The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  He made an impatient gesture. “That is beside the point. I am making a request of you as your host, if nothing else. Do not continue down a path that will be sure to earn you the contempt of every right-minded person present. That is all I have to say to you on the subject.”

  Through the haze of her fury, she managed a small yawn. “Thank goodness for that. You are quite tedious, you know, when you become self-righteous.”

  “Thank you,” he said witheringly.

  “Don’t mention it.” She dropped him a curtsy and swept from the shrubbery, half blinded by the film of red rage before her eyes.

  He thought she’d behaved badly today? He hadn’t seen anything yet.

  * * *

  Beckenham strode into his library, not stopping until he hit the brandy decanter. Lydgate was before him, he saw, at ease with the newspaper and a glass of amber liquid at his elbow.

  “My dear fellow,” Lydgate said.

  Beckenham held up a hand as he sloshed brandy into a glass. “Don’t start,” he said grimly. “Not until I’ve drunk this.”

  He tossed down the liquid fire, reflecting on reason number seventy-six he was glad he had not married Georgie Black. He would have turned into a sad, blithering drunk by the time the honeymoon was over.

  Honeymoon … The word conjured images he’d fantasized into being more than once in that endless betrothal. Dear God, she made him insane.

  He poured himself another drink and threw himself into the chair by Lydgate’s.

  His cousin quirked an eyebrow. “Can I guess?”

  Beckenham transferred a moody gaze to his brandy. “I suppose you might.” He sighed. “I read her a lecture, which I had no business doing. Now she is ripe for murder. Or worse.” Ruination. Thank God she didn’t seem to know about Pearce’s arrival at Cloverleigh. That would set the cat amongst the pigeons.

  “The lecture would have been on the subject of…?” Lydgate trailed off with a questioning lilt.

  “Oh, you can’t have been blind to that ridiculous display on our jaunt to the village.”

  “What, with Hardcastle?” Lydgate shook his head. “My dear Becks, you might be awake on every other suit, but you are a clodpole when it comes to that woman.”

  That made Beckenham straighten. “What? What do you know of the matter that I don’t?”

  Shrugging, Lydgate sipped his brandy. “I dropped a word into her ear that I noticed her sister seemed to be the object of Hardcastle’s fond gazes. She moved into action immediately. Presumably, to—”

  “—Distract Hardcastle from pursuing her sister and thereby ruining my chances with her,” Beckenham finished.

  An overwhelming relief flowed through him, swiftly followed by chagrin. “Oh, balls,” he said tiredly.

  “You raked her over the coals for it, didn’t you?” said Lydgate. “She is not my favorite person in the world, but at least I can give credit where it’s due. She did it for her sister, and possibly for you, too. She genuinely wants the two of you to make a match of it.”

  Beckenham felt a grim sort of heaviness descend on his chest.

  What did his cousin know about it? He wanted to question Lydgate further but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Ah, hell. I owe her an apology, it seems. Not but what I think she ought to trust to me to cut Hardcastle out with Violet if I wished to do so.”

  “Since when have you ever cut out another gentleman to win a lady’s favor?” said Lydgate amused. “No, not you. You would simply stand there, arms folded, and look brooding and wait for your natural air of impenetrability to entice the lady to your side.”

  That surprised a short laugh from Beckenham. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Oh, come now. Surely you are aware of your effect on women.” Lydgate shook his head. “I’ve seen it often and often, in the old days. There I would be, exerting all the charm and wiles at my disposal, practically turning cartwheels to get some sweet little thing to notice me, and a mere brooding glare from you would draw her like a moth to a flame.”

  “You are ridiculous.”

  “Now, of course,” said Lydgate with a gleam in his eye, “your reputation as a lover of legendary skill precedes you.”

  Beckenham felt himself redden. “Damn you, Lydgate. Will you have done with this nonsense?”

  “Have it your way.” Lydgate drained his glass and set it down. “This crop of young ladies might make very good wives, but they are extremely dull sport for a gentleman determined to remain a bachelor. Now that I have given them the once-over and set everything in train, I must depart.”

  A twinge of something very like panic flickered through Beckenham. “Must you?”

  “Duty calls. I ought not to have stayed this long.”

  Lydgate spent some time creasing the paper to fold it precisely in half and cast it aside. “Do you mind if I give you a word of advice, dear fellow?”

  “Not at all.” Beckenham rarely followed Lydgate’s advice, but it was usually entertaining to hear it.

  “Don’t have Lady Charlotte. She’s a spiteful little cat.”

  “I’d gathered. Is that all?”

  Lydgate hesitated. “Don’t offer for Miss Violet.”

  Startled, Beckenham said, “I thought you were angling for the match. What have you against the girl?”

  “Oh, nothing in the world. No, but I think,” said Lydgate deliberately, “that you ought not to make that particular connection.”

  Beckenham still didn’t understand. “True, her mother is not the most genteel of ladies, but her birth is perfectly respectable.”

  “I am not talking about the girl’s parentage, damn it,” said Lydgate. “I’m talking about her sister. Georgie Black is a walking temptation, Becks, and you know it. Best for you to stay away. Good Lord, her mere presence here ought to tell you she is as close to her sister as can be. Imagine the family gatherings. Those will be cozy.”

  “You’ve changed your tune,” Beckenham remarked, refusing to be drawn on the kind of temptation Georgie presented. “You overrode my doubts on the subject to invite Miss Violet here in the first place.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think that woman would turn up, did I? And I hoped that by now you’d have her out of your system.”

  “You make her sound like a disease.”

  He knew what Lydgate implied, but he’d never been in love with Georgie Black. Committed to her, yes. Infuriated by her headstrong ways, but in love?

  No, he was not a romantic. Men like him did not fall in love. They made sensible, dutiful matches to increase their estates and strengthen their bloodlines. Created more wealth to pass on to future generations. They did not marry out of tender emotions.

  Most certainly, they did not marry to slake a wild lust.

  He was honest enough to admit he felt lust in abundance for Georgie Black. What man could not?

  “I can manage my own affairs, thank you, Lydgate. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, but—”

  “You want me to take my advice and shove off,” said Lydgate cheerfully. “Well, and that’s what I’ll do, old fellow. Just do me a favor and think about what I’ve said. You’re as canny a man as I’ve come across at fixing other people’s messes. But you’re just a little blinkered when it comes to messes of your own.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Savagely, Georgie attacked the bodice of her most striking evening gown with sewing shears, needle, and thread. How fortunate that she’d bought several lengths of pretty lace trim at the village shop today in defiance of Hardcastle’s advice.

  Contrary to Lady Charlotte’s assumptions, Georgie was a clever seamstress. It was the work of a few moments to cut a deeper scoop to the bodice of the evening gown and finish it off with a border of creamy scalloped lace.

  The gown was a muted coral pink, which ought to clash shockingly with her hair. Yet, somehow, it looked just right with her Titian locks, complementing them instead of clashing.

  The cut of the bodice skimmed low across her breasts, allo
wing them to plump up enticingly. She was never in danger of showing nipple, of course—that would be too outré even for her, though she knew some dashingly fashionable ladies thought nothing of it.

  But to a man’s mind, there was always the enticing possibility of seeing more than was decent. And that hope was the reaction she wished to evoke.

  The gown was far less shocking than most you would find at any London ball. The difference, she thought, was that her breasts were so ample. She’d always taken care never to put them so evidently on display.

  Her sister’s reaction when they met before dinner that night told her she’d achieved the effect she sought.

  “Georgie!” Violet exclaimed, flushing. “You look…”

  Georgie fingered the ornate gold cross she wore suspended at her neck. “Do you like it?”

  “Well, I…” Violet blinked. “It is…”

  “Good,” said Georgie, tucking her hand through Violet’s arm. “If you are speechless, only think how Lord Hardcastle will feel. I do like him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed I—But you, Georgie? I did not think you came here in search of a husband.”

  “A husband? Me?” Georgie laughed. “What should I want with a husband? Besides, poor Hardcastle hasn’t a feather to fly with, you know. He’s a fortune-hunter looking for a rich bride.”

  “Is he?” said Violet indifferently. “I hope he may find one. He is quite an amiable gentleman.” She hesitated. “I wish you would not flirt with him so openly, though, Georgie.”

  All at once, Georgie wanted her bluebell back. “Do you?”

  “It … it made you the target of some unkind remarks,” said Violet.

  “And yet, on our walk, I saw you flirt very prettily with Lord Beckenham,” said Georgie, trying to keep the edge from her tone.

  Violet wrinkled her nose. “I like him, but he is more like an older brother or, or a father than someone I could imagine marrying—” She broke off, laughing. “You should see your face, Georgie. What did I say?”

  Georgie shut the jaw she’d allowed to drop open. “Pray do not ever let him hear you say he is like a father. He is not yet thirty.”

  “Well, and I’m only eighteen,” said Violet a trifle sullenly.

  “What did you do with the bluebell?” demanded Georgie.

  “Bluebell? Oh, I forgot about it,” said Violet carelessly. “It must be tangled up in my gown.” She glanced at Georgie. “Why do you ask?”

  Georgie shrugged, struggling to contain a spurt of unjustifiable anger toward her sister. “No reason. I thought you might have plans to wear it at the archery tournament.”

  “Mmm, no, I don’t think I shall, after all,” murmured Violet, checking her exquisite reflection in the looking glass.

  Not trusting herself to speak, Georgie held her peace.

  * * *

  Beckenham tugged at his cravat as he went down the stairs to the drawing room. He’d rehearsed the apology he meant to make several times in his head while his valet fussed over him. Now that it came time to deliver it, he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

  He was trying to devise a pretext by which he might get Georgie alone before dinner to deliver the teeth-clenching words of regret, when he clapped eyes on her.

  Georgie.

  Dear God!

  His first reaction was animal and raw, a surge of blood and heat straight to his groin, a dryness in his mouth. The strong beat of his pulse took up residence in his ears. He couldn’t breathe.

  She wore a gown that reminded him of wild strawberries. Those white, mouthwatering mounds of her breasts looked like generous dollops of cream, waiting to be licked. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that the color of that dress was the precise color of all her womanly flesh: her nipples, the soft, intimate parts of her that he’d always longed to explore.

  She was a sensual banquet laid out before him. He wanted to spread her on the dining table and feast.

  He stood in the hall, unmoving, as if sculpted from marble like the Greek gods that surrounded him, until a soft, masculine rumble sounded in his ear. “Magnificent, ain’t she? What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on those.”

  The speaker was Lord Oliphant, Lady Charlotte’s father.

  Beckenham felt the old rage rise up in him, and his fists clenched. Too late he recalled that what was on display for his delectation could also be seen by any number of other men. And they would not be slow to express their appreciation.

  More than express it, if given half the chance.

  Too late he realized that particular display was not even made for his benefit.

  All intention of asking forgiveness for misjudging her that afternoon flew from his brain. No matter what her motives were, she went too far this time.

  With an effort, he stopped himself seizing the raddled roué beside him by the throat and stepped back to let the older man precede him into the drawing room.

  * * *

  The storm brewed all night long. Though he made no attempt to speak with her, Beckenham was a dark mass of clouds gathering, crackling with electricity, ready to burst over them both.

  Georgie lifted her chin. She looked forward to the coming confrontation. Relished the prospect.

  She did not need to encourage the men to dangle after her. The only one who did not ogle her shamefully was Hardcastle. The one man who ought to be the focus of her attention.

  But she was too angry to care about Hardcastle just now. Even the startled look Lady Arden sent her did not dull the edge of her fury.

  How far might she push Lord Beckenham without doing anything at all? She knew her attitude was perverse, even self-destructive, but she could not seem to stop herself.

  And what did she have to lose, anyway? Violet would not marry Beckenham, but someone else would, and then Georgie would have to fly far away, live on the Continent. Africa, perhaps. Somewhere she would not have to witness him making a family and a home without her.

  She knew she was in trouble when Lady Arden touched her elbow as the ladies left the gentlemen to their port.

  “My dear Georgie. I can tell from the glitter in your eyes that this evening will not end well for you. Have a care, my love.”

  She had the strangest urge to throw herself into Lady Arden’s arms and sob her heart out, the way she’d done six years ago, when she finally accepted that all was lost between her and Beckenham.

  But she couldn’t do that now. “You need not be concerned, my lady. I shall retire early tonight.” There was a distinct pinch between her eyes. “In fact, I shall retire immediately. I have the headache.”

  Lady Arden nodded briskly. “Yes, perhaps that is best. Things often look different in the morning.”

  Georgie did not retire immediately to her room, however.

  The dowagers had insisted that the doors and windows to the drawing room remained closed. Consequently, the room had been stuffy and hot.

  Feeling the need for fresh air, Georgie slipped out onto the terrace through the long window in the library.

  She contemplated the folly of what she’d done. Her temper had always been her downfall, and tonight was no exception. She’d intended to draw all eyes—most particularly, Beckenham’s.

  She’d wanted to provoke a confrontation. Too late to realize there was nothing left to say. They’d been over this time and again.

  “Waiting for someone?”

  The harsh voice startled her. She jumped, swung around, her heart hammering.

  Beckenham. He hadn’t lost time following her.

  She swallowed. “I suppose I was waiting for you.”

  The honesty of that answer struck her. Yes, she had been waiting for him. She hadn’t quite given up hope of divining his reaction, of feeling it.

  “Flattering,” he said. “And here I’d thought all of this…” He let his gaze run slowly down her body. “All of this was for young Hardcastle.”

  She looked at him straightly. She’d never liked games. She wouldn’t
play this one any more. “I told you. He is a boy.”

  He joined her at the balustrade, braced his hands shoulder width apart upon it, and stared off into the distance. Then his head snapped around and his glittering dark eyes bored into hers. “Sometimes I wonder if you know how very—” He sighed, gestured at her. “Georgie, your, you—” He shook his head, as if frustrated that he could not put into words what he wanted to express.

  “What?” she demanded. “You need not scruple to say it, since you’ve insulted me quite comprehensively already today.”

  “Look at yourself!” he ground out. “Deliberately provocative, putting everything on show. Inviting all kinds of lewd comments. Lord Oliphant even—” He broke off. “Never mind.”

  She raised her brows. Men made lewd comments about her whatever she wore. Tonight, she’d taken command of her feminine power and wielded it as a weapon.

  She shrugged. “What do I care for the opinions of a parcel of old rakes?”

  “It’s not just rakes.” He pushed away from the balustrade and turned, shoving fingers through his hair. He swung back. “A man can’t help but think of making love to you whenever he looks at you.”

  He broke off, as if horrified at his own frankness.

  They stared at one another.

  Her heart beat frantically. She swallowed hard. Did that mean that he found her alluring?

  Yes, it must. It did.

  And yet, he’d had no trouble resisting her that night in Brighton, hadn’t he?

  Something tore inside her. For years, her better self had waged war against a nature that was passionate, sensuous, with the Devil’s own temper.

  At eighteen she’d let her passions reign—and what a mistake that had been. In the intervening years she’d subdued them, repressed them, until it was second nature to deny her impulses.

  Now, the passionate, sensuous, Devil-tempered creature flamed up inside her, laying waste to coherent thought.

  “Do you want to make love to me, Marcus?”

  The words, a husky whisper, spooled between them like an invisible thread.

  He looked away. She saw the convulsive movement in his throat. “I told you. It’s a normal reaction for a red-blooded male when he sees a woman like you looking like this. Pure biology.”