He froze, shuddering in restraint. She willed herself not to struggle, to lie still despite the unexpected pain.
‘Georgie?’ His voice sounded shaken. ‘Oh, Georgie.’
His body lowered on to hers and he held her, a gentle hand caressing her cheek. The unexpected tenderness shattered her control and she pushed at his shoulders.
‘No! Let me go, damn you!’
‘Georgie! No. Lie still—’
It was too late. Even as he tried to reassure her, the squirming of her soft breasts beneath him, the unintentional caress of her body, broke Anthony’s control. All the pent-up hurt and guilt of the past four years, along with the savage frustration of the past few days, swept through him in a shattering release. He could only hold himself as still as possible while the storm raged.
At last it was over. Shaking and spent, he withdrew himself carefully from her body and rolled to the side. His lack of control sickened him. He had taken her, before she was anywhere near ready, practically forcing her, without bothering even to undress fully. He hadn’t even removed his shoes.
‘Are you…have you finished?’
The tightly controlled voice tore at him as did her very stillness. As though she dared not move.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ He heard the restrained fury in his own voice and winced.
‘I…it doesn’t matter. May I go now?’
‘The hell it doesn’t matter!’ he exploded, raising himself on one elbow. ‘And, no! You may not go! You are my wife. You remain here.’
Instinctively he reached for her, meaning to comfort her, reassure her. She jack-knifed away from him in a flurry of skirts, clutching her ruined bodice. Shame roiled his guts as he drew back.
‘You need not fear,’ he said bitterly, hating himself for what he had done. ‘I have no intention of dishonouring myself any further tonight.’
That stilled her. The hazel eyes met his gaze, bleak and shuttered.
‘I will not be your wife for very much longer, Anthony. Even if I didn’t learn any new tricks.’
He thought his jaw might crack under the strain of not roaring a denial.
‘At the moment however, Georgiana, you remain my wife. And you will sleep here. In my bed.’
Georgie’s heart faltered. The hard line of his mouth, the savage blaze in his eyes, told her that he meant it. If she tried to leave he would stop her. Physically. And she didn’t dare let him touch her again. He hated her. His touch would sear her. She knew now exactly what he thought her.
‘I…I…very well.’
What was she to sleep in? She had no nightgown in here. Her body burned in shame at the thought of disrobing in front of Anthony. Of feeling those grey eyes on her, assessing her. Dismissing her. As a whore.
‘You can borrow one of my nightshirts.’ His voice shocked her out of her daze.
‘No!’ Meeting his gaze, she flushed. ‘Thank you. I’ll…I’ll just sleep in—’ In the shift he’d nearly torn off her? ‘In my gown.’ She wasn’t wearing stays. It wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.
He was frowning again. ‘As you wish.’
He turned away and she barely suppressed a gasp as he stood up and finished undressing. Shameless, to stare so as he walked naked to the dressing-room door. Yet she could not tear her eyes from that broad, muscled back, the narrow hips, so lithe, so…He disappeared into the dressing room and her breath returned in a rush.
Catching at her wits, she stripped off her stockings and garters, dropping them beside the bed. Better to be safely between the sheets before he returned. Frantic fingers rebuttoned her ruined gown.
Five minutes later he slid into the bed on the opposite side. She didn’t dare to look to see if he wore a nightshirt.
‘There is a cloth and ewer of water in the dressing room, if you…if you need it. If you wish to cleanse yourself…’
She felt her blush all the way to her breasts, felt a renewed awareness of her body, sticky and slightly tender from his possession.
‘I…no. I’m fine. Th…thank you.’ She hated the wobble in her voice. Hated herself for the vivid memory of the night he had finally come to her chamber in Brussels to complete her seduction and claim his bride. He had cleansed her himself that night, tenderly wiping away the traces of her virginity, easing her soreness. And then he had made love to her again. So gently, so completely that she thought she had never before been whole.
Now there was nothing to ease the soreness of her heart. The knowledge that she had behaved like a spoiled, frightened child and destroyed her marriage with her foolish flight. Her stupid dream that if he truly wanted her, he would come for her.
‘Shall I snuff the candle, then?’
‘Please,’ she whispered.
The light wavered and was gone, plunging the room into welcome darkness. Turning on to her side, she wriggled a little closer to the edge of the bed, unwilling to intrude on his space. He had felt dishonoured in bedding her. The knowledge brought silent tears spilling over.
She had made this particular bed herself. If it was lumpy, she only had herself to blame.
He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
He lay in the darkness, violently aware of Georgiana, finally asleep on the far side of the bed. If she tried to get any further away, she’d roll out on to the floor.
He didn’t blame her. With horror and shame he reminded himself just how limited her marital experience had been. Knowing that she had cared for the heedless young idiot who jilted her, he had not insisted on claiming his seventeen-year-old bride on their wedding night. Instead he had applied himself to winning her trust, her affection, at the same time slowly, but surely, seducing her.
He had only permitted himself to bed her the night before the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Four years ago. His eyes closed in pain. She had been so damned innocent. She’d had no idea of what the marriage bed involved. Until he’d shown her. Step by gentle step. His restraint had been rewarded with a response that had seared him to his soul.
And now…
He swallowed. Now he had taken her with the assumption that she had enlarged her experience. He would give his soul to be able to take back what now lay between them. He had treated her as a whore and she had been no more experienced than when he left her bed on the morning after taking her virginity. Inevitably he had hurt her then, too, but at least he’d been gentle with her, had eased himself inside her trembling body tenderly, soothing her, reassuring her, until she softened enough to accept him fully.
Now…now he had hurt her. Carelessly. All the more so because it stemmed from his belief that she had betrayed him. In that at least he had been wrong. Unfortunately he had said enough for Georgie to realise what he had thought of her.
Still—four years without a word! Not even a note to reassure him of her safety! And then the brazen little baggage thought to insinuate herself back into his life by taking a position with Aunt Harriet, damn her eyes. Where the hell had she been all that time, if she hadn’t been under some man’s protection?
He shut his eyes. All these questions would have to wait until the morning, when he was in better control of his temper. He dragged in a breath. God help him, but he hadn’t lost his temper like that in four years. Not since that ghastly night at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball on the eve of Waterloo when he had found her in her erstwhile betrothed’s arms. Kissing him, no less!
And then she’d claimed to love him! Her fool of a husband, who wanted to believe it more than he had wanted his next breath. She’d begged him to trust her, to let her explain…He’d said things he shouldn’t have said, lashing out in his pain. He remembered her white, frightened face as he raged at her, the despairing cry when he left her. And when he had returned, exhausted and bruised from battle, she had been gone, leaving everything he’d given her, bar her wedding ring and the Lyndhurst pearls.
Now she lay again in his bed. And he would have to decide what to do with her.
The downs rolled under his horse’s poundin
g hoofs. On and on he galloped as if he intended to outrun the rising sun and the past. Above him skylarks soared unseen, their song pouring back to the spinning world to mingle with the silver light, the scent of gorse and painful memories tearing free of their shackles.
So many memories. Their first meeting at that picnic outside Brussels. Young Finch-Scott presenting him…
Georgie, this is Major Lyndhurst. Sir, this is Miss Milne, my…my betrothed!
He’d been lost the moment he looked into her face, seen the shy smile in the hazel eyes. Heard her sweet voice as she smiled and greeted him. He’d cursed the fate that had shown her to Finch-Scott first.
After that he had seen her often. Smiling on Justin Finch-Scott’s arm as he introduced her to his fellow officers and the English community that had flocked to Brussels.
Within a week he’d heard the tale that Finch-Scott’s mama, Lady Halifax, had appeared, scandalised at the rumour that her son had been entrapped by a scheming little camp follower. Then the whisper that the betrothal might not stand, that Lady Halifax had reason to believe that Miss Milne was no better than she should be…that Miss Milne’s chaperon and guardian, Lady Carrington, considered the match most unequal…that Miss Georgiana Milne, with no connections and less fortune, should content herself with the position as a companion promised to her by her kind protectress.
He’d been furious with Finch-Scott when he’d heard that the betrothal was at an end. The young fool had stammered something about Miss Milne releasing him. Lord! With the prospect of that mother-in-law before her? Of course she had released him!
So when he’d seen her being cut at the start of a ball three days later, he’d stalked over, and announced that this was the dance she had promised him. Then he’d trodden on her slippered toes to stop the automatic denial on her lips. He’d swept her into the waltz and realised that his search was over. He’d found his bride. Only she was in love with someone else…
Yet still he’d courted her. And won her. Even knowing that she had cared for Finch-Scott, he had been prepared to take her. Hell, he’d been wild to take her, believing that she would learn to love him…if he gave her time, didn’t rush her. Didn’t terrify her by revealing the depth of desire and passion consuming him. How could it not terrify her? It terrified him, for God’s sake. So much so that he’d presented the match to her as one of convenience…
He pushed his horse harder, ignoring the pain in his leg, trying to outrun the pain in his heart. It kept pace effortlessly.
The Duchess’s ball… William’s embarrassed avoidance of his eyes when, in all the confusion of the call to arms, he asked if he’d seen Georgie. William’s reluctant mutter that she was…ah, talking, old chap…talking to Finch-Scott…
His own savage reaction.
Well, in the garden, old man…
And Georgie’s tears, her frantic denials…Anthony! Listen! It wasn’t like that! Please, let me explain…
Why? Why had she fled like that if she had been innocent? Why had she not let him know that she was safe? She and her mother had followed the drum for years! Of all women, she had known what he faced. That he might not return. She had said it herself. Yet she had left…For all she had known he might have been dead or injured! His leg twinged. Damn it, he might have come by this blasted stiff leg at Waterloo, rather than hunting last winter!
How the hell could he ever trust her again, even if she hadn’t spent part of the last four years warming someone else’s bed?
Slowing his horse to a canter, he swung around in a wide circle to head for home. If he had the least modicum of sense he’d go back to the house right now, expose the little baggage and sue for divorce! Any man of sense and reasonable pride would agree with that course of action.
He rode towards the house, floating dreamily in its woods above the downs, savagely aware that he was not a man of sense…or pride, reasonable or otherwise. His fingers tightened on the reins and the horse flung up his head, sidling and snorting at the sudden pressure. Forcibly relaxing, Anthony faced the truth. Georgie was his! Whether he liked it or not. Like a fool, he still cared.
He met John in the park, riding in from the direction of Lynd.
‘You’re out early,’ commented John.
Anthony raised his brows. ‘Early is a relative thing, old chap. For me this is normal. You’re the one who’s taken to lazing between sheets until the breakfast gong sounds!’
John grinned. ‘You shouldn’t have such comfortable beds.’
Anthony smothered a wry laugh. He suspected that John’s tendency to linger in bed had more to do with the delights of his Countess than comfort. For himself, bed had held no temptation to linger. Indeed, in four years of poor sleep, last night ranked as a record. He’d only dropped off shortly before dawn, to be awoken by the sound of the door closing behind his wife. From her restlessness all night, he doubted she’d fared any better than he.
John cast an odd sideways glance at him. ‘It’s none of my business, Anthony, but—’
He hesitated and Anthony waited, puzzled.
‘About William—’
Stiffening, Anthony inclined his head. Most unlike John to plead William’s cause…
‘Look, Anthony, this is damnably hard for me to say—it’s like stabbing him in the back—and I’ve no idea what you intend and I don’t dashed well want to know! It’s none of my business! But if you’re seriously considering William as your heir, you should think again.’ He glared at Anthony and charged on. ‘And I don’t want the Lyndhurst property either, so—’
Outraged, Anthony growled, ‘I never thought you did, you gudgeon! It was just that—’
‘I know,’ said John. ‘You wanted to make sure the property was safe. Well, I’ll tell you to your head—William is not the right man.’ He flushed. ‘Listen. I know you always had a fellow feeling for William. Both younger sons and so on. No prospects to speak of, but only consider the difference between you! You went and joined the army, you did something with your life and, from all I ever heard, you lived within your patrimony.’ He hauled in a deep breath. ‘William has never done that. He has consistently avoided settling to anything. My father and I, both at different times, offered to buy him a commission or see him advanced in the church—’
Anthony could not repress a crack of laughter at that and John looked pained.
‘Oh, very well! He’d make a shocking clergyman. But he ought to do something! He has no sense of responsibility and, to be blunt—he borrowed on his expectations as my heir for years.’
He pulled up his horse and said quietly, ‘Anthony, whatever William may have told you, I’ve been making him a very generous allowance for the past few years since my marriage to Sarah, despite the fact that he is no longer my heir. In addition, I have paid his debts several times. I cannot do that forever and he has been told so. There are my own children to provide for.’
Anthony nodded. ‘You think William is playing on my sympathies.’
John nodded. ‘Yes. I know you were appalled when your brother died. That the last thing you wanted was to succeed to the property, but, believe me, Hartley was perfectly content that it should be so. He knew he could trust you. And there’s another thing…That row between Marcus and Frobisher—what did William tell you?’
Anthony grimaced. ‘Not much. He was very reluctant to say anything. I gathered that something had been said about my marriage.’ His jaw tightened.
John looked at him narrowly. ‘William gave you to think that Marcus had said something, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
John swore. ‘You fool! Frobisher made the remark. And Marcus—who’s even more of a fool than you are, if that’s possible!—went berserk. Or so I’m told. For God’s sake, Anthony! Did you really think that Marcus would have said anything about that business?’
Before Anthony could frame a reply, he went on, ‘Listen—that’s just William’s style. He never lies outright, but lets you think…imagine…the worst. He twists thi
ngs, like…’ his face hardened ‘…like messages. He did that once with me. After I met Sarah. Garbled a message and I almost believed she was engaged in an affair with someone!’
Shock slammed into Anthony. ‘What?’
John’s eyes were bleak. ‘I know. Stupid of me. Sarah, of all women. It nearly destroyed us. But he can be so damned plausible—as though he hates to tell you. But afterwards, when I thought about it—he was desperate for money. If I married Sarah his expectations were gone. And he was drowning in the River Tick.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘To be frank, the only time I’ve ever known him to be beforehand with the world was straight after Waterloo. When he returned from Brussels I asked if he needed a tow and he actually refused!’ His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘First and only time he’s ever refused an offer of money. Naturally I draw the line at accusations of plunder, but I can only assume that your fellow officers were too much taken up to have their minds on their cards!’
Slowly Anthony nodded. ‘I see. Thanks, John. If it’s any consolation, I doubt that I should have left the estate to William anyway.’
He waited. Would John say anything about William’s possible involvement in the attack on Frobisher? He was certain Marcus had realised, but they hadn’t had a chance to speak of it. He knew Marcus would be reluctant to voice his suspicions to John. But if it was the only way to establish Marcus’s innocence then, by God, he would do it. He would not condemn his best friend and cousin to the sort of hell he had endured for the past four years. Gossip, innuendo. His jaw clenched. If he could come close to believing such rubbish about Marcus, what would society make of it?
John looked relieved. ‘Yes, well. Hated saying all that. He’s my brother, after all.’ He glanced at Anthony, frowning. ‘And now, having gone that far, I really am going beyond the line.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Anthony—when are you going to find out what happened to your wife? If she’s dead, you need to know it. If she’s with some other fellow, then you need to know that, too, and divorce her. Then you are free to remarry, which would solve your problem. Make an interim will, by all means, but don’t name William as your heir. Or me and mine! If I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone the contents of your will. Then find out what happened to Georgiana. It’s time you stopped hiding up here like a hermit and got on with your life.’
A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season Page 21
