He opened his mouth to make the threat. He’d even rehearsed it in his head the entire way from Bath. The letter, Pearce, or I’ll whisper your terrible secret in your dying aunt’s ear. See how you go securing her fortune then.
Too late, he found he couldn’t say the words. Not with Georgie standing there, looking at him as if he’d hung the moon and the stars for her. Not even without her to witness. Not even to spare her could he lower himself to such a despicable act. How could he live with himself, threatening to expose a man’s undeserved misfortune? A misfortune his own grandfather had perpetrated.
And yet, how could he fail Georgie so miserably? There must be another way.
Almost gently, Georgie said, “I love Lord Beckenham and he loves me. We will be married, Lord Pearce, whether you publish that letter or not.”
Beckenham’s gaze switched to Pearce, and surprised an expression of such agony that he thought he must have been mistaken.
But then all the pieces suddenly fell into place. From the start, every choice Pearce had made pointed to one thing.
When he’d been offered the chance to wreak revenge on Beckenham in the duel, had he taken it? No. He’d agreed to fly away with Georgie instead. Even though he must have been aware the entire arrangement was a ploy to save Beckenham.
He’d been duped, disgraced, forced to leave England.
In Bath, once again, he’d been offered an impossible choice. Leave his wealthy aunt at a critical moment, a choice that might well lose him a fortune, or take the opportunity of Beckenham’s absence to win Georgie before she became Beckenham’s forever.
His way of showing it, of courting Georgie by treachery and blackmail had been all wrong, but in his own way, he loved her.
“You never intended to use that letter, did you, Pearce?” said Beckenham abruptly.
Pearce’s eyes glittered. “What? Are you mistaking me for your honorable self, Beckenham?”
“Oh, I would never do that,” said Beckenham. “But I think I’m right about you, all the same.”
He held out his hand to Georgie. “Come, my dear. Let us leave Pearce to wreak whatever revenge he may.”
If she was puzzled or surprised, she hid it well. “Of course, my lord.”
She swept Pearce a curtsy and they turned to go.
“Do you want to know what’s in that letter, Beckenham?” Pearce’s voice ripped through the room to them.
He felt Georgie stiffen.
Beckenham turned. “Not particularly. But I suppose you mean to show me.”
His heart pounded. He’d not imagined he might push Pearce to hand the letter over. It seemed too good to be true. Until he realized this was a last-ditch effort on Pearce’s part to cause a rift between him and Georgie.
Very well. If that’s how he means to play …
* * *
Georgie gripped Beckenham’s arm hard. Don’t do this, she pleaded with him silently. Don’t read it and ruin everything between us.
The things she’d written! The things Pearce had made her write!
No man could overlook or ignore such sentiments penned by his wife to another man.
She addressed Pearce. “You don’t keep that stupid note on your person, surely.” Her tone was annoyingly shaky.
“But of course he does,” said Beckenham. “What man wouldn’t treasure a love note of yours, my dear? Even one penned under duress.”
True to Beckenham’s prediction, with a sneer at Beckenham, Pearce put his hand into his waistcoat and drew out a rather tattered-looking piece of parchment.
Georgie had an urge to fly at Pearce, to rake that smug, smiling face with her nails. To snatch those lurid, false words and hurl them into the fire.
Would Beckenham take the opportunity to destroy it? She prayed he would do so without even glancing at the contents.
But no. Of course he took the letter and bent his head to read.
She let her hand drop from the crook of his elbow. Felt the space between them grow wider and colder with every heartbeat.
The time that followed must have been mere minutes. Seconds, even. To Georgie, they stretched out forever. Her heart hammered in her breast. Her palms were clammy. She felt acutely the needle prick of Pearce’s gaze upon her. The weight of Beckenham’s silence.
She sent Pearce a glare that could have razed cities. Then she caught it. Emotion mirrored in the set of his jaw. In the tightness of his sensual mouth. And most of all, in his eyes.
She would not call it love. She refused to dignify what he felt for her with that name. But there was something. An outward manifestation of some deep feeling, and that shed new light on the past.
All those thoughts and impressions flowed through her mind in an instant. She shook it off. She couldn’t think about it now.
She was so acutely aware of Beckenham’s every movement while he read. He gave nothing away.
What must he think of her? To have even thought those things, much less written them down, was shocking in itself. He would be disgusted with her. Worse, perhaps he might believe she’d truly meant them.
At the time, Pearce had ordered her to make it convincing, but she’d been eighteen and known nothing about the sort of activities she’d described. Had she succeeded too well in making it seem authentic?
Beckenham rubbed the side of his mouth with the back of his thumb. A sudden noise came from deep inside his chest. Then another.
She thought she couldn’t have heard properly, but the sound came again.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded as Beckenham threw his head back and roared with laughter.
“‘You are the greatest lover ever,’” he read out. “Your prose, my sweet Georgie. It is simply priceless.”
She blushed, too relieved to take umbrage at the criticism of her literary style. “I was only eighteen. And I really had no idea what I was talking about.”
Beckenham’s amusement was the final straw. Pearce had turned his back to them, leaning his forearm against the mantelpiece.
Incredibly, after all that had passed between them, Georgie found it in her heart to be a little sorry for Pearce. Not too sorry, but enough for her to wish to apologize for the role she’d played. She’d thought him impervious to heartache all those years ago. If she’d known his feelings were genuine, she would never have flirted with him as she had.
Georgie made as if to move toward Pearce, not sure what she’d say. Beckenham gripped her hand to stay her.
Wordlessly she looked up at him and he shook his head.
“Best leave him.”
She knew then that Beckenham understood.
* * *
The second they were out of sight of the house, Beckenham took her into his arms.
“Oh, Marcus!” She wanted to sob with relief, laugh with joy. Kiss him, draw him down with her into the soft clover, make love to him with all the passion and love that burned inside her.
Their kiss was all-consuming, communicating everything that words couldn’t express. How much they’d feared losing each other, that they never again wanted to part.
“You realize, don’t you, that we cannot stay at Winford together tonight without Lady Arden,” she murmured, trailing kisses along his jawline.
He groaned as she softly nipped his throat. “I’ll go to the inn.”
“Won’t that look odd?” she whispered against his smooth, hot skin.
“Do you have a better idea?”
She lost her mind and the thread of the conversation as he kissed her once more.
Emerging some time later from another heated interlude, they continued walking down to the stables.
Georgie glanced over her shoulder. “I hate to think of him in that house.”
“Oh, he’ll be gone by morning,” said Beckenham indifferently. “He knows there’s nothing here for him now.” He hesitated. “One thing has always puzzled me. How did he get that ringlet of yours?”
She’d have read an implied accusation in that question six months
ago. Now, she knew he believed in her innocence, trusted her. The knowledge was a warm glow in her heart. “Pearce told me that, actually, when I went to see him at Montford’s ball. He bribed my hairdresser to give it to him. Can you believe it?”
“There is certainly no end to his cunning,” said Beckenham.
“Another reason to wish Cloverleigh were mine,” she sighed. “I’d have taken great delight in evicting him.”
“As to that,” said Beckenham, “you will never guess who called on me in Bath this morning.”
“Who?”
“Young Lord Hardcastle. With your sister in tow.”
“What?” She’d been so wrapped up in her own troubles, she’d forgotten all about the identity of the mysterious “He” in Lizzie’s letter to Violet.
Beckenham’s mouth quirked up at the edges. “A very earnest young man.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Georgie, putting her fingertips to her temple. And yet it all made perfect sense. “How utterly stupid I’ve been! And how cunning of her. The little wretch. She didn’t give so much as a hint.…”
“Your sister is a deep ’un, isn’t she?” Beckenham said it in a tone of admiration. “You wouldn’t credit it. She presented it all as Hardcastle’s plan, but of course I knew that was nonsense. It was all her.”
Georgie recalled Violet’s note. “She said she’d discovered a way for us both to get what we want. What did she mean? Oh, Marcus, tell me! Don’t keep me in suspense. She wants to marry him, doesn’t she? But he hasn’t a feather to fly with!”
“I’m trying to tell you, but I must point out, Georgie, that I’m hard-put to get a word in edgewise.”
“Oh.” She blushed. “Sorry. Do go on.”
“Thank you. Your sister has proposed a swap. Your inheritance for hers. Thus, you have Cloverleigh and she becomes the well-dowered bride Hardcastle needs to restore his estate.”
Georgie frowned. “That is ludicrous. My portion is generous, but it can’t compare with the value of Cloverleigh.”
“I would, of course, be prepared to make up the difference,” said Beckenham. “We shall be partners, Georgie. Think of it.”
The notion appealed so strongly to her that she glowed up at him. Trust Beckenham to know how much she wanted equal footing with him when it came to Cloverleigh. A partnership. Yes! Even if it could not be done legally, they would be partners in fact and deed.
“You approve of Hardcastle’s suit, then?” said Georgie, surprised.
“I cannot approve of the clandestine way they’ve conducted their romance,” said Beckenham. “But I believe they are genuinely in love. Hardcastle is young, but his character seems steady enough. He is determined to haul his family out of the mire and Violet’s fortune would help him do it. Lucrative as Cloverleigh is, he doesn’t need another property to run—he needs money.”
Beckenham cleared his throat, a little self-consciously, Georgie thought. “He has even asked my advice on a few matters.”
Georgie smiled. She acquitted Hardcastle of shrewd calculation but there was no better way into Beckenham’s good graces than to ask for his advice.
She stared at him wonderingly. “It all seems too good to be true. There must be some drawback we haven’t thought of yet.”
“Trust that we’ll overcome any obstacles,” said Beckenham, drawing her closer again. “We overcame everything that stood between you and me, didn’t we?”
“We certainly did,” she whispered before his mouth took hers.
Heedless of propriety and convenience, they sank together to the ground, pleasuring each other, loving each other. Their spirits soared and flew, over the fields, through the bluebell wood, sinking into the ground that was their heritage, their lifeblood, the very breath in their lungs.
“You will burn that letter, Beckenham, won’t you?” said Georgie as they lay together in the moonlight.
“I rather thought to use it as a reference,” said Beckenham. “Some of the things in that letter astonished even me. Would you really like me to—” He leaned in to whisper in her ear.
She gasped, flushing. “Did I write that? No! You are teasing me.”
“If I am to supplant Pearce as the greatest lover ever, I need to know these things.” He said it with so much tender amusement in his voice that she couldn’t be angry. How wonderful to hear him so carefree and frivolous.
“Well,” she said, trailing her fingertip down his chest, “if you truly wish to be the greatest, my lord, you will have to get in an awful lot of practice.”
“Is that so?” Beckenham captured her hand, turned it up to press a kiss in the center of her palm. “I suppose one must make heroic sacrifices to achieve true greatness.”
Epilogue
The wedding was meant to be a quiet, private affair. But somehow, the groom’s extensive family had caught wind of the appointed day. Calendars were swiftly rearranged, luggage packed, children and servants bundled into various vehicles, and they all descended en masse upon Winford.
Carriage after carriage bowled up the drive, disgorging Beckenham’s kin. The more outspoken of them demanded to know whether Beckenham had run quite mad? Did he truly mean to wed that dreadful Georgie Black? Or was this some sort of jest Montford was trying to play?
That the duke rarely made jokes only added to the mystery of it all.
“We are positively overrun with Westruthers,” said Georgie, glancing out the window. “Oh, look. Even the devilish Davenport has arrived. Do you think they’ve all come to forbid the banns?”
Her voice was light, but Beckenham knew her better than to believe she was sanguine. His cousins had largely placed the blame with Georgie for the dissolution of their engagement the first time. Unfairly, he knew now. If he’d been more cognizant of his feelings for Georgie, if he hadn’t been too proud to express them, the incident with Pearce might never have occurred.
He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist, kissing her cheek. “Do you mind so very much?”
“They all hate me.” She sighed, settling back into his embrace. “But if it makes you happy to have them here, I don’t mind.”
“They’ll come around,” he said. “When they get to know you, they cannot fail to do so.”
He was happy—overjoyed, in fact—to have his family here. He’d agreed wholeheartedly with Georgie that they should marry swiftly and discreetly. He didn’t wish to be the focus of the Ton’s gossip and speculation.
Lydgate, Xavier and Xavier’s sister, Rosamund, and their other cousins, Cecily, Jonathon, and Jane were as close to him as siblings. Yet, he hadn’t known he wanted them there until they descended upon him. The girls brought their spouses, not to mention their numerous offspring, with them. Jonathon brought his new wife, Hilary, for whom Beckenham had developed a fondness, too.
The disused nursery was in pandemonium as nannies and nurses struggled to keep order. Beckenham was happy to leave them to it.
Suddenly, he wondered what the house would be like when he and Georgie filled the nursery with babies of their own.
He nuzzled her ear. “While everyone else is occupied getting settled, might we—?”
But the suggestion that had already brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her lovely eyes remained unspoken as Lydgate strolled in, a bat tucked under his arm. “Fancy a game of cricket on the lawn, Becks? Constantine and I have pledged to get the boys out of everyone’s hair.”
Beckenham turned. The constraint between them since that day in Bath seemed to hang in the air. But if Lydgate was prepared to extend the olive branch, in the form of a bat made from willow, then Beckenham wouldn’t refuse to grasp it.
“Capital notion,” he said with an apologetic glance at Georgie.
She tilted her head. “Can anyone play, Lydgate? I am no bowler, but my batting average is not to be sneezed at.”
Some time later, when he and Lydgate stood conferring over the condition of the pitch, Beckenham said, “I owe you an apology. You were right
. About Pearce, I mean.”
Lydgate gave a curt nod. “Gracious of you. But I’m the one who owes the apology. I shouldn’t have spoken about Georgie that way. Within five minutes of seeing you together, I saw I was wrong.”
And so it was, that rather than taking three hours to primp for her wedding, the future Countess of Beckenham grew windblown and apple-cheeked, playing cricket with the Westruther relations on the manicured lawn of Winford.
Cecily, Lady Ashburn, who had always loved Beckenham best and thus, had long been Georgie’s sternest critic, said to her cousins, “Very well, I admit it! I came here ready to scratch her eyes out. But even I cannot possibly cavil at this marriage. Only look how happy she makes him. He is a different man.”
Indeed, everyone saw that Beckenham appeared less grave, walked with a lighter step, laughed often. Georgie was up to bat, with Beckenham bowling. He exchanged smiling taunts with her as he passed the wickets, tossing the cricket ball from one hand to the other.
“Only look at her,” said Jane. “She positively glows.”
“She’s as smitten as he is,” Rosamund agreed, sighing. “I do so love a romance.”
That evening at five o’clock, Marcus Edward Charles Westruther, fourth Earl of Beckenham, married Georgiana Mary Black in a quiet, private ceremony in the drawing room at Winford.
Rosamund whispered to her brother, “My dear Xavier, am I to understand this marriage has your approval?”
Steyne slanted an enigmatic glance at her, then returned his attention to the couple. “Hush. They are making their vows.”
At the end of the ceremony, Lady Arden heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank Heaven that is done and dusted at long last!”
The Duke of Montford raised his brows, an ironic gleam in his eye. “You claim the credit for bringing this off, I gather.”
“No,” said Lady Arden dryly, watching her younger charge, Miss Violet Black, proudly show her betrothal ring to the other ladies present. “That honor belongs to someone else, I believe.”
“All’s well that ends well,” said Violet as she and Smith helped Georgie prepare for bed that night.
The Greatest Lover Ever Page 27
