The Lady Most Likely...

by Julia Quinn

  Hugh stood as well, putting a hand under Georgina’s elbow to draw her to her feet.

  “The gentlemen will join the ladies in the drawing room,” their host announced.

  “I chose well for her, didn’t I?” Hugh said into Georgina’s ear. “Finchbird is just right.”

  “You didn’t choose Carolyn’s husband; she did!”

  Everyone was flooding out of the dining room, but Hugh held her back, allowing others to go before them. “Of course I did,” he said. “I turned down three or four proposals before Finchley got around to proposing. He could easily have lost her.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you remember how much she liked Lord Surtout’s profile? She probably would have accepted his proposal on the basis of his chin, and then he would have dragged her off to explore the Nile. Or left her behind to wither at home. She was furious at me when I refused him. Luckily, Finchley returned from the country the next week and literally tripped over her at a ball.”

  “I’d forgotten Carolyn’s infatuation with Surtout,” Georgina said slowly. Her own mother had said yes to the very first proposal her daughter received.

  The room was empty. With one smooth movement, Hugh backed Georgina against the wall.

  “You seem to have a propensity for pushing me about,” she whispered.

  “I’m discovering all sorts of propensities when it comes to you, Georgina.” His voice slid like rough honey over her skin, and then his lips were on hers. She sank into his kiss, and all the worries in her mind just fell away. He kissed her as if he knew her.

  “You know me,” she said, not thinking, just saying it.

  “Mmmm,” he said, a deep rumbling sound that spoke of pleasure. “Not as well as I want to.” He pulled back and looked into her face, running a finger along her eyebrow. “You’re like Richelieu. You need to have some fun.”

  “Fun?”

  His smile was slow and easy. “Exactly.” He lowered his head and bit her lip.

  “Hugh!”

  He nipped her again, and then started kissing her. She kept trying to think about having fun, or not having fun, but she fell into the pleasure that was exploding between them.

  His kisses made her feel crazily, dangerously young. But she wasn’t young. She was twenty-five years old, and even older than that in her heart.

  Hugh was older than she, but he was carefree and—

  He gave her a little shake. “Stop thinking,” he commanded.

  “I—”

  “You think too much. And you worry too much.”

  “You don’t worry at all,” she pointed out.

  “It’s better that way,” he murmured, and his hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer, up against—

  He didn’t feel like Richard.

  Her body sizzled, and a part of Georgina, a wanton, forgotten part, made her push back against him. Made her curl her fingers into his hair and kiss him fiercely.

  Made her thrill to hear his little groan and see his eyes go dark with desire. He didn’t look at her as if she were a girl he’d known his whole life, or his sister’s closest friend, or a widow—

  But as if she were the drink he wanted more than life itself.

  She didn’t break free until there was a noise in the doorway, and even then she didn’t turn around to see who was there.

  “Georgie,” Carolyn said from the doorway.

  She turned slowly. Carolyn was laughing and holding out her hand. “Unless there’s to be a positive firestorm of gossip, you need to come with me now.”

  Georgina moved away, but she couldn’t help looking back just as they left the room.

  Hugh was leaning against the wall, head back, watching her go. It was the most erotic thing she’d ever seen in her life: this huge, beautiful man, his hair tousled by her hands, his eyes dark with desire, looking at her. Looking for her.

  And that smile!

  It was sensuous, it was wicked, it was inviting.

  She turned her back on it with an effort.

  “Don’t forget we’re going riding tomorrow morning,” he called after her.

  Carolyn giggled. “You’re offering to escort me on a ride, dear brother?”

  He growled at her, and then, when Georgina peeked over her shoulder again, “Tomorrow, Georgie.”

  He was ordering her … she should assert herself. She should—

  She nodded.

  Chapter 20

  The entryway was full of gentlemen when Georgina came down the stairs the next morning. Apparently the party, at least the male part, intended to hunt for grouse again.

  She was clad in her best riding costume, an apple green jacket with black braided fastenings and trim, and was happy to see its immediate effect on a number of men who looked up the stairs. This particular riding habit hugged her bust and hips in an entirely satisfactory manner. The only thing better than her habit was her darling little hat (green with a cunning feather) and her riding crop. Not that she would ever use a riding crop, but when one comes adorned with a glorious tassel in green and black, it certainly warranted carrying.

  “How splendid that you will come hunting with us,” the Marquess of Finchley said, moving to the bottom of the stairs and looking up at her with a wide smile of welcome. “We have so many indolent ladies in this party, my wife among them, that we are undesirably male.”

  “Nonsense,” Georgina told him, smiling as she descended the last stair. “If I were to accompany you, you wouldn’t be able to spit and swear and tell bawdy jokes.”

  “Did you hear the one about the widow and the preacher?” DuPreye asked, moving forward to take her arm.

  “Luckily, no,” she replied, pulling away from him.

  His hand snaked out again and caught her elbow. “You’re dressed for riding, Lady Georgina. I’d be more than happy to join you, rather than tramp around the meadows in search of a bird or two.”

  Finchley had known Georgina for all the years of his marriage to Carolyn and clearly guessed from the look on her face just how much his wife’s closest friend wanted to spend the morning with the lascivious Mr. DuPreye.

  “Absolutely not,” he said, slapping DuPreye on the back. “You swore you’d take down at least two birds today, don’t you remember? That was after you missed every shot yesterday, not to mention nearly winging Oakes.”

  DuPreye cast him a sour look. “Perhaps the party would be better off without me since you make such a point of that unfortunate accident. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “I insist, I insist,” Finchley said genially. “Lady Georgina will take herself on a gentle ride through the grounds, no doubt. Whereas we men must bring home the supper. One of the neighboring farmers, Mr. Bucky Buckstone, has been kind enough to grant us access to his woods, DuPreye. Even the most bungling hunter will have success there, not that I would describe you as such, of course.”

  “You mustn’t miss the opportunity,” Georgina said, giving DuPreye a cold glance that would have dissuaded any gentleman who deserved that label. “I rarely ride for more than ten minutes, so it would truly be a waste of your time.”

  “Another time,” DuPreye said, giving in. “Tomorrow morning, perhaps.”

  “If I might speak to you privately for a moment, Lady Georgina?” Finchley asked, rather unexpectedly. He led her into a small sitting room, and said without preface, “I’m in horrible trouble.”

  “Why?” she said, staring at her host in surprise. “Is something wrong with the hunting excursion?”

  “It’s nothing to do with that. It’s Carolyn’s birthday present.” He ran his hands through his hair, destroying the exquisite style fashioned by his valet that morning.

  “What is the matter?”

  “I had an absolutely marvelous gift. I had booked the entire troupe of the Royal Court Theatre, and they were coming to do a special performance of Twelfth Night in the private theater here, tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, Carolyn will absolutely love that!” Georgina cri
ed. “What a marvelous husband you are.”

  His jaw clenched. “The idea was a good one.”

  “What happened?”

  “They’re not coming. A messenger arrived last night to say that the better part of the troupe has been locked up by the magistrates in Bath. Apparently they put on a performance that mocked the Prince Regent, and part of the audience took umbrage. The idiots! Their patron is the Regent!”

  “Surely you could try to bail them out,” Georgina suggested.

  “They’re in Bath,” he said miserably. “Bath. That’s a good three days’ ride from here. I promised Carolyn a special present, and the worst of it is that she knows that the theater is part of it.”

  “You have your own theater on the grounds?”

  He nodded. “Carolyn found out that I’d had it prepared for a performance, though not that I promised a small fortune to that particular troupe to come up here to the Dales. She’s expecting a performance for tomorrow night, for her birthday, and I have nothing.”

  “I’ve never acted a day in my life,” Georgina said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I didn’t mean that you had to act. I just wondered if you wouldn’t mind looking in on the local fair while you’re out riding this morning? My butler heard there might be a group of players traveling with the fair. The village is only a mile or so down the road.”

  “Of course,” Georgina said. “If I discover players of any kind, I shall bid them come to the manor tomorrow by eight.”

  “Even if they’re just jugglers,” he said, looking a great deal happier. “I’ll send two groomsmen with you.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “No, I must insist. There’s no danger if you stay on my grounds, but I wouldn’t want you to ride unaccompanied into the village. You don’t seem to have a maid with you this morning.”

  “I won’t be unaccompanied,” she said, knowing that a foolish little smile was playing around her lips.

  The marquess raised an eyebrow. “Dear me. Every gentleman but one is present for my grouse-hunting party. Don’t tell me that you found your name on a certain list?”

  “Certainly not!” She raised her chin. “We are childhood friends, after all. I belong on no man’s list.”

  He smiled down at her, and Georgina thought, not for the first time, how very lucky her friend Carolyn was. “I concur. You are far too original to belong in a list of names, Lady Georgina. I wish you a pleasant morning. And knowing with whom you are spending time, I rather think you shall have one.”

  Hugh was just starting to contemplate the idea of returning to the manor and pulling Georgina out of her bed when the lady in question sauntered up to the stables.

  She looked like an exquisite, outrageously expensive box of sweets, ribbons, tassels, and feathers flying. Her beautiful curls were piled on top of her head, and atop that sat an absurd little hat. She had a riding crop tucked under her arm, and had the smallest waist he’d ever seen.

  For a good moment after she arrived at the railing, he couldn’t even think of an adequate greeting.

  Just when her jaunty smile was fading, he found his tongue, and said, “Georgie, you put me to shame.”

  Just like that, her cheeky grin popped out again. “My modiste is French,” she said, with a marked lack of modesty. “Do you like it?” She spun in a circle.

  In the past ten years, his sisters had spun in front of him any number of times. He’d learned a great deal from those encounters. One never, ever, indicated that a bodice might be a little too tight, or skirts a little too short. One never pointed out that crimson made a red nose redder, or that horizontal stripes were not always entirely flattering.

  Praise was the ticket. Praise and more praise.

  So he opened his mouth—and nothing came out. Georgina’s waist was so small that he felt as if he could span it with one hand. She had a froth of white at her neck that he wanted to snatch off so that he could see her beautiful throat. He caught just a glimpse of her ankles, and they were the slimmest, most delicate ankles he could have imagined.

  In short, her riding habit made him want one thing, and one thing only: to pick her up in his arms, stride into the stables, and toss her onto a bed of straw.

  Preferably straw, but he’d be happy to employ a nice sturdy wall.

  “Hugh?” she asked. “Don’t you like my new habit?” She didn’t look disturbed, though, and he had a fair sense that she could measure the effect on him.

  “Yes.” He turned away before she could realize that that effect was all too evident in his breeches. “Carolyn’s mare, Elsbeth, is saddled and waiting for you.”

  She walked over to the horse with a little saucy wiggle in her step. So he tossed her into the sidesaddle and threw his leg over Richelieu without even looking at her.

  He was occupied for the first few minutes in letting Richelieu understand precisely what the rules were. He had Richelieu’s measure by now. A more mischievous, lighthearted horse he’d rarely known. There wasn’t a mean bone in him, but on the other hand, he loved to flirt with disobedience.

  Sure enough, the pleasures of riding down the avenue leading from Finchley Manor were enough to encourage Richelieu to shy at a passing insect, pretend that he was frightened of a swallow startled from an oak, and generally behave like the high-strung, happy animal he was.

  Hugh’s hands and voice were occupied for some time with reminding Richelieu that he was not the lord of the manor and that shying and bucking were not good manners.

  He didn’t even look at Georgina until they had turned into a country lane. He had just brought Richelieu back down to the ground after a frolicsome attempt to touch a cloud with his front hooves when he realized that Georgina was white as a sheet.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, stopping in the lane.

  Sure enough, Richelieu knew that his voice was serious and stopped playing about, flicking his ears to show that he was listening carefully and waiting for instructions.

  “Nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. “What a lively mount he is.”

  “He’s just playing,” Hugh said. “I allowed him to show off because I don’t want to break his spirit. But see what a good lad he is? He is entirely obedient when my voice calls for it. All that bucking can’t have bothered you, did it?”

  “Of course not,” she said. But she was looking straight ahead. He couldn’t even see her profile because of her cunning little hat and its foolish curling feather.

  He moved Richelieu over just a hair, enough so he could lean over and snatch off the hat. It came with a ping as a hairpin flew down onto the dirt road.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, rosy color returning along with indignation to her cheeks.

  He grinned at her. “I can’t see you when you’re wearing this thing.”

  “It’s not a thing,” she replied hotly. “It’s a riding hat, the most fashionable of its kind in all London.”

  “Kiss me?”

  “What?”

  He leaned closer. “Kiss me,” he commanded, just to see whether she responded to the urgency in his voice as sweetly as Richelieu did.

  “Absolutely not,” she said, sounding as scandalized as a fifty-year-old matron. “We’re in an open lane. And besides, there’s no reason for the two of us to kiss each other.”

  “There, you’re wrong,” Hugh said. “I was just thinking that if you kissed me, I wouldn’t send this ridiculous hat spinning over that wall.”

  She turned her beautiful little nose up in the air. “I am not a woman to be bribed.” And then she added, “If you throw away my hat, I’ll tell your sister.”

  In normal times, that would have been a stumper. He hated being scolded by his sisters, particularly by Carolyn. But he didn’t want Georgie wearing a hat like that, a hat so fashionable that she looked like—like a duchess. He threw it.

  She stopped her horse. “I seem to have lost one of my accessories.”

  “Really?” he asked, enjoying himself enormou
sly.

  “I must beg you to retrieve it for me,” she said. Her chin was as firm as a general’s. She turned those eyes of hers on him, and for a moment he was lost. In the morning sunshine, they were dusky violet, fringed by long, curling eyelashes.

  “Georgie,” he said throatily, reaching out for her.

  But, of course, she was a consummate horsewoman, and her mare backed neatly out of his arm’s reach. “My hat, if you please.”

  Two could play at this game, so he jumped down and made sure to tie Richelieu to a post, where he could enjoy the grass growing in the verge. Then he leapt over the low stone wall, in the direction of the hat, and flung himself to the ground.

  He was lying in a clover field. Above him the sky was the faded blue color of skimmed milk. Bees danced from clover to clover. He pulled off his neckcloth and stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket.

  Chapter 21

  It was at least five minutes before Hugh heard a thrashing noise, and Georgie’s head appeared over the top of the wall. “I see you have fallen.” Her voice had a wry note that he remembered, even from when she was only seven or eight. She always had a tendency to comment on life rather than throw herself into the fray.

  “Join me,” he said lazily, not getting up, as any gentleman should in the presence of a lady.

  “Are you suggesting that I climb the stile and fling myself on the ground?”

  “Yes,” he said with heartfelt emphasis.

  “And then kiss you in a field, I suppose?”

  He was rather hoping that they would make love in a field, but he judged it prudent not to say so. “I would love to kiss you in this very field. May I lift you over the wall?” He got up, the better to help her.

  “Hugh, what on earth do you want from me?” Her eyes were bewildered.

  He came closer, smiled at her. “A kiss.”

  “After last night, I know that—I know you want to kiss me. But why now? Why do you suddenly feel so? I’ve been around you for years. We spent last Twelfth Night together, and I doubt you did more than give me greetings of the season.”