by Amy Jarecki
“At theses exorbitant prices, I would hope so.”
Drawing a hand over her nose, Georgiana snorted. Her parents were wealthy enough to buy the theater if they desired and yet her mother always managed to complain.
If the man was offended by her remark, he didn’t show it as he opened the door to their box. “Here we are.”
“Thank you,” Georgiana said as she followed the baroness inside.
Though the box was spacious, there were only two velvet upholstered chairs, festooned by red curtains with gold trim. When the door closed, Georgiana scoffed. “If you’re so worried about the ticket prices, we could have spent the evening at home.”
Mother took her seat and fluffed out her skirts. “’Tisn’t the price that worries me, it is that Covent Garden sees fit to raise their fees by a quarter every year. And nonsense about staying home. No one remains at home in London on a Friday evening, especially when an opera by Mozart is playing.”
“Papa isn’t here.”
“And he’s not at home either. The card table at Whites was too tempting for him tonight.” Mother raised a lorgnette to her eyes, primly peering across the parterre. “I see the Duke of Evesham has come—he’s alone, mind you.”
Georgiana didn’t intend to look, but before she stopped herself, she spotted the man in the box directly across from them, staring her way. “Oh, dear.”
Mother regarded daughter with an aghast cough. “I am still disappointed that you chose Tuesday morning to walk Rasputin. I think you may have caught Evesham’s eye.”
For her own well-being, Georgiana hadn’t said a word to her mother about the incident in the park. And three days had passed without another altercation with His Grace. Clearly any attraction he might have harbored was doused in Green Park’s pond. “You cannot be serious, Mama. Even I’ve heard of his philandering reputation.
“Hogwash.” She snapped her lorgnette back to her eyes. “He’s a single man. A very wealthy one, mind you—reported to earn over twenty thousand per year. What he needs is a stalwart woman with whom he can grow roots. Deep roots.”
“Well, I wish him all the very best in his search.”
“Oh, look there. I do believe he’s waving at you, dear.”
He was.
Georgiana gave him a polite nod, then stared at her folded hands until the overture began with a thundering cadence. All through the first act, the intensity of Evesham’s stare made her skin fiery with awareness. Nonetheless, she wasn’t fooled. Every time the soprano commanded the stage, she sang to the duke as if there were no other person in the audience. No wonder he was alone. He’d come to the theater to listen to his lover sing. In fact, by the time the curtain closed for intermission, Georgiana was convinced the soprano was Evesham’s mistress and on the morrow The Scarlet Petticoat would contain an article stating the same.
The usher knocked. “Beg your pardon, my lady. You have a missive.”
“Truly?” Mother asked, taking the note and reading. “Good heavens. How absolutely fortuitous, my dear—Evesham has invited us to join him in his box.”
FLETCHER HADN’T EVEN looked at the stage. Alternatively, aside from a fleeting glance, Lady Georgiana hadn’t averted her eyes from it. No, he wasn’t about to sit idle while the woman who had consumed his every thought for the past three days and nights ignored him.
That’s why he’d addressed the invitation to Lady Derby rather than her daughter. The baroness plainly wanted to see Georgiana happy, and had been quite clear about her intentions during their discussion in her Mayfair Place town house. If Her Ladyship thought it was time to reintroduce her daughter to the marriage mart, Fletcher intended to be the first man at the trough. Lady Georgiana mightn’t be the one for whom he was looking, but he planned to find out before some other sniveling nobleman showed up on her doorstep with a fist full of roses.
He stood when the usher opened the door. “Ladies, how lovely to see you this evening. I am delighted to have you join me.”
“Thank you for hospitality, Your Grace.” Lady Derby held out her hand, which Fletcher promptly kissed. “I am surprised to see you sitting alone this evening.”
“Unless you have a friend in the cast,” said Lady Georgiana, giving a polite curtsy.
The woman was astute. Indeed, Fletcher had come in hopes of meeting Signora Morella after the performance. Lying awake and frustrated over the past several nights, he’d thought the soprano might assuage his damnable lust. But as soon as the lovely widow had taken her seat in the box across from his, all thoughts of the woman he’d once enjoyed bedding fell by the wayside.
“I am a patron of the opera,” he explained. At least that wasn’t a lie. He rarely missed an opening.
Fletcher took the young woman’s hand and bowed over it, breathing in her scent. She wore no perfume, but she smelled clean, and so very female. And though her hands were covered by kid leather gloves, he took extra care to impart a kiss equal to the blood thrumming through his veins.
By the woman’s soft gasp, she wasn’t completely impervious to him.
“Welcome. Please do have a seat.” He held the far chair for Lady Derby, the one closest to the stage for Lady Georgiana, then opted for the middle.
“Compliments to your modiste, my lady. Both mother and daughter are among the most smartly attired women in the theater.”
“How kind of you to say,” said Her Ladyship.
Fletcher turned to Lady Georgiana. “And how is your dog?”
She silenced a snort with the palm of her hand. “Papa is undertaking a course of strict obedience with him.”
“I’m surprised she made it home without incident,” said Lady Derby.
Arching an eyebrow, he looked between the women. So, Lady Georgiana hadn’t told her mother about her drenching at the pond? Interesting. But then the entire dog-walking adventure must have been mortifying for the woman. Still, it showed him she truly was a bit of a recluse—someone very private.
The orchestra began to play as the curtain rose, revealing a street scene and bloody, bedamned Signora Morella. But with such tempting fare beside him, Fletcher had no problem tuning out the music and Lady Georgiana in. Her evening gown was exquisite. Ivory embroidered with crystal jewels that sparkled every time she moved. Her hair was pulled up in a chignon crowned with a tiara and softened by chestnut ringlets framing her face.
Fletcher chose not to fight the sensation of champagne bubbling through his blood, the smoldering heat pooling in his loins. He rather liked this stage of an infatuation.
Dropping his hand to his side, he leaned toward her until his fingers met with folds of silk, his lips so close to her, he couldn’t help but whisper, “You are the most beautiful woman in the theater this night.”
A rueful chuckle slipped through her lips as she regarded him out of the corner of her eye. She shifted her seat, her hips nearer though her crossed ankles moved away. “Are you flirting with me, Your Grace?”
Through the silk fabric, he lightly brushed her thigh. “Isn’t it obvious?”
She made no move whatsoever. “Then I feel it prudent to inform you that I am not yet ready to entertain a courtship.”
“I see.” He swirled his little finger, reveling in the wicked friction while the thrill of the chase emboldened him. “Such a goal will be near impossible for a woman as attractive as you. Unfortunately, during the Season, dandies are like flies to honey and you are the sweetest the ton has to offer.”
“I am in no way to be measured among the multitude of young, inexperienced debutantes. Nor do I have any desire to be one.”
“So true, and that makes you all the more alluring.” Vaguely, Signora Morella’s high C pierced the air.
Lady Georgiana clamped her hand around his fingers, rather powerfully for a woman. She deposited Fletcher’s fist in his lap. “Tell me, are you planning to see the soprano after the performance? She seems quite taken with you and rather distraught with your present company.”
“I—” Flet
cher looked to the stage. Indeed, Signora Morella was shrieking and waving her arms, though while in character, her tirade was directed at him.
Before he had a chance to explain that he had no intention of rekindling an affair with the singer, Lady Georgiana excused herself and headed to the corridor.
Fletcher pushed back his chair and bowed to the baroness. “Excuse me, my lady. I think something I said might have been misunderstood.”
Lady Derby waved her lorgnette through the air. “By all means, Your Grace.”
He pushed out into the passageway. At least the baroness seemed to like him, even if her daughter did not. Yet. And why did it matter if he’d initially gone to the theater intending to spend one night in Caterina Morella’s arms? He’d only done so to stop dreaming about the woman who’d just fled his box.
Fletcher found the object of his preoccupation alone in an alcove, her face to the wall. She sniffed.
His heart tightened. “I’ve hurt you.”
Wiping her eyes, she faced him. “How could you possibly hurt me? I hardly know you.”
“True.” Not one to mince words, he opted for directness. “Please allow me to explain. You are right on one account. I did once have a tryst with Signora Morella, but it ended years ago.”
“Then why is she giving a performance as if you are the only patron in the entire theater?”
“I have no idea.” He stepped toward her, the scene reminiscent of the darkened salon at Almacks a few nights past. But this time, he intended to follow through. “I have no control over the actions of others.”
Her Ladyship backed to the wall, her lips slightly parted, the soft, supple mounds of her exposed breasts rising with every breath. Tempting him. Calling him. Begging to be caressed. The woman’s eyes grew dark. Yes, this sweet, reclusive woman wanted him. She wanted him far more than she realized.
“But you have control over your own,” she whispered, breathless.
“I do.” Fletcher shifted a hand to the arc of her waist. “And right now I intend to kiss you.”
Chapter Five
FOR THE SECOND TIME since Georgiana arrived in London, she couldn’t breathe. And it had everything to do with the Duke of Evesham. The man’s powerful hand rested on her waist, rendering her powerless to resist his commanding presence. Long, black lashes fanned hungry eyes while moist, full, masculine lips neared.
Everything around them faded into oblivion.
Except for him.
The heat of his minty breath seared her, making a rush of fire thrum through her body. Georgiana raised her chin, every inch of her skin alive and tingling with want. She hadn’t kissed a man in ages—not that Daniel had ever been terribly romantic—not like Evesham. No, Daniel had never made her feel like she did right now—wanton, wicked, insane with the hunger of lust. What was it about this man? His looks? His reputation? That his personality was completely opposite hers? That she could never have him—not ever, not in a million years? He was forbidden fruit. Untouchable. Yet, in this moment, his intention was unmistakable.
As his lips brushed hers, she sighed with the desire to taste him while her knees turned boneless. As if she’d uttered aloud her hunger, powerful hands slid around her back while the duke’s tongue swept into her mouth. Delicious, soft and oh so naughty, he devoured her. Overcome with her own unexpected wildness, Georgiana sunk her fingers into his hips and held on. He plundered her mouth, taking it with urgent licks and sucks.
She gasped. Dear God, a blast of heat rushed deep inside her. Evesham growled, the sound rumbling through to the tips of her breasts. He slid his fingers to her buttocks and pulled her flush against him. She molded into his chest, her hips connected with his. Hard, virile and oh so very male, the duke had her pressed against the wall while Georgiana submitted entirely as if she were burning from the inside out.
A noise in the distance brought a flicker of lucidity. Georgiana opened her eyes and gasped. What am I doing?
There she stood in a public theater in the arms of the most notorious rake in London. Anyone could walk past. Her mother. Eleanor. A journalist from The Scarlet Petticoat.
She shoved her hands between them and gave him a hearty push. “Stop!”
Stepping back, Evesham looked stunned. “Stop?” he asked as his voice shot up.
“You, sir, have bewitched me, just as you must do to all your conquests.”
“Conquests?” A furrow etched between his brows while he reached for her hand.
She drew her fingers away, recoiled, and slapped the rogue right across the face. “I do not care if you are a duke, everything the scandal sheets say about you is true!”
His mouth dropped open as Georgiana dashed past. How could she be so gullible? She wasn’t a young lady experiencing her first Season. She’d been married for five years. Though Daniel never would have kissed her like that—especially not in plain view, while attending a theater full of patrons. Thank heavens they weren’t discovered.
In no way could she return to Evesham’s box, and yet her mother was still there.
She stopped an usher at the top of the stairs. “Please inform Lady Derby that her daughter is waiting in the carriage.”
LADY ELEANOR TOOK A sip of tea, then thoughtfully placed her cup in the saucer. “I think you’re looking at this all wrong.”
“I beg your pardon?” Georgiana had just spent the past ten minutes explaining her plight. “If you have a better idea, please do not keep me in suspense.”
“We women must make use of the opportunities available to us. I’m not telling you to stop searching for venues to demonstrate your steam pumper but, as you are aware, men with means attend all manner of social gatherings this time of year.” Eleanor reached for a tiny cake. “And as an importer of fine items of haberdashery and the like, I have found there is no better place to make a business transaction than dazzling one’s partner on the dance floor.”
Had she heard correctly? Eleanor danced her way to her fortune? “If you hadn’t mentioned business transactions, I would insist you were in collusion with my mother.” Georgiana stretched out her leg and pointed her toe. “Please. I know it has been years, but surely you remember my clumsiness.”
“You weren’t that bad.”
“No? In one very short Season, I managed to trip on the Duke of Surrey’s toes, fall in front of every courtier in London at Carlton House, spill raspberry cordial down the front of Lady Annabelle’s outrageously expensive gown, not to mention slip and deluge myself in a quagmire of mud when walking with Mr. Dover in Hyde Park.”
Georgiana selected a cucumber sandwich and nibbled. There was no use telling her friend about her most recent foibles with Evesham. Good Lord, how could she have let the man kiss her? No wonder he’d made so many conquests. It took a will of iron to resist him.
But Eleanor’s expression only grew more engaged. “Yes, my dearest, but that was when you were a nervous debutante. You are older, wiser, and far more composed.”
“You may be composed, but I still feel awkward, uncomfortable, and completely unsuitable when surrounded by members of the ton—especially in a ballroom.”
“Hogwash. Do not forget you are the daughter of a powerful baron and you have every right to rub shoulders with anyone you please.”
“Perhaps.” Georgiana tapped a petite marble statue of an opera dancer on the table beside her, envious of the depiction of feminine grace captured in the small rendering. “But that still does not allay the fact that I always manage to trip over my own feet.”
“I say, if you truly want to sell your machine, I suggest you take lessons without delay.”
“Right. I can see myself bumbling amongst a gaggle of twelve-year-old children whilst the dance master beats the floorboards with his staff, shouting, ‘Lady Georgiana, we are not mustering sheep!’”
Eleanor rubbed her hand along the velvet armrest of her chair. “I can teach you.”
“You?”
“Yes, but we’ll need a man for you to partner
with.” Eleanor drummed her fingers. “The problem is who.”
“You’re serious? You would take away from your busy schedule of appointments?”
“My schedule needs a diversion of sorts at the moment. Besides, I’d like to see you succeed. So few of our sex do.”
“Or have the opportunity to attempt to do so.” Georgiana considered her friend’s proposal as she sipped her tea. Truly, she hadn’t even considered using a social arena to garner interest in the fire engine. If she were to entertain such unconventional methods, she must be very discrete, else her parents would be furious.
Eleanor chuckled. “I can see you thinking.”
“Yes.” After setting her dish down, she reached across the table and grasped Her Ladyship’s hand. “If you are truly willing to endure my missteps, I think I might know just the person.”
“Who?”
“The actor I hired to give demonstrations—an older gentleman, and he’s an accomplished dancer.”
“Perfect.”
Finally at ease, Georgiana sighed, taking in the parlor as if she’d only just entered. The furnishings were new. Even the Oriental carpet looked as if it had no wear. She again ran a finger over the marble opera dancer, noting the intricate detail from the flowers in her hair to the way the skirts appeared to be in motion. “My, things have changed since I last visited. After speaking to you at Covent Garden, I assumed...” She looked away.
Eleanor popped a tiny cucumber sandwich into her mouth. “Yes, well, I do not make my success widely known.”
“Oh my, I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear it. Would I be prying overmuch to ask how you’ve come into your success?”
“There’s not much to tell, really. We had our Season together in 1812, remember?”
“How could I forget? ’Tis the same year I met Daniel.” Georgiana raised her cup for a refill. “But do continue.”
“At the time,” said Eleanor as she poured, “war was rife and, as it turns out, I happened upon a small import business.”
