The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  Violet’s face went curiously blank. “Scotland,” she repeated, almost as if to herself. “I should like that.”

  “Well, we’ll see what your mama says,” said Lady Arden.

  She went on to lay out her plans for Violet’s debut. What she would wear, the parties she might attend, the people to whom she ought to make herself agreeable. And of course, the eligible bachelors she might wed.

  “You are in the capital position of inheriting a handsome property,” said Lady Arden. “To a man like Beckenham who already owns a large estate, Cloverleigh would be no more than an additional source of income. It would not be his principal seat. That is something to consider if you wish to make your home at Cloverleigh.”

  There was a pause. “I haven’t lived there for years,” said Violet. “I do not think it would matter to me.”

  Something in Violet’s manner was off, but Georgie couldn’t pinpoint it. It occurred to her how very adept at prevarication Violet was. She had never betrayed her true feelings about this house party to Georgie by word or by deed. What else might she be concealing?

  “So, you are saying we ought not rule out gentlemen of wealth but no property,” said Georgie. “Perhaps even a younger son if he has a decent fortune.”

  She hadn’t considered that Violet might remain in the district. They could be neighbors. The thought gladdened her.

  “That’s right,” said Lady Arden. “What we do not want, on any account, is a gentlemen whose own estate requires a great deal of capital expenditure.”

  As the conversation progressed, Violet grew increasingly remote. Disquiet crept through Georgie’s body. She must make a point of speaking with her alone about all this.

  Eventually, with several matters settled to Lady Arden’s satisfaction, it was agreed that subject to Lady Black’s approval, Violet would leave for Scotland with Lady Arden immediately after Georgie’s wedding.

  Later, Georgie taxed Violet with her suspicions in the most tactful way she could think of. “Darling, things seem to be moving fast where you are concerned. Do you find it overwhelming?”

  “Not at all,” said Violet. “Only, I had thought that you might stand up for me, Georgie.”

  “Stand up for you? I want nothing but the best for you. You know that,” said Georgie, taken aback.

  “You and Beckenham are marrying for love,” Violet said quietly. “You are so happy, you don’t even hear what people say to you half the time. Don’t you think I deserve that, too?”

  “Oh, Violet,” said Georgie, touching her arm. “Of course I do.”

  How could she have been so obtuse? And how could she possibly urge caution and prudence upon Violet? When Georgie knew that if Beckenham had been the village blacksmith, she would not have let anyone or anything stop her marrying him.

  “Is there a particular gentleman you might be thinking of?” said Georgie.

  “No, but it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that one day I might, is it?”

  Relieved, Georgie said, “Well, my dear, you may just as well fall in love with a suitable gentleman during your season as with an unsuitable one. You may be sure that I won’t let anyone thrust you into a match that will make you unhappy.” She hugged her sister. “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it? Enjoy your come-out and see what happens?”

  Violet gave herself a little shake. “Yes. You are right, Georgie. I will do that. Of course.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Georgie, I must leave you tomorrow,” said Beckenham. “I shan’t be above a night. Perhaps two.”

  Georgie was cutting flowers for the house, laying them in a boat-shaped basket. She looked up. “Oh?”

  She’d appeared so serene, so content as she moved purposefully through the walled rose garden, choosing the best blooms and clipping them efficiently with her shears. Beckenham had watched her for some time.

  He drank in the sight of her, dressed in her dimity gown and floppy straw hat. His head filled with the heady scent of roses, senses lulled by the lazy drone of bees. He’d never dared to imagine he and Georgie might fall easily into such everyday domestic patterns.

  Beckenham smiled to himself. Calling Georgie Black domestic was like calling a tigress a kitchen cat. But he couldn’t deny he enjoyed the way she’d begun to make herself at home in his house.

  Now, he said, “My business is unavoidable, or God knows, I’d have put it off.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He wouldn’t lie to her. “Bath.”

  Her gaze sharpened, but she didn’t hurry to give expression to the emotions that chased across her face. She bent to arrange the flowers in her basket, long lashes shadowing her eyes.

  He’d assured her he had no intention of challenging Pearce over her recent disclosure, or at all. He’d explained that since Pearce hadn’t shown up to their previous affair of honor, the matter could not be revisited, ever.

  Besides, a duel, no matter how quietly conducted, would always become common knowledge. He’d grown wiser than his twenty-four-year-old self in the intervening years. Still, she’d been unconvinced until he admitted he meant to get her indiscreet letter back. He’d just have to find another way.

  “You said we needed to be clever about retrieving the letter,” she reminded him now. “Have you thought of something clever?”

  “Perhaps.” He frowned, taking the basket from her. “I don’t want to raise your hopes. It rather depends on the circumstances. I go to Bath now because Lydgate has written that Pearce’s aunt may not last the week.”

  “You expect him to act against me once that is resolved,” said Georgie.

  “It’s likely, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Georgie, adding yet another rose—this time, a perfect, pale pink bloom—to the heavily laden basket.

  He knew refusing her outright would set up her hackles. “How would that look? We are not married yet.”

  “No matter. My stepmother is staying in Bath for her health. Drinking the waters, you know. Violet and I need only join her there.” Georgie made a face. “I must tell her of our engagement sometime, I suppose. She’ll be furious with me.”

  He was indifferent to Lady Black’s wishes, but he said, “You will have to find Violet a brilliant match to make up for stealing me.”

  She laughed. “I did not steal you. You threw yourself at my head, and so I shall tell my stepmother.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “You cannot steal what was always yours to begin with.”

  Her features lit with such tenderness, she made his heart warm in his chest. “I just misplaced you for a while?”

  “Why am I now feeling like a dropped handkerchief?” he wondered.

  “But my very favorite handkerchief, at that.”

  He chuckled, and as they walked on, she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  “I am well aware that you simply burn to forbid me the journey,” she said, returning to the subject of Bath, as he knew she would. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your forbearance.”

  “Generous of you.” He narrowed his eyes a little against the sun. “Might I ask you—beg you—not to come to Bath?”

  “I would not interfere,” she said.

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Unless absolutely necessary,” she added.

  The basket dropped to the ground, spilling flowers. He gripped her arms. “This is not a game, Georgie. You of all people should know that. I am prepared to discuss my plans with you. I’m prepared to listen to your opinions. But there is more than this letter between Pearce and me. This time you will stay out of it, do you hear?”

  Danger flashed in her eyes, but her lips formed a brilliant smile. “Oh, Marcus!” she cooed. “I do so love it when you turn masterful.”

  Abruptly, he let go of her and stooped to return the scattered flowers to their basket.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft now. He felt her fingertips brush his
shoulder, a fleeting touch. “You know how I hate to be left out of things.”

  He straightened, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile. At least she hadn’t flown into a rage. They made progress, it seemed. “You will have to take it as payment in kind for hoodwinking me about the duel.”

  She bit her lip, then sighed. “In your shoes, I’d have been furious with me,” she admitted.

  He had been furious. Furious, frustrated at his unwitting impotence. But also deeply, powerfully touched—awestruck, even—that she’d risked so much to secure his safety. Could he do any less for her?

  By tacit consent, they turned their steps toward the house and she said no more about Bath.

  Gracious of her to concede so quickly. He’d thought to have a fight on his hands. He still wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t scheme to get to Bath in spite of him, but much as his instinct screamed at him to forbid it, he’d learned to his cost that wasn’t the way to go about negotiating with her.

  The truth niggled at him like a splinter in his thumb. He didn’t want her to go with him because he was afraid. Fearful that in Bath she’d be accessible to Pearce; that until his own wedding ring was on her finger, all manner of things might go awry.

  He knew better now than to take her or their betrothal for granted. Every night, he woke in a panic until he remembered she was still there with him at Winford, still his. If only Montford would make haste with that damned special license!

  At least, in the meantime, he might act to rid them of the menace named Pearce.

  He gave no sign of his inner turmoil, nor of his relief at her reasonableness over Bath.

  “You might wish to rest before dinner.” He smiled down at her. “I have something planned for this evening that will require all of your considerable energy and attention.”

  “Actually, I have made plans of my own for us tonight,” said Georgie with a glance at him under her lashes.

  The husky note in her voice heated his blood. He quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Meet me in your boxing saloon at midnight,” she murmured, taking the basket from him as they gained the terrace, where Lady Arden and Violet were taking tea.

  Having expected something infinitely more enticing, he was disappointed. A thought occurred to him and he frowned. “How many times have I told you, Georgie? I will not teach you to fence.”

  “It’s nothing like that. You’ll see.” She flashed him a smile that was at once mischievous and slightly … nervous?

  That disconcerted him, made him more than a little wary. Georgie, in this mood, was unpredictable. She seemed to have taken his refusal to allow her a role in retrieving her letter in good part; he trusted tonight wouldn’t involve some devious plan to punish him for his tyranny.

  She refused to be drawn on the surprise she had in store for him. Lady Arden and Violet were within earshot by now, so reluctantly, he held his peace.

  * * *

  Beckenham strode into his boxing saloon at the appointed hour, anticipation flowing through his veins. Uncertainty eddied at the edges, though. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked surprises. Particularly when he couldn’t quite gauge Georgie’s mood.

  He’d worn a minimum of clothing, leaving off coat, waistcoat, and cravat in the optimistic conviction he wouldn’t be wearing anything for very long.

  He glanced about him. The place was cavernous, a little cooler than the sultry summer air outside. Lit with a few branches of candles here and there.

  It was also empty.

  Or no. Not entirely empty. A chair had been placed in the middle of the bare floor.

  He tilted his head to study it. What game was she playing now?

  He walked over to the chair and saw a length of black velvet and a note.

  The note read: The blindfold is for you. Put it on. And as rather an afterthought, the word please had been added below.

  Hmm.

  He reached out to finger the soft nap of the velvet band, tingles shooting up his spine to prickle at his nape.

  Intriguing. Definitely suggestive. And yet …

  He found himself strangely reluctant to obey the playful command.

  Again, he looked around. “Georgie?”

  No answer. Clearly, she would not show herself until he did her bidding with the blindfold. And then what? His mind reeled at the possibilities.

  His heart began to hammer wildly as he picked up the length of velvet. His throat dried and his chest tightened until he could scarcely breathe.

  He let the blindfold spool from his hand to puddle on the chair.

  “All right, Georgie, you’ve had your fun.” She would think him a poor sport, a boring old stick-in-the-mud, but … He swallowed hard. Or tried to. His mouth was lined with sandpaper.

  No answer.

  She must be hiding here somewhere. He’d find her, damn it. She didn’t need tricks like this to arouse him to fever pitch. He didn’t need to wear a blindfold for her to drive him crazed with desire.

  Then he hesitated. He remembered the trace of anxiety in her face that afternoon, when she’d told him to meet her here. He knew that while inexperienced, Georgie had a deeply passionate, sensual nature. She wanted to explore with him, experiment.

  God, he was all for exploring and experimenting. One hundred percent for it, in fact. He had several interesting things in mind, himself.

  He just did not want to wear that blindfold.

  “Georgie?” His voice was hoarse now. He licked his lips.

  Again, silence so deep, it seemed to sing in his ears. She wouldn’t come out of hiding until he tied that bloody strip of black velvet around his eyes.

  On some strange level, he understood that this was very important to her, to them both. If he refused to play along, it might … well, she might take it as a rebuff and become less … adventurous, take less initiative in future.

  Vulnerability. That’s what he’d seen in her face that afternoon. If he rejected this overture, he’d strike at something precious. He wouldn’t hurt her for the world.

  An invisible band around his chest seemed to tighten as he reached out again for the blindfold. His hand actually shook.

  Damn it! Put it on, you fool. What are you waiting for? It was only a blindfold, not a scold’s bridle.

  He snatched up the length of velvet. In jerky, rough movements, he pressed the blindfold to his face, tied it in place behind his head. Rather tighter than was comfortable.

  The world went black. He knew several moments of acute disorientation, heard the harsh saw of his own breaths. The material seemed to suffocate him, even though it left his nostrils and mouth free. The knot bit into the back of his skull.

  He sucked in air, forced himself not to rip the damned thing off again.

  His voice was hoarse. “I’ve done it. Georgie? Georgie, you can come out now.”

  * * *

  Courage, Georgie.

  She slipped out from behind the door that connected the boxing saloon to a change room. Silently, she watched Beckenham’s tall, broad-shouldered figure. She saw with approval that he’d dressed appropriately for the occasion.

  She herself had stripped down to nothing but a thin lawn shift for this meeting. Feeling the cool air brush against her bare arms, she padded in bare feet toward him.

  Mr. Mahomed’s baths had given her the idea. She’d wanted it to be a complete surprise, however, and until she hit on the notion of a blindfold, she’d been at a loss to know how to get Beckenham to the bathhouse without hinting at her plans.

  The boxing saloon adjoined the bathhouse by a narrow corridor, purpose-built to allow Beckenham to move from training direct to a hot bath without exposing his overheated body to the cold outside.

  On approach, she saw now that Beckenham held himself with an odd tension. She hadn’t expected him to react as he had to the simple act of blindfolding himself. But then, he was a man who liked to be in control, wasn’t he?

  “Marcus,” she whispered, making him turn his head sharply in
her direction. “I’m here.”

  He gave a sharp gasp when she touched his shoulder. That pleased her. Determined to take this as slowly as they both might stand, she trailed her fingertips from his shoulder across his chest, until she met warm skin and the scribble of dark, springy hair exposed by the open V of his shirt.

  Her desire ratcheted up a notch with that touch. He was hers, all hers, to do with as she wished. Hers to pleasure. Hers to love.

  She glanced down. Whatever Beckenham’s feelings on the subject of blindfolds, the bulge in his trousers told her without doubt that he was as aroused as she.

  He smelled of starch and a faint trace of soap and more than a hint of man. Georgie slid her hand beneath his shirt, explored the hard plates of his chest, caressed the smooth, burning hot skin. She stood on tiptoe and leaned into him, pressed a kiss to the place between his clavicles, saw the hard, convulsive movement in his throat.

  He breathed heavily; she felt it, heard it, and yet she thought she might well be the first of them to break. She couldn’t wait much longer. Perhaps she might save this sort of thing for another time.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  Taking his hand, she led him slowly across the room and step by step, down the short connecting corridor. He waited, a muscle ticcing in his jaw, while she opened the door.

  “Here we are.”

  Steam greeted them in great rolling puffs. When it cleared a little, Georgie paused to admire her handiwork.

  The room was an octagonal shape, with a massive round bath set in its center, built over a hot spring. Murals of bacchanalian feasts covered the walls; the ceiling was a pagan sky filled with angry-looking gods.

  The curtains at the massive arched windows were drawn against prying eyes. She’d lit candles everywhere. Their flames were reflected like fairy lights in the pool. On the water’s surface floated a myriad rose petals of different colors, from deep burgundy and scarlet through to pink and white. The air was sweet and spicy, redolent of certain preparations she’d purchased from Mr. Mahomed’s in Brighton.