The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  Black looks from Beckenham. How that brought back the past, Georgie thought as she walked toward the draper’s shop with Hardcastle in tow.

  “Ma’am, I confess to the liveliest curiosity,” he said. “What is this matter of vital importance?”

  “Ribbons,” she said, thrusting thoughts of Beckenham from her mind. “I need to purchase ribbons and lace. You shall help me decide.”

  He laughed, and his lingering smile lit his frank gray eyes in the most attractive way. He was not handsome, precisely, but he had a pleasant countenance that could be called handsome when animated. That engaging look made her think, Lydgate was right. You are dangerous.

  Harmless flirtation was good for the soul, Georgie thought as she and Hardcastle exchanged witticisms and pleasantries.

  “I forbid you to buy this,” he said, holding a length of white lace out of her reach. “Appropriate for a spinster’s cap. Not for the adornment of the divine Miss Black.”

  She reached for it, grinning. “Give it to me! How did you become the arbiter of lace, pray? And might I remind you that I am a spinster?”

  He laughed at that. “A less spinsterish lady I’ve yet to meet.” He lowered his tone. “You ought to be decked in exotic silks and emeralds, not white lace. No, never lace.”

  “How silly.” She was about to continue the argument when the shop bell tinkled and Hardcastle looked up, past Georgie’s shoulder.

  His pleasant, teasing expression vanished, swiftly succeeded by the look of a starving man at a banquet.

  She turned to see Violet enter the shop.

  Georgie glanced back at Hardcastle. Oh, dear Lord. She ought to have known. Lydgate’s instincts were never wrong.

  Whether or not Violet returned Hardcastle’s regard was impossible to tell. She was certainly animated in his company, but Georgie could not fault her sister’s manner, nor her conversation.

  Not a creature of reticence, Hardcastle couldn’t keep the light of longing from his eyes. Such helpless devotion could be seductive in its own right. He was a personable young man and might well win his way into Violet’s affections if nothing happened to prevent it.

  Rather sorry for him, but seeing no help for it, Georgie redoubled her efforts and managed to monopolize Hardcastle for the rest of their visit to the village. She kept him fully occupied the entire way home, too.

  From her salad days, she had learned and refined upon the arts necessary to hold a man’s attention. She employed every single one of them to keep Hardcastle by her side and laughing.

  Several times, she was aware that Violet observed her with a puzzled, almost wary expression. You will thank me one day, my dearest love. He is not the man for you.

  Equally, she noticed that Beckenham sent her one hard, disapproving stare before he turned back to his conversation with Violet.

  By the time they reached the house, Georgie was exhausted, and wished for nothing but a hot bath to cleanse her soul.

  * * *

  Flirting! The woman whose lips had been locked with his only days before was now smiling her cat-in-the-cream-pot smile up at young Hardcastle, as if her whole happiness depended upon him. So much for his concern that Pearce might worm his way into her good graces once more.

  If she so much as let Hardcastle touch her hand, Beckenham would …

  He stopped himself. This kind of thing was precisely what had caused all the trouble in the first place. He ought to be glad she no longer held any power over him, that her rash behavior no longer reflected on him as her betrothed.

  Titania and Oberon, doomed to play out the same jealousies time after time.

  Yes. She’d been in the right of it, rejecting his proposals. For once, Georgie had acted with a more level head than he.

  A low thrill of husky laughter floated to him as he strove to make polite conversation with Miss Violet.

  He’d discovered common ground with Violet in their mutual admiration of Gothic architecture. She questioned him about the history of the small but beautiful church that perched on a gentle rise by the village green.

  But he lost the thread of that interesting conversation upon hearing yet more evidence that Georgie was hell-bent on beguiling Hardcastle.

  It was like a dirty joke, Georgie’s laugh. Men turned themselves inside out to entertain her, just so they could hear it. And fantasize about where else they might hear her laugh that way. Sprawled naked on tangled sheets during a lusty bout of sex.

  Was she even aware that she had this effect on men?

  He’d never given her the least indication of how greatly he’d hungered for her that way. Not until the night at Xavier’s villa.

  She’d said there was no hope for them. People didn’t change; she was right about that. He accepted it. But for her to immediately switch her attention to Hardcastle made him want to reach down that blameless young gentleman’s throat and rip his lungs out.

  Bad enough that Pearce had landed in the vicinity. Did she need to enslave every man who came her way?

  Beckenham couldn’t help it. When another low laugh rolled toward him, he turned his head sharply to stare at Georgie and her swain.

  She looked so young and fresh in sprigged muslin with light green ribbons and a straw hat that tied under her chin with a big, silly bow.

  Yet she was clinging too close to Hardcastle’s arm, leaning on it as if she didn’t have the strength to walk without his support.

  He snorted in disgust.

  As if she heard him, she turned her bright, amused gaze on him. Their eyes met; he saw a distinct challenge in hers. She lifted her chin at his frown and huddled even closer to her companion, if that were possible.

  Beckenham snapped his head forward and redoubled his efforts with Violet.

  In her gentle voice, she asked him whether he intended to watch the ladies’ archery tournament.

  It sounded like dull work to him, but he was never discourteous. He’d already discovered that enduring tedium was one of the principal duties that fell to the lot of a host.

  “Indeed,” he said. “I am looking forward to it.”

  “I believe the competition will be fierce,” said Violet.

  “Oh?” he said, taking a keener interest now. “What is the prize?”

  With a mischievous smile, Violet said, “There will be a fat purse for the winning. But the real prize is your notice and admiration, my lord.”

  Startled, he said, “Mine?”

  “Why, of course,” said Violet. “That is why we are all here, is it not? To win your approval. The tournament will be rather like one of those medieval affairs where the knights vie for a lady’s favor,” she added thoughtfully, “only in reverse.”

  A rush of heat made itself felt on his cheeks. Was he—damn it all—was he blushing?

  “And what form should this prize take?” he asked warily.

  “I don’t know! Perhaps … perhaps a kiss?” She said this with a wicked little grin that reminded him so much of her sister, he instinctively turned back again to glance in Georgie’s direction.

  Still plastered to Hardcastle’s side. The young man was smiling. As well he might be, with all that lush loveliness pressed against him.

  Grimly, Beckenham thought of a tournament he might propose among the gentlemen. One that would be too bloody for the ladies to witness. The winner would be the last man still standing.

  He decided, most uncharacteristically, to do some flirting of his own.

  “Who is in this tournament?” he asked casually.

  “The younger ladies,” said Violet. “Of course, if Georgie joined in, there would be no contest. She’s a first-rate archer. But she declined to compete.” A small cloud seemed to descend over her brow. “I suppose Georgie has other fish to fry.”

  Beckenham was arrested by her expression. The glance she shot over her shoulder at the two cooing doves dawdling behind the rest of the party told its own tale. Did she disapprove of Georgie’s flirting as much as he did?

  More common
ground there, then.

  Impulsively, Violet said, “You ought to bestow your favor on me now, before I go into battle.”

  He forced a laugh. This sort of talk made him distinctly uncomfortable but he’d resolved to flirt, hadn’t he? “But I don’t wear any ribbons or such. Perhaps a handkerchief.…” He felt in his pocket.

  Violet smiled up at him with the most winning expression. “Might I have the bluebell you wear in your buttonhole? Where on earth did you find it at this season?”

  He hesitated but a moment. “Why, of course.”

  He halted, squinting down at his buttonhole. He’d forgotten about it. Peters must not have noticed when he’d brushed the coat. The flower was more than a little wilted now.

  “Let me.”

  Before he could stop her, she reached up and placed her palm on his chest to flatten the lapel while she plucked the bluebell from its snug little resting place.

  He felt a twinge of guilt. Violet’s gesture seemed to shatter, finally, any rapprochement he might have reached with Georgie.

  They’d halted, allowing the rest of the party to overtake them. They were the focus of attention—how could they not be? But he found he didn’t mind.

  He sensed, rather than saw, Georgie’s approach. Indeed, his attention was so focused on Georgie and her reaction to this silly byplay that the sight of his buttonhole blossom disappearing into Violet’s bodice did little to arouse his interest.

  “Oh, well done,” murmured Georgie as she strolled past them, still clinging to Hardcastle’s arm.

  He was not certain if she’d addressed the remark to him or to Violet. But the cool, amused unconcern in her voice sparked his ire.

  He barely heard a word Violet said to him after that. He could not wait to get Georgie Black alone so he could give her a piece of his mind.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Georgie had done her best to remain close to Hardcastle’s side, but at the last minute before they entered the house, his attention was caught by Violet, who stumbled a little on the steps to the terrace and had to be supported.

  Hardcastle moved with a swiftness that told Georgie, at least, that he’d been aware of Violet the entire time he was exchanging flirtatious nonsense with her.

  The look he gave Violet as he helped her regain her balance confirmed Lydgate’s prediction and Georgie’s worst fears. Whatever Violet’s feelings, Hardcastle was a man well on the way to falling in love. Good God, she must do something. But what?

  Watching the two of them intently, Georgie started when Beckenham gripped her elbow.

  “Will you come with me, Miss Black?” he said formally. “I’d like to show you the, er, rhododendrons we were speaking of earlier.”

  Rhododendrons?

  “Certainly,” she said calmly. She was in for a scold. Might as well get it over with.

  Just to tease him, she added, “Shall I ask Lord Hardcastle to accompany us? I believe he has a great interest in rhododendrons.”

  “I think not,” said Beckenham through his teeth.

  “Very well, then,” she murmured. “I’m sure your rhododendrons are nothing short of spectacular.”

  He didn’t rise to the bait, just cast a hard, impatient glance at her as they left the terrace by the side steps and took the path that led to the shrubbery.

  As soon as they were well out of earshot and somewhat screened from the house by the aforementioned plants, he rounded to face her.

  “Was that edifying display for my benefit, or are you seriously contemplating taking Hardcastle as a husband?”

  She laughed. “For your benefit? Well, you could say that, although you have quite the wrong end of the stick there, my friend. Marcus, do be sensible. If I wanted to make you jealous, I should not have chosen that boy as my instrument.”

  Hearing her refer to Hardcastle as a boy seemed to calm him somewhat. She found she didn’t like that reaction. She found that although it had not been her intention to make him jealous—she’d learned her lesson about that six years ago—she was intrigued by the violence of his reaction. That never-quite-doused spark of rebellion inside her did not want to let him off the hook so easily.

  It also occurred to her that it would not be wise to explain to him the true reason she’d monopolized Hardcastle. Beckenham might do his best to appear unswayed by emotion, but she knew he looked for any excuse not to offer for Violet. Duty to his estate still warred with compassion for Georgie in his breast.

  He was well aware that marrying Violet was to offer Georgie an affront. If he had the merest whiff that Violet’s affections might become engaged elsewhere, he would instantly retreat.

  “Are you jealous, Marcus?” The question was a direct one, calculated to throw him off balance, to stop him from delving deeper into her motives.

  From the murderous expression on his face, it worked.

  “I will not afford that question the dignity of a response,” he said harshly. “Are you so lost to propriety that you cannot see the damage you do to your own reputation when you act in such a way?”

  “Oh, pooh!” she said, laughing. “A little harmless flirtation while walking with a large group of respectable ladies and gentlemen in broad daylight? Come now, Beckenham. You must know that one can be far naughtier than that before one risks serious injury to one’s reputation.”

  “Your past ought to show you the dangers of such behavior. You play with fire, Georgie. Sooner or later, you’ll be badly burned.”

  She shrugged. The worst had already befallen her six years ago. She’d been burned, all right, reduced to ashes by her own reckless stupidity.

  She’d never deserved him, but for the space of their betrothal, she’d managed to fool the gods somehow. She’d never quite trusted her good fortune. That distrust had prompted her evil genius to test her luck, time and again.

  Until her luck ran out.

  And still she cursed herself for her stupid pride. She ought to have begged forgiveness, crawled to him, implored him to take her back. If her temper had not got the better of her, if it weren’t for what happened after the night she’d ended their engagement, she probably would have. She’d been reckless and stupid but she’d never been blind to the pure gold she had in him.

  She’d turned wild in her grief and rage, but that phase had not lasted long. He was not to know it, for he’d never returned to London society after that, but her behavior in recent years had been exemplary. Indeed, her acquaintances in Town would have stared in disbelief to see her behave the way she had toward Hardcastle today. Her reformation was the one reason Lady Arden hadn’t banished her from society altogether.

  Clearly, Beckenham brought out the worst in her. She’d wanted to distract Hardcastle from his pursuit of her sister, true. But she’d done it with unwonted zeal, had she not?

  She realized, now that the accusation was made, that she’d more than one motive for her actions.

  Instead of sobering her, the notion made her resentment flare.

  How dared he judge her over a stupid, innocent dalliance? After what they’d done together at Lord Steyne’s that night. After the reputation he’d forged for himself since they’d parted.

  “I don’t know what gets into you.” He was pacing now, hands clasped behind his back in what she recognized from bygone days as his “lecturing mode.” “Last night you behaved as properly as anyone might wish, yet today you’ve transformed into a veritable Delilah.”

  That stung. Particularly when the only man she’d ever played Delilah for was Beckenham himself. And look how that had turned out. She couldn’t even tempt the man to sin when she stood there, half naked and willing, before him.

  “You are overreacting,” she said, struggling for calm, feeling the temper rise in her like the pressure in a geyser before it blows. “It was a harmless flirtation.”

  “Surely you, of all people, know that flirtation is never harmless,” Beckenham said.

  Her anger was so great, it nearly masked the hurt inside her. Anger
was a far easier emotion than pain. She clung to it, fed it.

  How dared he be so damnably self-righteous? He’d been at Steyne’s party that night. She’d never seen anything like it, never even dreamed of such debauchery. Yet he was there, openly participating, without even the hint of a disguise. How was it that he, a man, could be present at such an affair with impunity and yet she, a lady, was called to account for harmless flirting?

  “If you will not think of yourself, think of how this behavior reflects on your sister,” he was saying now. “Would you wish her to behave as you did today?”

  She sent a significant glance at his empty buttonhole. “I think she does well enough for herself in that department, don’t you?” she said dryly. “And it did not seem to me that she earned your disgust for it.”

  “Do not think to turn this around on me,” he warned. “You let your passions guide you into dangerous waters, Georgie.”

  “Hardcastle? Dangerous?” She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “He is a pussycat and you know it.”

  She saw now that he was undergoing some sort of internal struggle. Did he hold himself back from striking her? Kissing her again as he had in the wood? What?

  “At least my passions, as you call them, are honestly felt,” she flung at him. “What of your passions, Beckenham? Is this cold-blooded manner of selecting your future bride truly your wish? Or are you afraid that if you let yourself be guided by your passions, you will be in danger of repeating the past?”

  The stunned look on his face told her quite clearly he was not as self-aware as he expected her to be.

  Caution stirred within her. If she didn’t stop goading him, he would marry some cold fish like Miss Trent. That would never do.

  “You are mistaken,” he said icily. “I know what I owe my name and my estate.”

  “What about to yourself?” said Georgie. “What about your happiness, the happiness of your wife?” That last word scraped in her throat.

  “The two are not mutually incompatible. Why else would I submit to a house party like this if not to get to know the ladies in question?”