It took all her courage to maintain her confidence in the face of that statement. “Oh, I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I don’t think it’s such an impersonal reaction as that.”
He lifted his gaze to the sky, as if searching for an answer in the stars. Another convulsive movement in his throat.
Her evil genius made her push him to acknowledge it. She wanted, suddenly, to get him as hot and bothered as he’d made her in the villa that night.
That’s what Delilahs did, wasn’t it? Or was that a Jezebel? She’d never paid an awful lot of attention to the words men used to describe the women who held power over them.
Anger flared again at the castigation. Delilah. She’d tempt him, all right. She’d make him surrender his power to her, just like Samson did.
* * *
“What would you do to me, if you could?” The husky words caressed, abraded, stirred Beckenham’s blood to fever pitch.
The part of him that had been growing ever more interested in this conversation hardened to a painful rod.
He couldn’t pinpoint when his righteous indignation had spiraled yet again into lust laced with fury. But he verged on doing something reckless, out here in the privacy of the night.
She was wanton, staring back at him with those amazing eyes, like a calm exotic sea. But no, they were not calm, those eyes. Angry little sparks flew from them like lightning bolts.
She was furious. Well, damn it, so was he.
Rage made her reckless. She’d asked him what he would do to her. He posed the corollary. “What would you like me to do?”
Her color fluctuated in a delicious wash of pink. It only emphasized the smooth creaminess of her skin, the utter brilliance of her eyes.
Those breasts. God, he wanted to plunge his face between them, fill his hands with them, lick them all over until she screamed. And that hair. He’d drag his fingers through the fire of it while he loved her until she forgot her own name.
She had nothing to say to his question. Why would she? They were speaking of his desire, after all.
He closed the distance between them. Panic flickered in her eyes, but she stood her ground. She had her back to the balustrade. There was nowhere for her to go.
Yes, she was so angry, she would kiss him merely to punish him, to show him that he was not the one in control.
He found that he didn’t give a button about control, about mastering her physically or in this battle of wills between them.
He just wanted her. And he was tired of denying himself.
Had she been here only a few days? It felt like a century that he’d struggled against this need. For six years they’d been apart. And not a day had passed in that time when he hadn’t thought of her, desired her.
Now she was here, making suggestive remarks. That perilously low-cut bodice begged him to finish the job and free her magnificent breasts to the balmy night air.
One day you’ll discover you’re not such a damned paragon. You’re made of flesh and blood and base carnal instincts. Just like me, just like your grandfather, just like every other man.…
Pearce’s words came to him suddenly, out of nowhere. He’d come close to choking the life out of the cur for saying them, among other things.
Suddenly, he stepped outside himself and took a long hard look. If he took Georgie now, as he’d had every intention of doing, he’d be no better than the rest. He wouldn’t deserve her any more than they did.
It struck him that she didn’t know her true worth or she wouldn’t fling herself at him like this.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, willing his desire-crazed body to calm down.
She blinked. “What?”
Her emotions swung on a pendulum; he saw it in her face. She didn’t know whether to be furious or relieved.
His certainty grew. “Don’t behave this way. It isn’t honest. It isn’t you.”
That’s what had always inflamed him, he realized now. He wasn’t jealous of any of those men who slavered over her body, extolled her beautiful face. He’d been angry at her for holding herself so cheaply as to flirt with them, for seeking to manipulate men with the only power they allowed her.
What they never saw was the strength, the wit, the godawful temper, willfulness, the compassion and courage that made up the woman. They never saw past her spectacular looks.
He ignored the siren call of her body and gently, almost reverentially, touched her cheek. “You don’t need to pretend with me.”
Her face threatened to crumple, but only for a second. She stared at him, an expression that was almost fearful in her eyes. “I don’t know what you—”
He kissed her. Slid his fingers into her loose, luxuriant coiffure; framed her face with his hands; and took her mouth with his.
Her scent dizzied him. Desire rampaged through his body like a baited beast but he beat it back, used all his considerable will to keep his lips gentle, to draw out her response.
And just like that, it was as if he’d slashed the ropes tethering a balloon to the ground. His whole spirit lifted, soared high and bright. Filled with an extraordinary sense of rightness, even as the flame of his passion for her burned ever brighter.
He felt her initial gasp of surprise, the uncertainty in her response. Leashing the straining lust inside him, he kept the kiss soft, almost languid in its slow, gentle rhythm.
On a shuddering sigh, her mouth clung sweetly to his. Her hands slid up his coat lapels and twined together at his nape.
She’d never know what it cost him to keep his own hands where they were, not out of respect for her maidenly virtue, but because he wanted to show her this was about more than animal instincts and carnal pleasure. So much more, he couldn’t find the words. He’d have to tell her with his kiss instead.
He was the one who drew back first, touching his forehead to hers, sliding his hands to her slim shoulders. “Georgie,” he murmured against her lips. “Marry me.”
She went still.
“We belong together, Georgie,” he said. “Don’t deny it. Don’t lie to yourself.”
Moments passed before she found her voice. “But I … Marcus, what about…” She made a helpless gesture back toward the house.
“I don’t want Violet. I don’t want any of them. It was a stupid, ill-conceived business from the start.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “I’ve always wanted you. I think you know that.”
She drew back, just a little, and he let his hands fall to his sides. He didn’t try to stop her, just tensed for her reply.
Georgie pressed her fingertips to her temple, as if prodding her brain to action. “I’m sorry. I cannot answer you now. I cannot think.”
The disappointment was like a physical blow. He’d hoped for her enthusiastic, impulsive acceptance. He’d wanted to take her to bed tonight, to claim her, body and soul, for his own. He’d give himself over entirely to her pleasure, be her slave, be the best lover any woman had ever known. Show her how vital she was to his happiness.
Happiness. Had he ever even hoped to be happy?
She bit her lip. Her fingertips touched behind her ear in that way she had when she was deeply troubled.
Abruptly, he said, “Whatever your answer, I won’t marry Violet. Or any of them.” Or anyone at all. “Don’t allow loyalty to your sister to sway you.”
“No,” she whispered. “No, I won’t.”
With a convulsive swallow and a clipped nod, she slipped from between his body and the banister and moved past him. A strange melancholy clung to her graceful, elegant figure as she returned to the house.
His voice, hoarse with emotion, probably didn’t reach her. “Say yes, Georgie. Please, say yes.”
Chapter Sixteen
Oh, that kiss.
In bed later that night, Georgie pressed her fingertips to her lips. She’d never known Beckenham was capable of such tenderness. Even now, simply recalling the aching sweetness of the way his lips had molded to hers, she nearly melted into the sheets.
That kiss had told her he knew her, inside and out, that he cherished her, that he … That he loved her? Was she deluding herself to read so much into a physical act?
Men, she knew, tended not to connect physical acts with tender feelings of any kind.
But try as she might, she couldn’t be cynical about it. She’d begun by attempting to dominate him, to use his evident desire for her against him.
His response hadn’t been a matter of tactics. He’d called her bluff, dared her to be truthful, authentic in a way no one had ever demanded of her before. If that kiss had been an honest expression of his feelings, she’d be every kind of fool to say him nay.
She hadn’t delayed her answer to torment him. She’d been bowled over by his words, brought to her knees by his kiss. He’d been right about her, she realized, and that hurt more than she could ever admit.
Her father had spoiled her as a child. Giving in to her blandishments, he’d treated her like a son, taking her with him wherever he went as he carried out his duties at Cloverleigh. His pride in the land, his love and sense of responsibility for the people who worked it, had infused her blood.
As the years passed and her stepmother did not produce a son, Georgie had accepted gladly that Cloverleigh would be her responsibility one day.
Then came the news: She was to be betrothed to Lord Beckenham, who lived on the neighboring estate.
The day of her betrothal, her father’s attitude changed. She was to stop careering about the countryside like a hoyden and learn to act like a lady, like a future countess. She would make her come-out one day. She must do her utmost to be a credit to the earl.
Suddenly, decisions were taken about the estate without even the pretense of discussing them with her. Her father set her at a clear distance, rebuffing her attempts to persuade him to change his mind, punishing her acts of defiance.
She’d been devastated. Not only because he’d dismissed her from a role she loved, but because her father seemed determined to forget all about her. Now she was a girl again, she’d become a creature of no importance.
And this quiet, dark-eyed young man who was to be her husband seemed no better. Reticent to the point of brusqueness, the cares of the world on his broad shoulders, he did not seem like the sort of man who’d treat her as an equal when it came to matters of business.
She knew Marcus had had much to bear from his grandfather while the old earl had lived. Even she’d heard tales of drunken rampages and mindless, twisted violence. And those were the stories people in the district had thought fit to repeat to a young girl.
Marcus was determined to continue his former guardian’s work, putting his grandfather’s estate to rights. She honored him for it, knew that he would husband her land equally well. But if her own father shelved her like a china doll, what hope did she have that any other man would respect her opinions?
Years passed. Lady Arden swept into her life and taught her everything she needed to know about the Ton. She’d been a late bloomer, physically. But as her body developed interesting curves, she’d learned lessons her mentor hadn’t taught her, too. About attracting men, controlling them.
She remembered presenting herself to her papa all decked out in her finery on the night of her come-out ball, hoping her appearance would somehow reanimate his affection for her. He’d barely looked up from his work.
Something had snapped inside her that night. As the gentlemen of the Ton fell like spillikins around her, she’d taken pleasure in playing the femme fatale, enjoyed the heady rush of power her appearance brought.
Only Beckenham had refused to play her game. The one man she’d wanted was the only one she couldn’t bring to heel. And in the end, she discovered the kind of power she’d wielded wasn’t power at all. Quite the reverse, in fact.
Tonight, she’d committed the folly of trying to use that illusory weapon against Beckenham. If she’d succeeded, she would have ruined any chance they might have had.
He’d seen through her. Dear God, how that had hurt. She’d thought herself so clever, brilliant and untouchable as fire before he’d called her bluff.
And he’d done it without any assertion of his own considerable power. He’d seen her clearly, and he’d cherished her for who she was.
If that wasn’t love …
Did it truly matter that he hadn’t said the words? Perhaps he never would. Perhaps in time he would say them. She wouldn’t try to force him or beguile him into it.
Her love for him was a foregone conclusion. She’d loved him for so long, she couldn’t pinpoint when she’d begun. It was simply a part of her, like her heartbeat.
With a hard clutch in her stomach, she remembered Pearce. The letter.
No. She would not let Pearce spoil everything again. She’d tell Marcus. All of it must be open between them now. She didn’t think he’d spurn her when he knew the truth. Not if he loved her. Once she and Beckenham were married, Pearce could not injure her in any way that truly mattered.
She stretched, exhilaration flowing through her body, despite the anxiety. Tomorrow, she would tell Marcus yes. She couldn’t wait for the morning to come.
As she lay there, wakeful in the darkness, the minutes dragged by. She was so restless, she was almost tempted to slip out and throw herself into the lake. All this nervous energy needed expending somewhere.
Suddenly, the door opened, startling her. Beckenham paused in the doorway, holding his candle, watching her.
* * *
“Marcus!” Georgie scrambled up to a sitting position, the covers drawn up to her bosom.
Her eyes were wide with shock, lips slightly trembling. The glorious hair was neatly plaited into a braid. Her face looked scrubbed clean, fresh as a daisy, her creamy complexion glowing with innocence in the moonlight.
He experienced a momentary qualm. There was no going back for either of them if he went through with this. “Tell me to go away and I will.”
“No, don’t go.” She dropped the covers, held out a hand to him, her smile luminous. “How did you know I’ve been wishing for you?”
Desire flared as he came into the room. Her night rail was unadorned, made up high at the throat. Prosaic. Out of character, if one considered the inflammatory gown she’d worn that very evening. Only he knew that this was the real Georgie.
Softly, he closed the door, turned the key in the lock.
“I’ve come for your answer,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. “I couldn’t wait.”
“Yes, Marcus.” She said it simply, closing her eyes, opening them again. “Of course. The answer is yes.”
Beckenham leaned in, capturing the hand she stretched out to him, and kissed her.
His other hand came up to her hair. “I need to do this,” he said, tugging the ribbon from the tail of the braid. He ran his fingers through it to loosen and separate the thick strands of fire until they spread and rippled around her face. So soft …
“There.”
When he moved to kiss her again, she stopped him, her palm pressed flat against his chest. “Marcus, I hate to do this, but before we … I—I need to tell you something.”
Everything inside him stilled. His body felt the delay as an acute form of torture, but he could not afford to make a misstep now. Not when he was so close to making her his.
“Yes?”
She touched his arm. “I have to tell you the truth about that duel. About Pearce.”
There was a sick churn in his stomach but he forced himself to nod. “Go on.”
She dropped her gaze. “Yes. Well.” She drew a deep breath. “When you would not listen to me about the duel, I became frantic. You see, I knew the ugly mood Pearce was in. I knew he wanted to kill you. I went straight back to the ballroom and found him. I told him that you and I had fought. That our betrothal was over. And that…”
She raised her gaze to the silk canopy overhead and swallowed. “I said that I would run away with him, as he’d begged me to do. But that it wou
ld have to be the following morning, early, for Papa was taking me back to Gloucestershire on the morrow.”
He sat back, stunned. “And he believed you?”
Her mouth took on an oddly grim line. “I can be very convincing. But he didn’t entirely trust me, even so. He made me write him a letter.”
He frowned. “A letter. What did it say?”
She flushed. “It doesn’t matter what it said. I didn’t mean a word of it, not about him. The point was to give him something that would prove my intent to fly with him to Gretna Green. He’s not stupid. He knew my motive was to prevent the duel. The only way I could convince him I would go through with the elopement was to pen that note.”
“A love note, one presumes.”
She nodded.
“And he threatened to make the letter public if you didn’t follow through.”
“Yes.”
It was as if he’d separated into two distinct versions of himself. The one man consumed with rage of such a magnitude, he could have laid waste to entire civilizations. The other considering, calculating, planning what must be done.
“I duped Pearce,” said Georgie without any vestige of pride. “I didn’t turn up at our meeting place, and by the time he’d realized I wasn’t coming, the hour for the duel had passed.”
And he’d been oblivious to it all. Beckenham stared at her. Devil take it! Pearce had been blackballed from every club, shunned by his peers, practically hounded out of the country once the news of his supposed cowardice had become common knowledge. All Georgie’s doing.
Beckenham ought to be furious with her. If he’d known at the time, he would have found her interference appalling, scandalously reckless, emasculating, impossible to forgive. Now, all he cared about was that she must not suffer for what she’d done.
“What happened to the letter?” Surely all this careful planning had allowed her to retrieve it, also.
“He still has it. I couldn’t see a way to get it back without showing my hand, you see. And of course, he left England immediately afterwards. There was simply no time to get it back.”
The Greatest Lover Ever Page 20
