Before she could even speak, Nathan was running into the trees, following the sound of that departing watcher.
“Nathan!” she shouted after him. But she could see nothing, only hear the sounds of movement through groaning undergrowth. And then, sharply, horrifyingly, the unmistakable report of a rifle.
“Oh god!” she gasped, and at the same time heard Nathan cry out.
She thought—for a long, heart-stopping minute—that he must have been hit. And then he burst out from the copse of trees, his hat gone and his coat flapping.
“Nathan!” she cried. “Thank god!”
“He got away,” Nathan said. “I think it must have been a poacher—he had a gun—but he was more concerned about escaping.”
“He shot at you? Are you all right?”
“I—yes. God!”
For a moment he looked as stunned as she felt, then he stepped towards her, frowning at whatever expression her face wore. “It’s all right, Georgy. He’s gone now.” He put his hands on her upper arms, fixing her with a concerned look.
It had probably been, as he’d said, just a poacher. But whoever it was had had a gun. Nathan could have been shot. That horrifying thought lingered and wouldn’t be banished. And beforehand she’d been screeching at him like a fishwife.
“Come on,” Nathan said, rubbing her upper arms. “Let’s go back to the house. You need a brandy by the look of you.”
Chapter 19
Nathan led Georgy to the library and pressed her into an armchair. She shoved her cold hands under her thighs, both to still their trembling and warm them. A footman came and Nathan asked him to bring two goblets of brandy. The servant shot a glance at Georgy as he left, his expression curious. She felt too shaken to care.
The footman returned with a tray. Nathan took it, dismissing him, and brought Georgy’s goblet to her. She wrapped her trembling hands around the bowl of the glass and took a sip. The spirit was hot and fiery, shocking.
Nathan watched her, his face sombre. “Sit quietly and sip that,” he said, “while I look in these crates.”
The library floor was still littered with crates unloaded from the carriage yesterday. Georgy watched as he went through the contents.
The first two contained books. Nathan took them out, volume by volume, checking each one over before finding a space for it on his bookshelves. He took his time about it, arranging the books with care. It was restful to watch him, so engrossed in his task, a lock of dark hair tumbling over his forehead.
“Feeling better?” he asked after a while.
She smiled before she could stop herself. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Do you want to help me get the orrery out then?”
“Yes, of course.” She stood, placing the almost untouched brandy glass on the mantelpiece. In truth she was excited to see it at last, this mysterious thing of his.
The crate had already been prised open. The object itself was wrapped in roughspun fabric and packed in straw. Nathan crouched down and cleared the straw out of the way and Georgy crouched beside him. The fabric-wrapped object was almost four feet in diameter and perhaps three feet in height.
“Could you take that side?” he said, pointing.
She scooted round and put her hands beneath the object. The base was wooden and had small turned feet. She gripped it firmly and lifted on Nathan’s order. It felt less heavy and awkward out of its crate. They hefted it up and onto the table. Nathan cut the yarn that secured the fabric in place and they worked together to pull the material out from underneath.
Georgy’s breath caught in her throat as she glanced at Nathan. He was smiling, excited, dark eyes bright with interest. He seemed, all at once, the antithesis of the Earl of Harland the world knew, a man who surveyed his surroundings with an air of boredom and superiority.
He wore no armour now.
When he lifted the fabric away, Georgy gave a little ooooh, distracted despite herself. Nathan met her eyes, a grin of pleasure on his face, enjoying her reaction.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s extraordinary. Beautiful.”
Was it a machine? A sculpture? A piece of furniture? Whatever it was, it was huge, built into a deep twelve-sided cabinet of rosewood. Each of the faces of the cabinet was decorated with geometric marquetry and a handle was set into one of them, an elegant thing of ebony and brass. On this elegant wooden base sat the orrery itself, a massive gleaming brass plate made up of concentric circles into which were set models of various planets—brass and silver and copper—each one a different size and shape. There were dials set into the plate too and above the whole, a number of hooped brass bands, arched over and around it like the canopy of heaven. Nathan ran his fingers along the edge of the wood, his eyes moving over his new acquisition with restless pleasure.
“What does it do?” Georgy asked. She knew it had a purpose, this lovely thing.
“It shows the movement of the planets of our solar system,” he said. “Observe.” He began to turn to the handle. And remarkably, astonishingly, the orrery began to move. Like a giant watch, the rings set into the brass plate turned, both clockwise and counter-clockwise. And each planet turned too, rotating on their individual brass stems.
“The solar system is heliocentric.” Nathan pointed to the largest ball, a gleaming golden sphere.
Georgy bent to look at it more closely, resting her hand next to his on the wooden rim. Nathan bent too, his face inches away from her own. She felt the warmth of his proximity and dipped her head so that her fringe flopped forward, hiding her.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means the sun is at the centre of it,” he said. “This ball represents the sun. The planets circle around it, as though it is their king.”
“Ah, like your household, then.”
“What do you mean by that?” He sounded faintly offended and she glanced at him, surprised.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Everything here revolves about you—your wishes, your desires.” She shrugged. “It’s your prerogative. You are the master, after all, as you like to remind me.”
He frowned.
“Will you tell me what the other ones are?” she asked, pointing to one of the other spheres.
He did so, turning the handle to keep them moving and telling her the names of each in turn. Mars and Jupiter and Venus. The Earth. Home.
“Which are you, then?” Nathan mused. “If I am the Sun?”
“That little one,” she suggested, pointing.
“Mercury? No, I don’t think so.”
“What then?” She glanced at him, a bright question in her expression that melted away when she saw the warm way he was looking at her.
Their heads were close together and Nathan’s left arm brushed against her own. She had to suppress the urge to lean into that light touch, remembering the feel of his arms about her. His kiss.
“Something that isn’t here,” he said softly. “A moon.”
“The moon?”
“Our moon? No. One of Jupiter’s, I think. Perhaps Ganymede. Or Callisto.”
She flushed at his intent look, and averted her eyes, returning her attention to the orrery. She watched the little metal spheres moving and noticed that their trajectories were not identical. In addition to their individual roving elliptical paths, they rotated on their own axes, spinning and turning and travelling, around and around.
“It’s as though they are waltzing,” she murmured. “Spinning in little circles while they travel round the ballroom in a big circle.” She sketched what she meant with one hand, and he turned his head to look.
“Yes!” he said, his expression pleased. “That’s it!”
Her heart skittered. The lounging sophisticate—compelling as he was—was gone. Lit by excitement like this, he was even more breathtaking.
She tried to hide how he was affecting her. Not just the physical proximity, but this feeling that she knew him. For she understood exactly how he felt about th
e orrery—the joy of a thing well-made; the privilege of seeing the beauty of it.
“How did you learn about the stars?” she asked, keeping her voice cool and measured.
There was a brief pause during which she felt his eyes moving over her, a prickle of sensation that felt like a caress, but she kept her own fixed on the orrery.
“It’s been an interest of mine since I was a boy,” he said at last. “My mathematics master at school was an astronomer. He taught me. And then my father gave me my first telescope when I was twelve. Since then I’ve continued to read into the subject and to learn. I do most of my star-gazing here at Camberley. I can take my telescope out onto the roof here, when the weather is fair.” He paused. “I should like to show you.”
“I’ve seen the stars before,” she said.
“Not like this,” he replied, capturing her gaze. “The sky is clearer here at night than in London—you won’t believe how many stars you can see. Not if you’ve always lived in town. And with a telescope? Well…”
They stood hip to hip, their bodies turned towards one another. She couldn’t look away. Everything in her yearned for him.
“Well?” she repeated.
He didn’t answer. Just bent his head towards her, not closing his eyes, but keeping them fixed on hers as he slowly closed the distance between their lips. When there was less than a half an inch between them, he stopped. She could feel his lightest breath. His lips were so close that it seemed as if they touched her already. She stared into his eyes. At this proximity she could see how slight the difference was between the dense blue-black of his pupils and the brown-black of his irises.
His hand came up, touching her cheek.
“How did I fail to see what you are for so long?” he murmured, his fingertips whispering, feather-light, on her cheek And then he closed the last half inch between them, his lips descending to hers, his eyelids closing, his hand warm and real, cupping her face now.
This was a different kiss from their last. His mouth felt as if it was trying to learn her, his pliant lips exploring her slowly. He pulled her gently against his body, one hand caressing her nape, his fingers drifting into her hair as his mouth moved over her own. It felt like he was everywhere at once, lips and tongue and hands, as though he was absorbing her. His scent was in her nostrils, his shoulders broad and hard under her hands, and her whole body pulsed with longing. She pressed into him, kissing him back.
She let her hands roam, stroking over his shoulders and up the strong column of his neck. God, but she wanted to touch him—not this clothed body, but his bare skin. She knew exactly what he looked like beneath his elegant clothes and she wanted to see him again, and touch him too. She wanted to take him inside her and be one with him.
He tore his mouth away from hers, breathing heavily, holding her upper arms in his hands, enforcing a gap between them as he fixed his gaze upon her. She focused on him with difficulty.
“Georgy—” he said. Her name sounded wonderful on his lips. “I want you.”
They stared at one another, their chests rising and falling with laboured breaths.
I want you.
Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. She had kissed a few chaps in her time but she hadn’t known what desire could be till she saw this man. And now she was discovering she was entirely capable of throwing her bonnet over the windmill where he was concerned. Any reservations she might have had seemed irrelevant after the events of the morning. He could have been shot and she’d have never had the chance to lie with the one man who’d ever made her feel like this.
“I won’t coerce you,” he said. “It’s your choice.”
“Then the answer is yes.”
He startled at her words, surprised it seemed, despite all. “Are you sure? You might regret this later, or…” His voice trailed away. His mouth made excuses for her, but his eyes burned with desire.
“I’m sure,” she said. “I am not a lady. I do not need your warnings. I know what I am about, Nathan.”
“Do you?”
She saw the speculation in his eyes and suddenly it was vital that there be no doubt in his mind about what her capitulation meant.
“I don’t put a price on myself. I do what I want. And if I offer you something, I offer it without obligation.”
“What do you offer me, then?” His voice had roughened, his hot gaze fixed intently upon her. She was a foolish girl, and she didn’t give a damn.
“Myself,” she said. “I offer myself.”
He led her upstairs to his bedchamber, opening the door and ushering her inside. He walked past her to close the drapes against the harsh daylight. When he turned around again, she was standing in the middle of the room, awkward and tentative, a look that he found incredibly alluring. His whole body thrummed with excitement. He still couldn’t quite believe they were here. Just a few hours ago she’d been so angry with him.
He crossed to her and stood staring at her in her male clothes, savouring the moment. He hadn’t closed the drapes all the way. There was an inch of space between them and the pale winter sun penetrated the gap to send a weak shaft of light into the room that kissed her silver-gold hair.
He reached for her, pushing his hands under the lapels of her coat and over her shoulders, tossing the garment aside. He turned his attention to her waistcoat, and then the knot of her cravat. She stood passively as he drew the linen away from her neck till her shirt gaped. He examined the wedge of creamy skin he had revealed with pleasure, the promising shadows further down.
“Let’s get your boots off,” he murmured, pushing her gently back till the back of her thighs met the bed and she sank down, bonelessly, onto the mattress. He kneeled on the floor, took her boot in his hand and pulled it off in one smooth motion. Her stocking was white and held up with a plain garter. The leg within the silk was shapely, and as he discarded the garter and rolled the stocking off her leg, he gloried in revealing the pale skin beneath, relishing her gasp of pleasure.
Her foot, which jumped in his light grasp, was small and dainty with pink toes, her ankle neat, almost fragile looking. He stroked his palm up the back of her calf to her knee and down again, his fingertips whispering against her skin. She tugged lightly and made a little noise, a hmmm in her throat that was like a purr and a protest together, a sound that made his groin pulse.
“Such pretty legs,” he said, glancing up at her from under his lashes. She was faintly flushed, her bright hair tumbling over her glittering eyes. He let his gaze linger on her face for a long beat before he turned his attention to her other leg, removing the twin boot, the twin stocking.
“Breeches now,” he said.
“Do you think,” she said, her expression faintly troubled. “that you could remove some of your clothes first?”
He smiled slowly, amused. “I suppose it’s only fair. All right. Help me with my boots then.”
She got off the bed and he sat so she could remove his boots as he had hers. Then he stood and began to remove his clothes while she watched him. It felt like a performance. One he enjoyed giving.
The way she watched him was not very feminine. It wasn’t that it was masculine so much as that it was frank. Curious. Hungry. And he loved it—loved the honest appreciation in her gaze, the way her eyes darkened as she looked him over, the dark pupils eating up the silvery irises.
When he began to unbutton his breeches, she let her hands drop to the placket of her own breeches, following his lead. They cast their breeches aside together, and then their shirts.
“Don’t take anything else off,” he murmured then, taking a step towards her till he was close enough to touch her. “Let me do the rest.”
She looked odd and desirable all at once, her torso tightly wrapped in linen, a set of male drawers resting on her hips. Between the linen wrapping and the top of the drawers there was a band of flesh, two or three delicious inches from the bottom of her ribs to her lower belly. He stroked her there and her pearly flesh was cool against his
hand. He wanted to lick the shallow dimple of her navel with his tongue. And he would, he decided. Later.
In her clothes she was slender and boyish, but unclothed she was sweetly rounded in the most important places, her hips swelling ever so gently around that peachy bottom, the shape of which he could make out through the linen.
Slowly he reached out a hand and tugged at the tucked-in end of the linen binding until it came free. He unwrapped her torso, drawing the fine fabric away until, at last, it fell, slithering to the floor in a long ribbon.
He groaned at the sight of her breasts, pale and pink-tipped. He put his hands out, his palms brushing her already tight nipples, shaping the lower curves of her breasts then dipping to trace her waist and hips before moving back up. God, her skin. Cool and perfect, like a pearl. A moon. She closed her eyes and swayed on her feet towards him. His cock ached with painful pleasure.
He found the drawstring of her drawers, untying the knot and sending the linen brushing down her soft thighs. Then he did the same with his own, kicking them aside.
Once they were both naked, he was almost reluctant to touch her, wanting a moment just to take in the sight of her. He let his eyes drift all the way down to her feet and move back up again, greedy to absorb the picture she presented—elegant limbs, pretty breasts, the stillness and feeling in those remarkable eyes, a pulse hammering in her throat and a rosy flush across her cheeks.
“You are so lovely, Georgy,” he murmured. “So perfect.”
He reached for her, cupping her face in his hands and stepping forward to bring his body right up against her. He could feel her all down the length of him, her heat and her softness, as his mouth joined with hers. She wound her arms round his neck and met his kiss, her head bending back, yielding to him. After a half a minute, they broke apart, both breathing heavily already. He took her hand and led her to the bed, lying back on it and drawing her on top of him. He sensed by her awkward movements and scarlet cheeks that some of this might be new to her, though she showed no reluctance at all. “Have you done this before?” he asked softly.
The Lady’s Secret Page 18
