by Cheryl Bolen
To please her Mama, who could not abide her daughter’s propensity toward casual dress, Georgiana wore a traveling costume consisting of a long-sleeved, high-collared pale green cambric dress that was bordered in fancy needlework. This was topped with a Sardinian velvet Prussian Hussar cloak in a darker shade of green. Edged and lined with pink satin, the Hussar cloak featured a large hood. She carried a spotted ermine muff and wore half boots of soft green kid.
Despite that she refused to fall under Fordham’s spell, she could not deny he was responsible for her good humor. Being with him gave her a comforting feeling, the feeling that nothing unpleasant could ever happen to her as long as she was with him. There was also a closeness between them like nothing she’d ever experienced. Were it not for the physical effect he had upon her, their connection was similar to what she’d felt with her youngest brother.
The knowledge that she was going to be spending the next several days so intimately connected to the Duke of Fordham helped to buoy her spirits during what would have been a most solemn journey.
Once they partook of breakfast and the duke procured a basket of food for later, they were on their way. In the carriage, she sat next to her mother, facing Fordham.
Her mother had brought along her lap desk, intending to write letters while they traveled. “Thankfully,” Lady Hartworth said to the duke, “my recent affliction spared my right side. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t write my letters.”
“Mama is a faithful correspondent.” Georgiana helped her get situated, then announced, “I shall read all of Mr. Lewis’s essays on today’s drive.” She reached into her bag to extract copies of the Edinburgh Review.
On seeing the publication, the dowager’s brows lowered. “Your Papa had a most low opinion of the Edinburgh Review.”
“I promise I shall have an open mind,” Georgiana said.
Lady Hartworth eyed the duke. “I realize, your grace, you have embraced the Whigs, and I assure you I hold no rancor toward you—even though the Fentons, like your Havershams, have always been Tories.”
“That is most magnanimous of you, my lady,” he said.
For the next few hours the ladies were occupied with their respective pursuits, but the duke just sat there. Most of the time he was peering from the window, but several times she looked up and found him watching her. She would immediately flick her gaze away. Was he studying her in his seductive manner, or was he merely interested in her reactions to Mr. Lewis’s essays? She felt self-conscious and would have spoken sharply to him were it not for Mama, who was in possession of an inordinately inflated appreciation for high-born persons, especially dukes, and most especially this duke.
When afternoon came, Fordham obliged his coachman to stop. “I think we’ll have a picnic here.”
She admired his decision to stop here among the soft hills and dales. Georgiana nodded. “It will do us good to stretch our legs.”
The dowager shook her head. “I refuse to use my cane on uneven terrain. I’m perfectly happy to stay in the warm carriage whilst you two go on.”
Though Georgiana was wise to her mother’s romantic manipulations, she also agreed that her mother was better off staying in the warm coach and not trying to walk on the uneven earth.
After assisting Georgiana from the carriage, the duke carried his rug along with the basket that held their picnic offerings. They walked some distance away from the coach, so far that they could no longer see it. The brittle grass was stripped of colour, and the occasional tree stripped of leaves, yet the austere setting offered a quiet beauty much to her liking. He found a spot in the sun at the crest of hill and spread out the rug.
They sat side by side, and she helped him unload the basket and spread out the food. “A nice assortment, I think,” she said. There were hard-cooked eggs, apples, a loaf of bread, and a generous portion of local cheese.
As they were eating, he said, “I’m wondering if you share your brother’s traits. Like most Tories, he’s unreceptive to other ways of thinking. I’m wondering if Mr. Lewis is succeeding in opening your mind to new ideas.”
“I am not such a simpleton that I will toss out the old and adopt the new on the basis of one man’s eloquent essays. Right now, I’m at the fact-gathering stage. Is it not to be desired to evaluate all sides before taking a stand?” She wasn’t ready to admit it, but she agreed with every reform Mr. Lewis proposed, all of which made her feel like a traitor to generations of Fentons.
He spread cheese on a chunk of bread. “But you’ve spent a lifetime exposed to Tory philosophy—or lack of philosophy. What more could you possibly learn about them?”
“I resent that you accuse my family of lacking a political philosophy. Just because Hart’s a blind follower doesn’t mean that my father was. My father was a contributing Member of Parliament.”
“Forgive me if I’ve disparaged your family,” he said in a low, husky voice.
She had completely lost her appetite. All she could think of was his close proximity and the sincerity in his manly voice. She tried to suppress thoughts of their kiss because it stirred her in frightening ways.
“You read the essay about penal reform?” he asked, biting into his apple.
“Yes. It was brilliantly written. I could see how it influenced Lady Wycliff’s talk.”
“Do you agree with Mr. Lewis’s proposals?”
“To disagree would be ludicrous, but you and I both know his ideas are merely idealistic dreams. It’s nearly impossible to legislate such sweeping changes. Even if every man in Parliament agreed, I doubt we could implement Mr. Lewis’s suggestions in our lifetime.”
“But you do agree that there needs to be a hierarchy of crimes commensurate with the punishments?”
“I do.”
“I sense a but . . .”
She issued a soft giggle. “We really are coming to understand one another far too thoroughly.” He more than she. No man had ever understood her before. “You’re right. I was thinking of my Papa. I once tried to persuade him not to have a poacher arrested.” She sighed. “He didn’t listen to me. Later he told me that he was obliged to do things as they’d always been done. He abhorred change. So . . . your grace, I suppose you have been correct. I suppose the Tories resist change.”
“You don’t have to call me your grace, Georgiana.”
Hearing her name on his lips underscored the closeness that had developed between them. For once, she did not correct him.
It did feel stiff to refer to him as your grace, especially in this setting. “I can hardly call you . . . Alex.”
Their eyes met. “Oh, but you can, Georgiana, when it’s just the two of us—as it’s so often been.”
Even though she’d come to think of him as Alex, she shook her head. It wouldn’t do to invite such intimacy. She gazed off into the distance where a shimmering ribbon meandered through the landscape and caught her attention. “Look! A brook.”
By then they had finished eating. “It will do us good to walk to it,” he said.
Now that he was unencumbered of toting the picnic basket and rug, he offered his arm, and they set off for the distant stream. The closer they came, the larger it appeared. As they crested the final hill, a wooden bridge came into view. It spanned the brook at its narrowest point, a distance of not more than ten feet. Hand rails were provided at either side.
The fierce wind here obliged her to pull her hood over her mussed hair and stinging ears. Mama would most definitely not like her hair getting disarranged.
As they stepped on the bridge he settled his hand at her waist. “I’m glad it’s just you and me.”
She was too, but she would not tell him so.
When he came to stop midway over the rushing water, she settled her elbows on the rail. She was content to watch the clear spring water flow beneath them, lulled by the sound of it. There was something so pure about country water. Being here made her understand men like Freddie and her brother who preferred the country over soo
ty London with its foul air and nasty streets.
A peace settled over her as she stood there on the weathered wooden bridge with Alex. His arm slipped around her. For that moment she felt one with him. It was if they were being absorbed by their tranquil surroundings.
She knew she should protest his intimate gesture, but she was powerless to do so. Such closeness seemed as natural as breathing. Her mind numbed with the pleasure of this moment. She did not want it to end.
He must have felt the same for they stood there, silent, for a great long while.
Finally, he turned to her so slowly it was as if he feared she would stop him. When she didn’t, he drew her against his torso. Cradled into his muscled chest and encircled by his powerful arms, a feeling of femininity surged through her—and something more, something intense. Being in this spot in this man’s arms was the only place on earth she wanted to be. Her face lifted as his lowered to meet for an excruciatingly tender kiss.
Her reaction to this kiss was even more powerful than before. For this time her opposition had been tossed to the wind and she clung to him, merged to him as if he were part of her.
For this moment in time she could forget that this man was a known rake. She could forget that this man was the brother of her recently deceased betrothed. But she could never forget the intoxicating joy of this moment.
After the kiss, his hands cupped her face as he stared into her eyes. She had never seen him like this. He conveyed a depth of emotion inconsistent with the tales of his inconstancy.
As their eyes locked, she thought of how much she did not want words to intrude on this . . . this whatever it was that made her feel as if she were drunk with happiness.
Then he spoiled this moment with words. “You and I are supremely compatible, Georgiana.”
She could have wept. He spoke the absolute truth. She could never hope to find one such as he, one to whom she could become a single being. In every respect, this man appealed to her.
But it was wrong. She could never unite herself to the brother and heir of the man to whom she had been betrothed. Even though she had not actually married Freddie, she still felt honor bound to adhere to laws against mating with the brother of the man who would have been her husband.
Additionally, Alex had not even said he wished to make her his duchess. He had long avoided marrying the many women he bedded. To give him his due, he likely had not been in a financial position to offer marriage.
Now he was. Her heartbeat stampeded at the very notion that he might wish to wed her. She could weep.
It took a moment to compose herself for the deception. She smiled and tried to act flippant. “How can you say that when I am a Tory, your grace?” What a traitor she was! In every way. After being at the Tuesday morning gatherings, after reading Mr. Lewis’s eloquent, perfectly logical essays, after being with Alex, it was impossible for her to agree with the Tories. A thorough transformation had come over her.
She and he were supremely compatible—something she could never acknowledge. She wouldn’t even allow herself to call him Alex.
He looked wounded, and his voice was solemn when he spoke. “Alex.”
She swallowed. Because of the ardor of their kiss, she would this once call him by his Christian name. “Alex.” It sounded reverent. I have to be strong. She drew a deep breath and started to leave the bridge. Their bridge.
This time he did not offer his arm. “The reason you won’t acknowledge what’s between us,” he said, “is that you feel guilty because you never kissed Freddie like you kiss me.”
She refused to answer. The maddening man was always right! He knew her too thoroughly.
“Perhaps it is too soon after Freddie’s death, but I’m a patient man. I’ll have you, Georgiana.”
She did not understand. Have me? Was he hell-bent on bedding her? Or was he determined to make her his wife? Not that it mattered. Either way, she must deny him.
Only to deny him was to deny herself.
* * *
Alex watched somberly as she prepared a plate of food for her mother even though Lady Hartworth showed no interest in eating.
“How was your picnic?” the dowager asked her daughter.
“It was lovely.”
“You kept your hood on? It’s beastly windy today. Glad I am that I stayed in the coach.”
“Most of the time I kept it on.”
Lady Hartworth shifted her gaze to him. “And how did you enjoy the picnic, your grace?”
“In some ways, it was the best I’ve ever experienced.” He would tell no one of his grave disappointment when Georgiana destroyed his soaring happiness as thoroughly as flame to paper.
“I peered through the window but didn’t see you,” Lady Hartworth said. “You must have had the opportunity to stretch your legs rather a lot.”
Did the lady guess that he’d wanted to be completely alone with Georgiana in order to make love to her? Was that the reason she didn’t accompany them? From the mischievous glint in her eyes, Alex was almost certain of the dowager’s encouragement. “It felt good to walk, and the landscape was much to my liking.”
“We found a brook,” Georgiana added.
The memory of its bridge and what occurred there was like twisting a knife in him. The way she had so eagerly clung to him throughout the tender kiss was as intoxicating as downing a flask of whisky. How could such joy have been so easily snuffed? His eyes met hers and she quickly looked away. But not before her cheeks flamed.
“My daughter adores walking—and she’s an exceptional horsewoman. I understand your grace is exceedingly enamored of horses.”
“That I am, my lady.”
“Mama,” Georgiana said in a warning voice, her brows lowered.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, dearest. I didn’t mean to boast on you. I was merely stating a fact.”
He eyed Georgiana, shrugging. “Much as if she stated that you’re a very beautiful woman.”
The colour hiked higher in Georgiana’s cheeks.
“Exactly!” the dowager said.
Georgiana uttered something unrecognizable, seized her tapestry bag, and withdrew more copies of the Edinburgh Review. She continued reading these until darkness filled the carriage several hours later.
As the wheels churned and the dowager scribbled her letters, a hopelessness engulfed him. All the ground he’d gained with Georgiana had been lost. She was too headstrong to ever admit they were pulled to each other as if by some magnetic force.
He would be better off to drop her at Alsop and never have to see her again. For despite their undeniable attraction to one another, she had convinced herself that she preferred to exclude him from her life.
He would still have to endure two more torturing days in her presence. Then he would see her no more.
By the time they found an inn to stop at for the night, rain had made progress almost impossible and had brought a biting chill. No amount of coverings could render the carriage comfortable.
They were all grateful for the warm parlor where they took their simple meal, yet throughout dinner a coolness had settled over the gathering that made easy conversation impossible. “I would talk politics,” he said, “but as you are so staunch a Tory, Lady Georgiana, I have little to say.” With that, he stood, moved to the fireplace, and stood warming himself until the ladies took their leave.
* * *
Mama went to sleep quickly, but Georgiana was incapable of sleeping. All her joy of the previous night had been stripped away, and she had only herself to blame. Throughout the long night with rain beating upon the casements, hardly a moment dragged by that she did not dwell on being held in Alex’s arms, did not remember the bliss of their kiss. She had no experience to measure against such short-lived happiness. Even as she had been experiencing such unbridled joy, she had prayed that words wouldn’t destroy it.
Then he had to speak, and his words leveled her back to propriety. Alex was her forbidden fruit. To the depths of her soul, she regrett
ed that she must deny him.
As dawn crept into her chamber, she came to the heartbreaking realization that she would die a spinster. For she would never be able to love any man save Alex, and loving him would bring shame to both their families.
When they left the inn the next morning, the rain had stopped, but the muddy roads would restrict their progress. She had read every word in every copy of the Edinburgh Review so now she borrowed her mother’s lap desk and began to pen letters—anything to keep from having to speak to Alex.
Sensing her stiffness toward the duke, Lady Hartworth attempted to engage him in conversation. He was polite but noncommunicative. The ensuing silence was almost unbearable. Hour after hour the only sounds were the rattling of the coach wheels and pounding of horse hooves.
Then as night came, a calamity befell them.
Chapter 18
Only the exterior coach lamps prevented them from being in the total darkness that had come so quickly. As the coachman had lighted the lamps, Alex gave instructions that they were to stop at the first inn they came to. “Where in the devil are we?”
“We be between Palding and Grantham, yer grace.”
Alex sighed. That meant they’d be at Alsop—barring a nasty storm—by early tomorrow afternoon.
The rain had ceased, but the muddy roads made the ride decidedly uncomfortable. And Georgiana’s silence had made the journey intolerable. Thank God they’d reach Alsop tomorrow.
Not long after they’d stopped to light the lanterns, the silence of the barren countryside was interrupted by the pounding of hooves quickly followed by shouts from the coachman. Alex bolted upright. “What the devil?” He slung back the curtains to peer from the window.
Panic sliced through him. Four masked highwaymen, each wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, were bearing down on his coach. Alex would have brought armed outriders and postilions had he any inkling highwaymen still lurked on this road. It had been years since he’d heard of a robbery here.
