by Anna Small
“Do not worry about a thing, Georgie. Perhaps we do not have to inform your brother. You aren’t hurt, after all.”
He tugged her earlobe, a gesture he’d done repeatedly in the last several years since she was a girl of five. Normally, she would rejoinder with an irritable slap on the hand, but she only stared at the landscape as the black shapes of buildings gradually faded and the dark patches of fields and cypresses surrounded them. She rubbed her hand across her eyes and met his concerned gaze.
“I’ll be perfectly fine.”
“Of course you will.” He forced himself to remain calm, when all he wanted was to seek revenge on the blackguards who’d attempted…
She sniffled and he forgot his anger. “Try and rest. We’ll be at my chateau soon, where we will discuss all sorts of devious plots for vengeance on those louts.”
A bare smile touched her lips. “Thank you, Jack.” The shock slowly dissipated, and she shivered. When he tucked the rug around her again, she did not shrug it off.
Chapter Eight
“I’ll send a man to Aunt Adele and inform her you’re with me.” Jack walked ahead of her and lighted the lamps throughout the house as they passed. “I think you should stay here until I am assured of your safety. Your brother would never forgive me should you go astray while I am supposed to be protecting you.” He kicked a wine bottle on the floor, and it rolled beneath a settee. “Pardon the mess. This place is only opened when I make my annual sojourn. I’m not used to visitors.”
The house was eerily silent, and Jack explained most of the servants lived nearby, with only a cook and a few scullery maids in the back rooms. “It’s very quiet here. Peaceful. Nothing like the hustle and bustle of town.”
He was making awkward small talk, and she realized it was because she’d been so silent. She tried to think of something to say, but nothing entered her mind. All she could think of were Edward’s black eyes as he’d stared right through her. As if she did not exist.
She skimmed her hand along the cool marble balustrade as they walked upstairs. The chateau, like Lady Priscilla’s, was a little shabby, but she didn’t mind. France had suffered since the end of the Revolution, even though many years had already passed. Jack’s chateau had the air of a bachelor’s home, with its sparse décor and dirty glasses on the sideboard.
He pushed open a door in the middle of a long gallery and indicated she should enter first. He placed the lamp on a table, and she glanced around a large bedchamber. He strode to the window, pulling open the curtains so moonlight filled the room.
“You can sleep in here. The linens are fresh. There’s water in the ewer, I think. You’ll find a nightrail in the wardrobe, just there.” He motioned to an armoire against the wall. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. His efficient look faded.
“Georgie, I say—are you quite well? Shall I fetch a doctor?” His face blanched. “Are you certain those men did not hurt you?”
She blinked, nodding slowly.
He snapped his fingers. “Wine,” he said with a tone of relief. He dashed to a sideboard, scrambled about the cluttered sideboard for a clean glass, until he simply brought her the bottle. He held it to her lips. “Have a long drink of this, sweetheart.”
His voice was low and encouraging. He’d never called her anything, ever, besides Georgie, Pudding-Face, or her least favorite, Miss Chatterbox. She choked and sputtered as he tipped the stem, forcing her to take a healthy swig.
“Better?”
Her knees wobbled, and he gathered her in his arms, swinging her up as easily as if she weighed no more than a child. He deposited her on the bed, and for a frightful moment, she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.
“Please, Jack.” She clutched his coat with her stiff fingers. “Do not leave me.” A shiver ran through her. Despite the stifling, warm air filtering in through the opened windows, her body ached as if she stood in a tub of icy water.
“Georgie, you’re safe here. No one can come in. Besides—” He gently pried her fingers loose from his lapels. “I will kill anyone who ever tries to hurt you.” A shadow crossed his face as he spoke, and she believed him. “Now”—and he was all business again—“kick off your slippers and go to sleep. My chamber is the first door we passed, should you need anything. We’ll have a good, long talk in the morning, where we will discuss appropriate punishment for the nephew, if Lady Priscilla doesn’t do something to him first. We must also decide how to keep this a secret from your brother. Cracking the nephew’s head will be a sight easier than facing Lockewood.”
With a parting wink, he left the room before she could speak again.
****
She eased the door open. Jack’s heavy, comforting snore echoed through his chamber, bouncing off the tapestried walls. A candle on a side table cast a feeble light in the room. He lay sprawled on the bed, his coat and waistcoat carelessly tossed over a brocade settee. His boots were on the floor, and a stocking remained on one foot. His white shirt, creased and marked with sweat, was unbuttoned, revealing an expanse of tawny, muscular chest.
If he were any other man, she would not be standing in the doorway of his bedchamber as she had done so often as a child. Had it been Jonathan lying asleep, she would not have dared cross the threshold, as her brother was always quick to send her back to her room to battle nightmares alone. But Jack usually slept so heavily he never noticed her presence at the foot of his bed. Even after Jonathan scolded her for disturbing their guest, and Jack urged her to let him sleep in peace, she persisted in sneaking into his room whenever a nightmare or sad feeling took effect. She’d take care to be gone before he awakened, and Jonathan and he were none the wiser.
Such behavior was permitted of a motherless child, but somehow, she didn’t consider herself too grown up to run to Jack for comfort. Nor did she care about a possible scandal should a servant spy her actions and report to Aunt Adele. She glanced down the corridor again. The house was silent save for his heavy snores.
Without hesitation, she padded across the carpet and crawled onto the bed, curling up at the foot as she used to do. An act she had done a hundred times in the past still felt right so many years later.
Time had changed a few things. He was taller now, and she barely had enough room without the footboard pressing against her nose. She scooted across the bed to lie beside him, straightening his arm to curl around her shoulder as she snuggled close. She rested her head onto his chest and listened to his heart reverberate in her ear. When she was younger, his chest was a massive thing she could barely reach across. Now her arm reached around him quite easily. Her head was no longer at the level of his collarbone, either, but touched his jaw. Although he had grown and changed, his natural scent was the same. The tears she’d stifled while he was awake fell freely, sliding down her cheek and across her nose, until they dropped onto his shirt.
Never had she thought to see Edward again. Had she not avoided the places in London he was likely to visit? Foregone the usual stream of parties and balls so as not to risk the sight of him? She could have laughed at the irony of coming all the way to France only to see him at a ball, but every trace of humor had abandoned her.
Not much of his appearance had changed since she’d last seen him. The black curls, tumbled over his forehead, the sharp outline of his cheekbones against his pale skin. He looked a little fleshy, as if he’d over imbibed in food and drink, as Jonathan had once prophesied he would. The present image of him only forced her to remember in sharp detail the man she’d given her heart to, what seemed years ago, but had only been two summers past.
Jonathan wanted her to marry so she could forget Edward altogether. When she’d asked him if any of the suitors were handsome, he’d merely replied, “What is handsome compared to financial security?”
She sniffled and wiped her damp face lightly into Jack’s motionless side. Why was Edward in Bordeaux? It was fortunate for him Jack had not spotted him first. How terribly Jack might have beat him, and in front
of all those people. Spitefully, she almost wished he had.
Her head ached from the evening’s events. How relieved she’d been to see Jack peering over her attacker’s shoulder. She could still see the scarlet line he’d drawn across the man’s throat. If he’d applied any more pressure, she was sure he would have killed him.
Shivering, she fumbled for the quilt. She wished she could awaken Jack to talk about what happened, but he would likely scold her for being upset over seeing Edward. To stifle her sobs, she pressed her face into his side. She must have pressed too hard, because he flinched and sprang upright a moment later with a noise that was a cross between a snore and a yelp.
“Good lord, Georgie! What are you doing in here?”
Her tears came freely now. She sat up when he did, catching hold of his arm before he could pull away.
“I saw him.” She hiccupped, trying to hold back a fresh sob.
His anxious frown indicated he wasn’t partial to tears. He fumbled with the small buttons on his shirt. His bare chest gleamed in the solitary candlelight and she turned away a second longer than she should have.
“Who did you see? The men who attacked you, do you mean?”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “Before the men.” She took a few gasping breaths. “Him…” She nearly choked on the name and pressed her hand to her mouth. After a moment, she breathed, “Edward.”
“Mitford?” Jack’s voice was hard. In a moment, his arm wrenched from hers as he sprang from the bed. “What the devil is the bastard doing here? How could he…?” The words tore from him in sputtering bursts. “I blame Lockewood for not slitting his throat when he had the chance. The bloody bastard!” He picked up his boot and flung it across the room, where it collided with a marble bust, sending it clattering to the floor.
Georgiana blinked. Jack had always possessed a marvelously volatile temper, but she was unused to coarse language. Fascinated, she listened to him rant for a few more moments, during which time he tossed his other boot, sending the bust’s twin crashing to the hearth. The nose broke off and skittered across the marble until coming to a stop at the edge of the carpet.
Chest heaving, Jack faced her. “You are mistaken. How the devil would he have the means for such a journey? He spends his money faster than I do, which is saying quite a lot.”
“I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps he saved some money for his passage.”
Jack snorted a most inelegant snort. “He couldn’t save a wooden farthing if his life depended on it.” He uttered another curse, looking decidedly fierce. She shrank against the headboard and clasped a pillow to her chest, though she was not afraid.
“It was not him. Your eyes were playing tricks. I’ll bet my life on it.” His face softened. “And you know how much I love to gamble.”
He brought the wine and sat on the edge of the bed. “Have a drink, Pudding Face.” His voice was softer, more natural than the raving madman of a few moments before.
She took the bottle and swallowed a mouthful of wine. She handed it back, and he took a long drink, then regarded her with sleepy eyes.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?” He patted his shirt. “And why is my shirt wet?”
“I couldn’t sleep. This house is so big and empty.” She never realized before what true quiet was, having lived at Fairwood Hall with more than fifty servants always present.
“It does feel like one rattles around the walls a bit.” He rose from the bed and replaced the bottle on the table. “But you cannot sleep in here, much as I don’t mind the company.” He winked. “It will be just my luck you’ll tell your brother I compromised you, and he’ll lure me into the marriage trap. Perhaps that was his idea all along, and you’re part of his conniving, scheming mind.”
His teasing tone stirred something in her. She drew the quilt up to her neck. “Oh, please, let me stay. I’ll sleep on the settee, or the floor. I don’t want to be alone.” She purposely swiped a stray tear from her cheek and sniffled loudly.
He heaved a sigh. “If you were not so tall, I would throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to your own chamber.” He indicated the settee. “Throw me a pillow, will you? I suppose I’ve had worse beds than this.”
“It’s only for one night.” She tossed him a pillow. He blew out the candle.
“It had better be. I did not sign up for this journey as a nursemaid, much as I would love taking you across my knee and giving you a well-deserved spanking for all the trouble you cost me this evening.”
“Nursemaid Jack,” she sang softly. He snorted, and she laughed quietly. “Was she very beautiful?” She’d spoken before she’d given it a thought. His personal life was none of her business.
“Who?”
“The paramour you had to leave tonight on my account.”
He snorted. “There is no paramour.” He punched his pillow in the darkness.
“You came to the ball alone?”
“Yes. I often attend balls unaccompanied. One has a damnably difficult time meeting new paramours if one is attached to another. Why the interest in my activities, she who ventures to balls in a foreign country with no chaperone?”
“I assumed there must be some reason to have kept you from visiting Aunt Adele and me.” She bit her lip, scolding herself for sounding petulant.
“I apologize for not coming to see you. My grandfather will accept nothing but absolute perfection. And if there was a paramour, Miss Lockewood, this is less than suitable talk from one as young and innocent as you.”
“When I am one and eighty, will you still consider me a little girl, I wonder?”
“You will always be my friend’s little sister, dear Pudding Face.”
His voice held a barely perceptible warning. She lay back on the pillows and snuggled beneath the quilt. “I should tell Jonathan you compromised me. That will be fine revenge for all the times you called me Pudding Face. He would be forced to call you out, and you will feel so guilty you’ll allow him to kill you.”
He harrumphed loudly. “I can imagine that duel. He would talk me to death before I could get in the first blow.”
“If you promise to take me somewhere tomorrow, I promise not to mention what happened tonight to my brother.”
“That’s called blackmail.”
She echoed his snort. “Call it what you will. I want to enjoy myself while I’m away from home. It’s my last chance.”
“You’ve seen what trouble you’ve found in having so much fun, haven’t you?”
“I will not be in trouble as long as you’re with me.”
His laughter rang around the darkened chamber. “I will think of somewhere harmless to take you in the morning. There’s a bee farm nearby. Or perhaps we can stroll through a garden, if you promise not to disturb the butterflies, although I do fear for the safety of the roses. You might prick yourself on a thorn and bleed all over the place.”
“I have never had a bad experience with a flower.”
“Then I will ensure you have them in abundant supply while you’re here. Good night, Georgie. Pleasant dreams.”
“I shall dream of you, Jack. My rescuer.” She’d spoken the words before she’d thought of them. He was quiet for a few seconds.
“Throw in a few bottles of wine, and I’ll allow it.”
“I shall also throw in a freshly starched cravat. Your linen is not very tidy.”
He laughed again. “Perhaps I will dream about you, Georgiana.”
She gasped with shocked amusement. “You are no gentleman, Jack Waverley.”
“On the ship, you told me I was every inch the gentleman. How fickle is the mind of woman.”
“So now you are admitting I’m not a child anymore.”
“I admit no such thing.”
The mattress sagged as she moved toward the edge. His outlined form on the settee was comforting in the darkness.
“I’m glad you were there tonight.”
The settee creaked b
eneath his weight as he made himself more comfortable. “You may thank me properly in the morning. I have no cook on Sundays, and prefer eggs and sausage. Toasted bread, as well.”
She drew the quilt up to her neck. Already, the night’s frightening events had faded somewhat. She was safe now. Jack’s scent wafted from the sheets and pillow, enfolding her in a sea of musk and spice. His presence was like an invisible shield, protecting her.
“Perhaps you are partly a gentleman.”
He grunted. “I shall endeavor to become a full gentleman, if it pleases you.”
She stroked the wrinkled linen pillowcase, imagining Jack’s golden hair fanned across it. Shaking her head at the alarming thought, she merely sighed.
“Not a complete gentleman, please, Jack. I could not abide you too stuffy, like Jonathan.”
“I am terribly unique, I admit.”
He was trying to take her mind off her ordeal, and she smiled despite her troubled heart. “You are in a class all by yourself.”
“As are you, Pudding Face. As are you.”
Chapter Nine
Jack rubbed his neck as he dragged himself to a sitting position. How the devil had he not made it into his own bed the night before? He’d hardly touched a drop, yet here he was, clad in breeches, shirt, and stockings, with a perfectly good bed a few feet away.
A perfectly good bed with a sleeping woman nestled among the covers.
There could be only one reason a woman lay sleeping in his bed while he was on the settee.
“Georgie! You lazy chit! Time to wake up.” He strode to the bed and yanked the quilt off her.
With a muffled yelp, she sat up, looking around the room as if she were lost. “Jack?”
“Good morning to you, too. If you don’t mind, I’d like to bathe and dress, and your presence makes both tasks interesting though terribly inconvenient.”
She pulled the neck of her nightrail closed and threw back the coverlet. He caught a glimpse of her slender leg until her gown covered her to the floor when she stood.
