“I think,” he said abruptly, his tone now cool and remote, “that you should get back inside and get into some dry clothing. Even better, take a hot bath. The last thing we need is you falling ill. Your mother would murder me.”
Oh God. He was rejecting her again.
“What is wrong with me? Am I that grotesque?” she blurted, furious and hurt in equal measure as she scrambled to her feet.
George rose in one smooth movement. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous when the evidence is glaring. George Edwards, rake extraordinaire, just threw a wet, near-naked woman off his lap. I know you are fickle, but that is surely a record.”
“You aren’t a woman, Louisa, you’re a goddamned virgin. Meant for another man,” he bit out.
“And if I was a woman to your specifications?” she said softly. “A widow or neglected wife, perhaps? What then?”
George leaned down, his breath rasping in her ear. “Then we would be naked and in bed. Those beautiful big nipples of yours would be pinched and sucked raw. And my cock would be buried so deep in your wet little cunny that you would feel me for days afterward.”
Oh God.
His words were shockingly crude. So earthy and wrong. And yet here was further proof she was no lady: for rather than outrage, she felt…fiercely aroused.
Louisa reached out a hand. “George…”
But he stepped past her and strode away, leaving her alone in the cold stable.
Bloody cretin.
Although, his blunt speech gave her pause. She’d cracked his armor, made him speak to her the way he wouldn’t ever to another unmarried virgin in the ton. And his body had already demonstrated strong desire for hers. Perhaps her scientific quest to educate herself about the marriage bed wasn’t nearly as futile as first thought. George just needed a little more nudging.
And no one nudged like Louisa Eleanor Donovan.
Chapter Seven
It might not be obvious to everyone, but Louisa was trying to kill him. Not via pistol or knife, but damned bloody waltz.
Gesturing for Belinda to stop her pianoforte playing, George stepped back from Louisa and concentrated on not visibly wincing. He’d thought his twin was England’s greatest foot stomper, but the woman in his arms was mounting a very stern challenge for the title.
Of course she always murmured apologies. Smiled. Shrugged ruefully at her own clumsiness. But there was a watchfulness in her eyes, a certain hardness that hadn’t been there before. And no one could be blamed but him.
“All right,” he said in an awful, too-hearty voice for the benefit of their audience. “Why don’t we take a short break for some refreshments? You are making tremendous progress, Miss Donovan.”
Louisa snorted. “What a cool liar you are, Mr. Howard.”
Then she turned and ambled over to the fresh tea tray delivered by a footman only minutes before.
George cursed under his breath as, yet again, he was bombarded with memories of the previous afternoon. Christ. Bringing their interlude to a halt had taken the kind of willpower he didn’t even know he possessed. Louisa Donovan might be a virgin, and the most inexperienced woman he’d ever kissed, but he’d never been more aroused. The way she responded, the feel of her in his lap, the way she had squirmed and moaned and rocked herself against him…hell, the threat of coming in his trousers had been far too real for comfort.
And then, of course, there were her breasts.
Even far away from London and Sir Malcolm, and with plenty of soothing candlelight, he’d still not been able to sleep. Instead he’d lain there most of the bloody night thinking about them, and how those swollen, dusky nipples might feel and taste in his mouth. Touching them hadn’t been nearly enough, nor had the single pinch. And yet he’d been very much afraid that if he’d gone further, if he’d licked and sucked and bitten them while she moaned and whimpered in delight, he might have succumbed to overwhelming temptation and done exactly what he’d blurted so inexcusably crudely. Taken her repeatedly. Except not in a bedchamber, on a fucking stable floor. And not an experienced, available woman, but a goddamned virgin heiress.
“What on earth is the matter, Mr. Howard? You look a little flushed from our exertions,” said Louisa in a crisp voice. “Do not worry. The body does become used to exercise.”
George gritted his teeth. “How reassuring, Miss Donovan. Shall we try another waltz? I meant it when I said you were making progress—you only mauled my feet sixteen times in that last dance.”
Her silver eyes glinted. “I must be losing my touch. Usually I can do so much better.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Turning, George caught Belinda’s eye. “Another waltz if you please, maestro.”
The older woman laughed. “Why Mr. Howard, you certainly are a glutton for punishment.”
“I am, aren’t I?” he mused. “It’s just that I so want our dear Miss Donovan to succeed in her quest to finally find the right husband.”
“Only so you can get paid,” snapped Louisa in a deadly undertone.
“Not at all,” he replied smoothly, taking her hands. “I want to see you content and settled, of course. As do your dear mother and father. Music, please!”
As Belinda began her enthusiastic pounding of the pianoforte keys for the eighth time, George twirled Louisa into their first round of the empty ballroom. Actually, it was a bloody relief it was empty, so no one else in the world could witness his predicament. Dirt-poor, scarred, faux gentleman-for-hire George Edwards lusting ferociously for Louisa Donovan, pampered, outspoken, virgin heiress. And the worst thing was, now he’d had a taste of her banked passion, of her willing eagerness to experiment with more than gunpowder, he only wanted more. Like his mother with her damned gambling.
Fuck. He needed to keep his distance for his own sanity. And to protect his false identity. He’d been lucky so far; now that the Donovans had put their soirees and afternoon gatherings on hold and retreated to Gloucestershire, they hadn’t actually received any visitors. But Lord Kildaire was due to arrive in about a week’s time, and in many ways George was dreading it as much as Louisa. Although he barely knew the bastard, there wasn’t much chance the Irishman wouldn’t recognize him. It wasn’t like men standing at six and a half feet and possessing jade eyes could be found on every street corner, and members of the ton prided themselves on knowing other members by sight alone.
If Kildaire revealed his secret, his quest to repay the blackmailer would be all over. Unless, of course, Louisa and the marquess became engaged. But she didn’t want that. And neither did George, after all he’d heard and witnessed about the man’s character. So the only other option was finding her a new and agreeable suitor, getting her betrothed then married, and walking away. Which at this point seemed about as likely as a blizzard in July.
Unless…
“What are you looking for in a husband, exactly?” he asked Louisa abruptly.
The words clearly surprised her as much as him, as she stopped waltzing in the middle of the dance floor and crashed headfirst into his chest.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. What do you really want?”
Louisa raised an eyebrow. “Are you referring to looks? Age? Character?”
“All of the above,” he said firmly, as the beginnings of a plan shaped in his mind.
“Well…in regards to age, I am not in the slightest bit interested in an old man. Ideally he would be less than ten years my senior. But that seems hardly likely, so I’ll say no more than twenty-five years difference.”
“Fair enough,” George replied, nudging her to begin dancing again lest Belinda become suspicious at their topic of conversation.
Louisa scowled. “You have no idea. The entire nonsense is supposed to be about begetting heirs and ensuring lines, but how am I supposed to do that if my husband’s essence needs a wheelchair?”
He choked on a horrified laugh, yet she spoke truth. Women were usually blamed for an
empty nursery, but some men looked like they struggled to mount a single stair, let alone their wives frequently or vigorously enough to get them with child.
“Miss Donovan,” he said, attempting to sound stern. “That is not a topic—”
“Oh, don’t you start Miss Donovan-ing me. Actually…”
Hell. Those stormy silver eyes were glinting in a way that meant nothing but trouble.
“Actually what?”
“Men don’t really want an ignorant twit, do they?”
“No…” he said hesitantly, sensing a trap.
“You’re saying they want a wife who is accomplished. Capable and skilled.”
“Well, of course they do.”
Louisa smiled like a cat who had just pounced on a canary. “In all household matters?”
His unease grew tenfold. “Naturally.”
“Then it stands to reason a man would like his wife to be accomplished, skilled, and capable in the bedchamber, too.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Beg pardon,” she said, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I phrased that poorly. I meant a virgin not unaware or frightened of marital relations.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“If you have questions about that, your mother will answer them. Or you could ask Caroline, I’m sure.”
“Don’t be daft. Mother doesn’t even talk about it with her dearest friends. And after one quite educational conversation, your twin has been infuriatingly noncommittal on the topic.”
A trickle of perspiration trickled down the back of his neck, and he squeezed her waist a trifle too firmly as they danced by a line of diamond-paned windows letting in weak rays of sunshine. “Well, I can’t help you.”
Louisa sniffed. “You mean you won’t help me. Which is such a shame. If I were more confident and knowledgeable in such matters, I’m sure that would spill over into my wardrobe choices. And my dancing ability and conversation, too. All, of course, making me far easier to marry off and gain your payments.”
He narrowed his gaze at her. “That sounds suspiciously like blackmail. And I will not—”
“Blackmail? Don’t be silly. I am merely suggesting there is often an easy way rather than the difficult way for two people to both get what they want.”
“And all I have to do is answer some questions?” George said, very suspiciously. This sounded far too easy coming from Louisa Donovan.
“Yes. With sufficient detail, of course. In fact, were you to escort me to the village today, by the time we arrived, I’m sure I would be in the frame of mind to purchase a new bonnet and shawl. Colors and style chosen by you.”
Bloody hell. He strongly suspected all sorts of dire ulterior motives and pitfalls ahead, but surely he could manage Louisa Donovan’s virginal questions to gain one afternoon of shopping.
“Very well. We have a bargain.”
~ * ~
“How far are we from Cheltenham?”
Louisa smiled as she accepted George’s assistance to get up onto the high curricle seat. “Just over three miles. Why? Eager to take the spa waters and ease your gout, Mr. Howard? Or is it old age that is troubling you?”
“Neither. More a red-haired pain in the backside. Is there a cure for that?” he said, as he swung himself up on the curricle beside her.
Louisa sniffed in disdain, but she was too excited about their trip to muster any real indignation. While they would be accompanied by two footmen on horseback, she had already instructed them to keep a respectful distance, and as the curricle was not big enough for more than two people, Belinda would stay back at the estate.
For an entire afternoon, she would have no chaperone and frank conversation with George. The sense of impending freedom was exhilarating.
Tucking her fur-lined brown cloak around her admittedly horrid straw-colored gown, and adjusting the woolen blanket covering her lap to hold off the cold, she sighed with satisfaction. “Let’s away, then!”
George tipped an imaginary hat. “Yes, ma’am. At once, ma’am.”
“Oh, don’t start. Actually, do start. Start by answering my first question. How many ladies have you shared a bed with?”
The reins in his hands jerked slightly, but he merely shot her a sideways glance as they travelled down the Donovan driveway. “Straight to the point, aren’t we?”
“I have limited time, Mr. Howard…actually no. My first question is why you chose the name Howard.”
“Because that was my real father’s name. Well, his first name anyway.”
“Have you ever…discovered anything else about him?” she asked timidly, intensely curious about his past, but equally very, very aware of the delicacy of the issue, especially after she had put her foot in it so badly at Standish’s ball. “I know Caro has been very disheartened by the dearth of information these last six months from the private investigator hired by Lord Westleigh.”
George’s sigh was audible. “Not much. All I know is that he and Mama married quite young, it was a love match, and his parents were most reluctant to approve it. He was a ship captain, very good at making and fixing things it seems.”
“Ah, so rake is not a family tradition then.”
His lips twitched. “I’ve no idea what he was like before he met Mama. But from what I understand, he was faithful to her, and she him, even though they spent quite a bit of time apart when he was on a voyage.”
Well. Definitely not a ton marriage then. As Caroline had said, the lords, ladies and gentlemen of Polite Society were forever politely leaping from one bed to another, while condemning others for their affairs. Yet another example of their gross hypocrisy. Actually, the more she learned about the men and women in the upper ten thousand, the more marriage to a marquess or duke or earl made her sick to her stomach. It was difficult to envisage a time where she would ever be comfortable in those poisonous circles, what with her blunt speech, total lack of interest in fashion, and scientific hobbies.
“Were they, ah, compatible?” asked Louisa curiously.
“I don’t personally remember. But Caro mentioned once that Mama told her she used to love this time of the year. His ship in port and longer nights.”
She laughed. “Very compatible, then. How lucky they were. I wonder how your parents knew. The first time they saw each other? Their first kiss? The first, er, long night?”
“No bloody idea. But again, my twin with the gossipy tongue mentioned they didn’t wait for everything to be official before…”
“Ha!” Louisa burst out. “There you go. Hypocrisy! Everyone makes such a song and a dance about virginity and wedding nights and young ladies being kept ignorant of marital relations, and meanwhile, every other couple has anticipated their vows.”
He shrugged. “Stephen and Caro didn’t.”
“Only because you caught them before they got to the point of no return.”
“True. But don’t ask me anything more about that day, it still churns my gut. There are some things you just don’t want to know about your sister and your best friend.”
“Very well, I’ll ask about you, then. How many ladies have you bedded? It seems like most of the ton.”
George expertly tugged on the reins, guiding the curricle’s two horses smoothly around a muddy, icy patch on the uneven road. “Of a certain age group, quite a few, I suppose. Usually widows, sometimes wives, never virgins. But some women do greatly exaggerate the, ah, level of intimacy we have shared. On more than a few occasions, a lady I have only danced or gone to supper with has claimed me as a lover then accused me of breaking her heart.”
Frowning, Louisa shifted uncomfortably on the padded leather seat. Perhaps she had been guilty of too readily believing everything said about George and his women. “Hmmm. I’m sure you have broken hundreds of hearts, though. And yet they would all leap back into your arms if you so much as winked at them.”
He grinned. “What can I say? They do have an enjoyable time while with me.”
“How?” she said, turning her
head and pinning him with a gaze. “Exactly?”
And that was the moment George Henry Edwards actually blushed. “Well, er…”
Shaking with laughter, Louisa smacked him on the arm. “I thought only my face could turn tomato! But your cheeks are offering quite the sunset.”
“Because this is an entirely inappropriate conversation to be having with an unmarried virgin,” he said irritably, as the color moved to include the tips of his ears.
Glancing over her shoulder to ensure the two footmen were still the required distance behind them, Louisa turned back to study George. Even with color in his cheeks, he was still handsome beyond words, damn him. But she couldn’t focus on that. As an amateur chemist, she needed facts. “Don’t dissemble with me, or I’ll head straight for the orange silks on display in town.”
“Damnation, Louisa. I ready them, all right?”
“How? You kiss them?”
“Yes.”
“And…touch their breasts?”
Now it was George shifting uncomfortably on the seat. “Yes.”
“Do you take off their gown and stays?”
“Depends where we are.”
Louisa’s jaw dropped. She knew that kisses happened in all sorts of unexpected and interesting locations like alcoves and gardens, but men and women sometimes were fully intimate in rooms other than a bedchamber? How very educational. “How else do you ready them?”
“Do we really have to have this conversation?”
“It’s the difference between a hunter green ensemble, or a new wardrobe of orange, jonquil, and primrose silk. With matching gloves and bonnets and shawls. And a puce pelisse to complete the outfit.”
“I touch them,” he muttered, his gaze not moving from the road ahead. “All over. And kiss them all over, too. Yes, down there.”
She couldn’t halt a gasp of shock. That was something that had never come up in her novels, not even the cock one. And suddenly she hated every woman that George had ever been intimate with. The way he had made her feel in the stables, so hot and aching and sensitive between her legs when he’d kissed her lips and caressed her breasts, she could only imagine how incredible it would have been if he’d slid his hand further down. Or put his mouth there.
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 10
