  She had not answered his question, he noticed. Ah, well, the duel had been kept very hush-hush on his side, but who knew how many people Pearce had told?

  Not that any man would boast of failing to come up to scratch for an affair of honor.

  He frowned, but before he could question her further, she said abruptly, “You ought to marry Violet. She inherits Cloverleigh, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know.” He hesitated. Despite the obvious underlying reason for this house party, it made him distinctly uncomfortable to discuss his marriage with his former betrothed. The woman to whom he’d proposed only a handful of months ago.

  In fact, since Georgie’s arrival, whenever he tried to picture marriage with one of the ladies Lydgate had selected, his mind flew back to that scene with Georgie at the villa. He couldn’t get it out of his head.

  She leaned forward and patted her mare’s neck. “You needn’t feel awkward about it, Beckenham. What’s between us is ancient history.”

  She paused, then said with some difficulty. “I want you to be happy. I desire my sister’s happiness above everything. I believe you might both be well content with this match.”

  Her voice had grown a trifle husky, but he barely noticed that. “You want me to marry your sister,” he said flatly. “Yet you did not wish to wed me yourself.”

  Saying the words was more difficult than he’d expected. He waited for her answer with a tightening in his gut.

  She gave a twisted smile. “Oh, but I am a contrary female. I’m fully alive to the fact that you have all the excellent qualities any sane woman might wish for in her husband. And I know you will take good care of Cloverleigh. That is very important to me.”

  Perversely, he felt the reverse of flattered.

  In her shoes, he’d be … Why, if Lydgate or Xavier intended to marry Georgie, he’d … His horse tossed his head and danced skittishly backwards. Beckenham loosed the rein a little.

  “It is unfortunate that I have been obliged to come here,” she went on. “But if you find it awkward to court my sister out of consideration for my feelings, let me assure you that such consideration is unnecessary.”

  “Shall we go?” He found the need to change the subject. So much reasonable plain-speaking was a little too much to stomach at this hour.

  Before she could answer, he urged his steed on, cantering easily down the gentle slope to the pastures below.

  * * *

  It was a world of do you remember, and what might have been. With every step closer to the house that had been her home for eighteen years, Georgie felt the clutch in her chest grip tighter.

  They said an Englishman’s home was his castle. The attachment of a man to the land he owned and cultivated was as natural as breathing.

  But what about women? Georgie’s love for this countryside was as deep as ever her father’s or Beckenham’s had been.

  At least, she told herself, Cloverleigh would be Violet’s. At least it had not gone to some long-lost cousin in the Americas. That made it even more imperative that Violet marry a good man who knew how to husband the land as well as he knew how to husband a lady.

  She might have chafed at Beckenham’s autocratic nature, at his self-appointed position as her keeper, but she’d never entertained the slightest doubt that he had her best interests at heart. Violet, with her sweet temperament, would find him the perfect husband.

  An image of Beckenham kissing Violet the way he’d kissed her at Steyne’s villa made her close her eyes and rush into speech.

  “I hear there is a new bailiff,” she said. “What is he like?”

  Beckenham’s lips set in a stern line. “I do not hold with his practices. I wrote to the trustees about it six months ago but I received short shrift.”

  “Ah. My esteemed stepmother’s brother and his faithful dog. You know, Beckenham, I would not say this to anyone but you. But I often think that my father must have been suffering from moon madness to marry that woman.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps he was lonely.”

  “Perhaps he wanted a male heir.” That notion had always hurt her too deeply to express. She did not know why she brought it up now.

  He glanced at her. “I gather it was Lady Black who urged him to leave the property to Violet.”

  “He did not need much urging. He was in such a rage with me over our broken engagement, I think he would have tossed me out of doors but for the love he bore me.”

  “He did you a great disservice depriving you of Cloverleigh.”

  Of course, Beckenham understood this about her as no one else ever would, not even Violet. He knew because he felt that same pride of ownership, of belonging, on his own land. He knew because he knew her.

  Regret for her father’s actions tinged his voice. She did not want him to pity her.

  “You may be sure that I am left well provided for. I also inherit my mother’s fortune. Assuming, of course that my esteemed trustees haven’t gambled all my money away on ’Change or siphoned off the capital to line their own nests.”

  His brows drew together. “You must demand a full accounting upon your majority. That’s not far off.”

  “Oh, be sure that I will,” said Georgie. “But my trustees are dears, and as honest as the day is long. Violet’s, on the other hand … Well, I had Mr. Moreton’s measure from the outset, not to mention that lickspittle solicitor’s.” She glanced at Beckenham’s face, noted his grim expression. He had their measure, too. “I positively look forward to your dealing with those gentlemen when you are Violet’s husband.”

  He threw her an irritated glance. “I’ve not offered for your sister and she has not accepted me. I wish you would stop treating it as a foregone conclusion.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “Surely you would not act in a manner contrary to good sense and judgment merely to spite me?”

  By tacit agreement, they reined in some distance from the house. He glanced at her. “I don’t like the idea of taking what should have been yours.”

  She reached over to place a hand on his arm. “Please do not think that way. I do not begrudge Violet or you. But I do begrudge Uncle Moreton the running of the place until Violet either marries or reaches the age of five-and-twenty. Particularly if this bailiff is not up to scratch, as you seem to think.”

  A muscle ticced in Beckenham’s jaw. Gruffly, he said, “Of course they were right; it is none of my business.”

  She paused. Courage, Georgie! “You must make it your business. You must marry Violet.”

  He made no comment for a long time. Then he said, “I hear there’s a new tenant at Cloverleigh.”

  “I suggested to Violet that she ought to call,” said Georgie. “Yet she is young and feels diffident about intruding. Perhaps you might accompany her.”

  He was silent for a time. Then he said, “No. It is not my place to do so. Besides, I believe the tenant is a single gentleman and will only remain at the house for the summer. It is hardly worth her making his acquaintance.”

  He nodded his head toward Winford. “Shall we return?”

  “Of course,” said Georgie. “You must not neglect your guests.”

  He did not seem in any desperate hurry. He turned his head to look at her and it seemed to her that he read in her eyes everything she felt. The warm feeling of homecoming tinged with a poignant pain of regret.

  He set his horse in motion. “Shall we visit the bluebell wood before we go back?”

  Half her childhood had been spent in that wood. With an instinctive need to brace herself, Georgie nodded. “I should like to do t
hat if we have time.”

  They entered a fairyland full of mystery and shadows, ancient gnarled trees with massive roots that lifted out of the ground like monstrous tentacles. Shards of sunlight streamed through gaps in the canopy above, and the dust motes swirled and danced within them like tiny fey folk.

  In places, the wood was dark and cool and damp with verdigris lichen and emerald moss sprawling over tree trunks and the ground. A stream ran through, the water icy even in summer, clear enough to see every smooth rock and pebble beneath.

  A carpet of leaves and damp earth underfoot, a sense of stillness so complete, it was as if humans had never set foot in this wood before now.

  Silently, they halted. Georgie took the fecund forest air deep into her lungs. With a pang, she realized she might never visit here again. If Violet married Beckenham, it would be too painful.

  Beckenham slid from his horse and moved to help her dismount, but she was too quick, swinging herself down from the saddle without assistance and dropping to the ground.

  She didn’t trust herself if he put his hands on her. Whatever her resolutions might be as far as marrying her sister to her former fiancé, she was afraid that all he had to do was touch her and she would fall. Even if that touch consisted of the wholly impersonal act of lifting her down from the saddle.

  Georgie found a few straggling late bluebells in a patch of sunlight. Delighted by the distraction, she picked one and before she knew what she did, she had stood on tiptoe and threaded it through Beckenham’s buttonhole.

  He watched her gravely. Some strange light in his expression made her cut her gaze and turn quickly away to resume her explorations.

  When he had seen to the horses, he said, “Speak frankly, Georgie. Do you truly not mind if I court Violet?”

  How could she answer that question frankly? “I want you to marry her, Beckenham. I told you that.”

  She managed to say it without her voice breaking. She looked him in the eye, too. If nothing else, she could be proud of herself for that.

  At eighteen she’d blazed a trail through life, doing as she wished, taking what she wanted, without ever counting the cost. She’d learned her lesson when she’d lost the most important thing of all.

  Now she did not treat her boons so cavalierly. Georgie Black had grown up.

  His face darkened. He strode toward her, took her by the arms as if he would shake her. “Is it nothing to you, then? Do you not feel the slightest qualm about delivering the man you were to marry to your sister?”

  She wanted to scream at him to let go, let go of her. In every sense of the word.

  I never wanted to come back here, to see all I’ve lost.

  The sudden fierce resentment she felt toward her father, toward even her sister—innocent Violet who had never asked for any of this—shocked her to the core.

  The old Georgie rose up inside her like a phoenix from the ashes. She thought she’d destroyed that tempestuous, selfish little beast, but here Beckenham was, holding her, his big hands wrapped around her upper arms, mere inches from her breasts.

  If he had not been holding her, she would have staggered back.

  Her body swayed toward him.

  He stared down at her. In a graveled whisper, he said, “See if you won’t regret this.”

  His mouth crushed down on hers in the most satisfyingly brutal way. His arms lashed around her, holding her so tightly, her breasts mashed against his broad chest.

  She felt the heat in him, the ravenous hunger. His tongue invaded her mouth and she welcomed it, dueled with her own.

  He backed her against a tree, kissing her all the while. She felt the hard scratchiness of the bark behind her as she rested her head against it.

  They were close enough now that her booted feet stood between his; her stomach pressed against the growing erection his breeches did nothing to disguise.

  The notion excited her. She wanted to climb up his body, get inside his skin. The urge to undress him there, in the forest cool, became overwhelming. She wanted to see all of him, not just his chest and back, magnificent and muscular though they were.

  Everything.

  He was a fever inside her. His hands moved to her rump, lifting her, rubbing her against him. The act was so carnal, so frank in its intent that she could scarcely believe Beckenham was the man doing this to her.

  But he wasn’t doing it out of passion, she realized. He thought he was punishing her, didn’t he? Teaching her a lesson for not falling to pieces over the mere prospect of him courting her sister.

  Violet. She wrenched her mouth from his. “No,” she panted. “This is wrong.”

  “But it feels so very right to me.” His lips diverted to her throat, drifting over sensitive skin, pressing pulse points. Oh, dear Heaven, she loved it when he did that!

  Violet. Dear God, what was she doing?

  In a sudden frenzy, Georgie shoved at Beckenham until he released her.

  His breath came in pants; his dark eyes burned like coals. “A bit late to turn missish, my dear.”

  “I am not missish! I am merely recollecting the reasons why kissing you is a terrible idea.”

  She brushed at her riding habit, and wished she could brush away their encounter as easily as she removed twigs and bark.

  He made her crazy. She made him insane. This could not go any further.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that,” he said with a fierce look. “You were right there with me, Georgie.”

  She wished he didn’t call her by her first name. She wished they’d resumed formality when they’d dissolved their engagement. And wasn’t she clutching at straws?

  Honesty was her trademark. She used it. “I am attracted to you. I always have been. We…” She sighed. “This cannot happen again.”

  She saw the precise point where his face turned to granite. “Let’s go back. It’s getting late and my guests will be down to breakfast soon.”

  “Yes. And might we forget about this, ah, interlude?” she said, striving for a light note. “I am heartily ashamed of myself.”

  “I will not speak of it again, certainly,” he said. He had not said he would forget.

  Silently, she waited while he collected their horses and followed him out of the glade.

  He slowed his pace to walk beside her. “It was a pity you came back.”

  They were cruel words, but spoken without heat. They were not meant to hurt her, merely to state a fact.

  She nodded. “I wish to Heaven I had not.”

  But if she had not, she wouldn’t have set eyes on him again before he married. For some reason, she didn’t think she could have borne that, either.

  At least she would have that kiss to remember. At least she would have that.

  Pathetic, stupid, but there it was.

  She gave a sudden, ripping sob, then laughed, to try to cover it. “Let’s leave this place. I am always fey when I come here.”

  “Titania,” he murmured.

  “Ha!” she said, more at ease deflecting compliments than dealing with genuine emotion. “Was Titania a carrot-top, too?”

  His dark eyes seemed as mysterious as the shadows in the wood as he stared at her. “I have always imagined her so.”

  Struggling for levity, Georgie responded lightly, “She was a troublesome female, as I recall.”

  He inclined his head in assent. “She led the faerie king a merry dance. Then she fell in love with an ass.”

  “Because the faerie king gave her a potion to teach her not to flout him,” she countered. “I should not forgive him so easily.”

  “The poor fellow was desperate, I expect. Men commit every kind of folly when…” He broke off. “At all events, the affair ended happily.”

  “I wonder,” said Georgie. “In my experience, people don’t change that much, particularly strong-willed characters like those. My guess is they reenacted that same comedy over and over, tormented one another until the end of time.”

  Beckenham fell silent.


  The parallels were obvious. She was constitutionally incapable of being a biddable wife. She would have given him no peace.

  Violet, however, was perfect for him.

  But she could not convince him of that with words. She must show him how superior Violet was to all those other debutantes. How much better she’d be for him than Georgie ever was.

  As they rode silently back to the house, Georgie began to plan.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You spent the morning cavorting about the countryside with the one lady at this gathering you ought to avoid.”

  Lydgate curled his lip in disgust and tossed Beckenham the pair of gloves he’d taken down from the wall of Beckenham’s purpose-fitted boxing saloon.

  Beckenham caught them, wondering what Lydgate would say if he knew about that kiss.

  Beckenham was an enthusiastic pugilist, and one of his few indulgences beside his stables was converting the outbuilding next to the bathhouse into an appropriate place for all kinds of indoor physical activity.

  The walls were lined with racks of equipment, from shuttlecock rackets to cricket bats to boxing gloves, bows and arrows and foils.

  He pulled the boxing gloves onto his hands. “Less talk, more action, Lydgate. I’m going to black those pretty blue eyes of yours.”

  Lydgate gave a dramatic shudder. “Not the face, dear coz. Anything but the face.”

  Beckenham knew he didn’t have a chance of hitting Lydgate’s face unless Lydgate allowed him to. On Beckenham’s good days, they were fairly evenly matched. Beckenham’s weight and power against Lydgate’s superior agility.

  Today was not going to be one of Beckenham’s good days.

  If he’d cherished any illusions about that, their first, rather one-sided bout left him in no doubt.

  Panting, he said, “It was a chance meeting. Besides, we spoke only of my courting Miss Violet.”

  He punctuated the sentence with a right aimed at the shoulder, which Lydgate easily dodged.

  “And?” said Lydgate, shifting his feet and boring in with a one-two feint and punch that smacked Beckenham in the ribs.

  With a grunt, Beckenham drove through the pain to land a blow to Lydgate’s chest that sent him staggering back a pace. Lydgate’s eyebrows twitched together, and the light of battle joined gleamed in his eye.