A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection

by Jillian Eaton

  Jaw clenching, he searched her gaze for some flicker of emotion that would indicate she felt the same way…but found nothing but hate. Well-deserved hate, but hate nevertheless.

  “What should you call me?” Her voice was so cold it was a wonder he didn’t catch bloody frostbite. “Nothing, Warwick. You shall call me nothing. For that is what you mean to me. As for your condolences, you can keep them. I don’t want – or need – anything from you. Especially not false sympathy.”

  He rose out of the chair with the sinewy grace of a panther. To Georgiana’s credit she didn’t flinch or withdraw when he stepped close enough to see the quick flutter of her pulse beneath the sharp line of her chin. Then again, she’d never been one to back down from anything or anyone. Which was just one of the many things that had intrigued him when he first saw her seven years ago at Almack’s.

  While all of the other debutantes had simpered and giggled and batted their lashes, Georgiana had been coolly aloof. A mysteriously elegant swan in a sea of swarming pigeons. He’d been drawn to her immediately and from the moment their eyes met across the crowded ballroom the attraction had been mutual.

  They’d managed an escape to the gardens where they had sat on a bench and talked for the better part of an hour. He found her to be both stunningly beautiful and highly intelligent, an arousing combination that had stirred his blood and prompted him to steal a kiss.

  She had tasted like innocence and honeysuckle and he’d known the instant their mouths collided that she was too good for him. Too sweet. Too pure. Too bright for him to drag down into the darkness where his demons lived.

  If only he’d left her that night…

  “You still smell like roses.” Sebastian felt a small thrill of satisfaction when he felt her tremble as he angled his head to the side and his whiskers, three days unshaved, brushed roughly against the smooth satin of her cheek.

  Not totally immune to him, then. At least not as much as she’d like to pretend. And where there was a spark…

  “Do you remember what it was like?” His arm wrapped around her, fingertips settling on the delicate bumps of vertebrae leading to the small of her back. “What we were like?” he whispered in her ear, lips stopping a hair’s breadth from the sensitive shell.

  “Yes.” Inky black lashes lowered, concealing her gaze. “I remember. I remember every touch. Every kiss.” Her body suddenly stiffened, his only warning before her eyes snapped open and she regarded him as one would a piece of dung on the bottom of their shoe. “Every word. Goodbye, Sebastian. I would say it was a pleasure to see you again. But unlike you, I am not a liar.”

  He didn’t try to stop her when she brushed past him and stormed from the room. Didn’t try to call her back. Didn’t try to go after her. But he did kneel and pick up the book she’d dropped, for even some connection to her was better than none at all.

  Tucking the slim novel under his arm, he crossed to the nearest window and drew back the drape to stare pensively out at the street beyond. And he thought, as he often had over the past seven years, of what might had been…and what could never be.

  The sheer audacity of the man! Silently fuming, Georgiana whipped through the foyer like a whirlwind, nearly knocking over a maid carrying yet another tray of cucumber sandwiches in her haste to escape.

  Without waiting for the butler to sort out which hat and cloak were hers, she burst out the front door and into the blinding sunshine. Inhaling a deep breath – her first since Sebastian had touched her – she started to walk briskly down the narrow lane, only to reluctantly stop in the shade of a dogwood tree when she heard her name being called.

  If it was Sebastian behind her she would have kept walking. No, she corrected silently as her lips peeled back in a sneer. She would have started running. But while leaving in the middle of a luncheon was considered poor manners, ignoring the hostess was downright rude. Particularly when said hostess was one of the few women who would understand the reason behind her sudden distress.

  “What is he doing here?” she demanded the moment Lady Swiftmore, pink cheeked and slightly out of breath, stumbled to a halt in front of her.

  A pleasantly plump blonde with matching dimples and sparkling blue eyes, Lady Swiftmore – or Ginny, as she was affectionately called by her dearest friends – was rarely seen without a smile. But she wasn’t smiling when she met Georgiana’s cool, unblinking stare.

  “I’m sorry,” Ginny said, wringing her hands together. In her hurry to chase after Georgiana she’d forgone a hat as well and pale tendrils of hair clung to her perspiring forehead. In just one week the ton would flock en masse to their various estates in the country where the women would spend the summer gossiping over lemonade and the men would enjoy various outdoor pursuits. Until then there was nothing to do but endure the sweltering heat of London in mid-June.

  “You’re sorry?” Georgiana said suspiciously. “Sorry for what, Ginny?”

  The blonde bit her lip. “I just thought…well, now that you and Warwick are both widows, you might…er…”

  “Rekindle our love and live happily-ever-after?”

  “Yes.” Ginny’s countenance brightened. “Precisely. Which was why I had David invite him over to look at his sword collection. I just so happened to suggest he schedule the visit for today. David and Warwick were both on the fencing team at Oxford, you know, and–”

  “No,” Georgiana interrupted.

  “N-no?” Ginny said uncertainly. “No to what?”

  “No to your matchmaking. No to Warwick. No to all of it.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know what he did to me. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” Ginny said, looking vaguely insulted that Georgiana would even suggest such a thing. “But it’s been seven years. Surely–”

  “It could be seventy years and I can assure you my feelings on the matter would not change. You’ve a romantic heart, Ginny.” Which was why Georgiana couldn’t be angry with her. Well, not very angry at least. Friends since boarding school, the two women were as close as sisters. But there was always one topic they’d vehemently disagreed on: love.

  Ginny believed in it.

  Georgiana didn’t.

  It was as simple – and complicated – as that.

  “However,” Georgiana continued briskly, “I’m afraid this is not one of your fairytales. I’m happy you’ve found your Prince Charming, Ginny. You know how fond I am of Lord Swiftmore. But I must kindly ask that you refrain from looking for my prince. If such a man even exists, I can assure you it’s not Warwick.”

  “You’re right. I’m terribly sorry.” Blue eyes imploring, Ginny reached out and squeezed her hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Please don’t let this ruin your stay with us. The house party just wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Georgiana assured her. The truth was unless she wanted to stay in London – an unbearable thought, given the heat and the smells that accompanied it – she really had no other choice.

  An exclusive gathering of close friends and family, the Swiftmore’s annual house party took place at their sprawling countryside manor just outside of Brighton. Guests were welcome to come and go as they pleased, but most of them stayed for the better part of a fortnight. There were games, fox hunts, trips into the local village – even a ball. Georgiana had only been able to attend once before (James had been quite adamant they spend their summers in Bath) and she was looking forward to repeating the experience.

  “Good.” Ginny’s grip tightened in one final squeeze before she released Georgiana’s hands and stepped back. “I really must be getting back. I’m afraid Lady Elliot has gotten into the wine and you know how she gets.”

  “I do,” Georgiana said dryly.

  “Remember the time she tripped at the top of the stairs–”

  “–and leapt onto the chandelier? I’ll never forget it.”

  The two friends exchanged knowing grins.

  “It’s real
ly good to have you back,” Ginny said. “I’ve missed you terribly. And I am sorry about trying to play matchmaker. I know it’s not my place. I just want you to be happy. As happy as I am with David.”

  “I know, dear. But I can assure you that if you’re searching for my happiness, Warwick is the last place you’ll find it.”

  “We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Ginny murmured under her breath as Georgiana walked away. “We’ll just see about that.”

  Chapter Three

  Dearest Eleanor,

  I have just arrived at Swiftmore. The estate is pretty as a picture, although I am afraid you wouldn’t like it very much. There are absolutely no hedgehogs to be found. Never fear, I’ll keep an eye out. Although if you could inform me as to the best way to smuggle a hedgehog out of a house party I would be most appreciative. Something tells me you’ve done it a time or two.

  A rueful smile flitted across Georgiana’s face as she paused to dip her quill in a small pot of ink. Who would have ever guessed that she and her sister-in-law would one day be exchanging letters about the best way to capture a quilled rodent? No, not a rodent, she corrected herself silently. An insectivore. And heaven help the person who dared call it anything else in Eleanor’s presence.

  I do hope you are enjoying your time in Scotland. I look forward to visiting when you and Derek return. Please give my brother my best.

  Yours Fondly,

  Georgiana

  One final note: Please do not bring a badger home. They bite.

  Carefully folding the letter and sealing it with red wax, she set it aside for the maid to bring into town. Hopefully it would reach Eleanor before she and Derek returned to Hawkridge, but the post was notoriously slow, particularly in areas where sheep outnumbered people.

  Why her brother would want to drag his bride into the wilderness for their honeymoon was beyond Georgiana. She and James had spent a relaxing two weeks on the coast of Italy with nary a sheep – or a wild badger – in sight. It had been perfectly pleasant, perfectly quiet, and (now that she thought about it) perfectly boring.

  Her smile fading to a frown, Georgiana stood up and padded barefoot to the large bay window overlooking the side lawn. A dozen servants were in the process of setting up chairs and tables beneath a large white tent where, according to the handwritten itinerary Ginny had distributed to each guest upon his or her arrival – Georgiana’s dear friend was nothing if not organized – breakfast would be served at precisely half past eleven. At two the gentleman would enjoy a ride through the countryside while the women retired to the drawing room for a rousing game of whist. Supper would be served in the dining room at seven, after which a mystery game would take place in the parlour.

  Every day was similarly scheduled, with activities ranging from archery practice to a walking tour of Glenberry Keep, an old medieval castle that had fallen into disrepair. It was said the northern tower of the keep was haunted, if one believed in such nonsense. Which Georgiana most definitely did not. Ghosts - like true love - simply didn’t exist.

  Her stomach grumbled as she watched a footman carry out a large basket filled with bread, a reminder she hadn’t eaten anything since she’d left London yesterday afternoon. Sliding on a pair of soft leather gloves and adjusting the satin ribbons on her bonnet, she hurried out of her room and down the stairs, not wanting to risk Ginny’s ire by being late for breakfast.

  “There you are,” her friend exclaimed when she stepped into the foyer, a large room at the front of the manor with a vaulted ceiling, marble tile, and dark wood trim that had been polished to a high gleam in preparation for the house party. The air smelled vaguely of beeswax and flowers, the latter of which could be attributed to an enormous bouquet of freshly cut poppies sitting on the mantle.

  “Am I late?” Georgiana queried, knowing very well she was not.

  “No.” Ginny’s honey colored curls bounced up and down as she shook her head. “But there are some guests that have just arrived this morning I wanted you to meet. Lord and Lady Hodgson,” she said, nodding towards a middle-aged couple standing to her right, “may I please introduce a dear friend of mine, the Dowager Countess of Hebron.”

  The automatic smile that had risen to claim Georgiana’s lips as she was introduced froze in place when Sebastian’s voice echoed mockingly in her head.

  ‘The Dowager Countess of Hebron makes you sound like an old maid.’

  He was right, blast him. It did make her sound like an old maid. Dowagers were supposed to be gray-haired biddies who wore lace caps and needed everything repeated at least twice; not young women who’d yet to see their twenty-sixth year. Dowagers had their entire lives behind them, not in front of them. They had children, and grandchildren, and enough stories to fill a library. All she had was a husband who’d gotten himself killed trying to drive an in-hand team of six when he could barely manage two. James had no business attempting to control that carriage, just as she had no business being a dowager. And suddenly - inexplicably - she didn’t want to be one any longer.

  “Please, call me Lady Perrin.” It was her maiden name; one she hadn’t used since she walked down the aisle and bound herself to James before God, King, and Country. How odd it felt to speak it again, even though she’d been Lady Perrin far longer than she’d ever been Lady Hebron. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Hodgson. Lady Hodgson.” Lifting the hem of her blue striped morning gown, she curtsied twice. “If you would be so kind as to excuse me, I believe I shall go find my seat beneath the tent.”

  Ginny followed her to the door, fair brow creased with concern. “Are you feeling alright?”

  “Yes.” The lie flowed effortlessly off her tongue. The truth was she wasn’t feeling alright. She hadn’t felt alright since the day of the luncheon when she’d seen Sebastian again. She had hoped time and distance would have cleared her head, but try as she might she couldn’t seem to squeeze him back into the box she’d been keeping him in for the better part of seven years.

  She was afraid to fall asleep for fear of closing her eyes and dreaming of him. No, not just dreaming, she corrected herself sourly. Fantasizing. For surely there was no other word to describe the heated images her traitorous mind conjured whenever she slipped into unconsciousness.

  Images of him with his shirt removed, revealing the hard muscled contours of his chest. Images of him leaning over her, his arms braced on either side of her head and a wicked gleam in those dark devil eyes. Images of her leaning up towards him, lips parting on a soft, trembling moan as she offered her mouth to do with what he willed…

  “Damn you,” she cursed under her breath.

  Ginny’s eyes widened. “Pardon me?”

  “Not you.” Georgiana grinded her teeth together. “Him.”

  “Lord Hodgson?” Her friend frowned. “I realize he’s not the most talkative fellow, but to be fair you weren’t exactly-”

  “No, not Lord Hodgson,” Georgiana said in exasperation. Honestly. For someone who had finished top of her class at Madame Bellamy’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, Ginny could be remarkably obtuse. “Warwick. I can’t...That is to say, I’ve been unable...Blast it all.” She closed her eyes. This wasn’t her. She didn’t blither over a man. Particularly not a man like Sebastian. But then he’d always had a strange effect on her, starting from the night they’d met.

  It had been her first ball at Almack’s. Her official debut. She was just arrogant enough to think she was prepared...until her name was introduced and she was forced to walk down the grand staircase with three hundred different pairs of eyes staring her down. How intimidated she’d been! At boarding school she was the largest fish in a very small, very selective pond. But beneath the glittering chandeliers of England’s most opulent and infamous ballroom she’d never felt more insignificant.

  Thankfully, she’d managed to hide her trepidation behind a thick wall of cool indifference. A wall she’d been slowly building, brick by brick, ever since her grandfather ripped her away from the only home she h
ad ever known.

  By her fourth dance she started to finally relax, and by her eighth she was actually beginning to enjoy herself.

  Until she saw him.

  She knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. The enigmatic Duke of Warwick, a man whose history was plagued by tragedy and whose wealth was rumoured to surpass even the king’s.

  They said he was dangerous. They said he was unpredictable. They said he wasn’t quite sane. And yet despite the ominous whispers - or perhaps because of them - when Georgiana found herself the recipient of his dark piercing stare she couldn’t look away.

  Like a moth to flame she was drawn to him. Time itself seemed to slow as they approached one another. When he reached out and touched her hand she felt a click somewhere down deep inside, as if a puzzle piece had just snapped into place. And she remembered thinking, ‘So that’s what it is supposed to feel like.’

  He didn’t bother to look at her dance card before he led her out onto the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed her next partner approaching, but one glance at the Duke of Warwick and he immediately retreated.

  They danced as if they’d known each other for months instead of moments. His hand splayed across the small of her back, gloved fingers pressing intimately against the delicate bumps of her vertebrae. He didn’t speak. Didn’t say so much as a word. But those eyes, those piercing obsidian eyes that seemed to stare straight down into her very soul, spoke volumes.

  When the music trailed away he bowed and she curtsied. As if it were any other dance. As if they were any other couple. Except they weren’t. The tiny electrical pulses vibrating through her body told her they weren’t. The possessive way he stared at her told her they weren’t. The firm grip he kept on her elbow told her they weren’t.

  “Walk with me in the gardens.” His voice was deep and smooth. It wrapped around her like thick velvet, pulling her into a shroud of dark desire and forbidden longing.