The Rogue of Her Heart: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 2)

by Nina Mason

  “Oh, I see. And how long will that take?”

  “A few months, give or take. In the meantime, we can announce our engagement, arrange for the banns to be read, and make plans for our wedding. How does that sound?”

  “Wonderful.” She beamed at him. “Absolutely wonderful.”

  “Good. Because I’ve worn myself out from talking so long. Do you mind if I sleep for a bit?”

  “Of course not, darling.” She bent to kiss his cheek. “May I tell Louisa and Captain Raynalds whilst you’re napping?”

  Affront twinged in his chest. “Would you not rather tell them together?”

  “Is that your wish?”

  “Yes, if you do not mind delaying overmuch.”

  “I will wait, if it makes you happy.” She pressed a brief kiss to his lips. “Because I want to make you happy—deliriously, spectacularly happy—now and forever.”

  “Mmm,” he said, starting to doze. “That sounds very nice. Very nice indeed.”

  Twenty-Five

  The following day, when Georgie judged Christian well enough to leave unattended for half an hour, she went in search of Louisa, eager to hear all that took place at the party. Though it nearly killed her to withhold the news of her engagement, she held her tongue. For it would not do to start her life with Christian by acting against his wishes.

  From Louisa, Georgie learned the party, overall, was a smashing success. The tree was beautiful with the candles lit, the Yule log burned bright all evening, the food and decorations were much complimented, and the various entertainments were enjoyed by all.

  Of greater interest, of course, were her sister’s reports on the behavior of her guests: “Mr. Goodman asked after you at several points during the evening, Mama and Lord Wingfield talked at length and danced more than once, Winnie and Benedict were inseparable throughout the evening, and Charlotte, true to character, flirted with every man in attendance under the age of forty.”

  Her youngest sister’s behavior vexed Georgie exceedingly. “I daresay, if Mama does not take the trouble to check her shameless coquetry, she will make a spectacle of herself and shame us all when she does.”

  “Yes, I agree, but what is to be done short of locking her in her room?”

  “I know not, but something must be done before she’s beyond redemption.”

  “I fear she may have crossed that line already.”

  “Yes, so do I,” Georgie said with a woeful sigh. “But let us speak no more of her. I noticed you did not mention Hen. Was she there? Did she dance?”

  “She did dance, but only once. With Mr. Goodman. The rest of the time, she stood on the sidelines with the spinsters and wallflowers.”

  “Did Mr. Goodman seem taken with her?”

  “Truthfully, he seemed more preoccupied with who was absent than who was there.”

  “Yes, well. I cannot pretend to be surprised. For I have detected his interest on more than one occasion. I just hope he will not be too disappointed when—well, never mind.” Catching herself in time, Georgie promptly changed the subject. “And what about Mama and Lord Wingfield? Do you think they are forming an attachment? For I would so like to see our dear mother marry again … and Christian’s father, I believe, would make her an excellent husband.”

  “A far better one than father, I daresay,” Louisa said, shaking her head.

  “How long will Lord Wingfield be among us?” Georgie hoped it would be long enough to form a deeper attachment to their mother, as well as to hear of her understanding with his son.

  “He has asked to remain until the Lieutenant is out of the woods,” said Louisa, “and Theo and I have no objection, as he has been an ideal houseguest so far.”

  They talked on for several more minutes before Georgie felt compelled to return to Christian. Finding him asleep, she settled herself in the bedside chair and took up the first volume of the book she’d been reading: Glenarvon, Lady Caroline Lamb’s confessional novel about her affair with Lord Byron. Published in three volumes, Georgie found it in the library earlier that day, on a lower shelf than the one housing Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic romances.

  In the town of Belfont in Ireland lived a learned physician of the name of Everard St Clare He had a brother who misled by a fine but wild imagination which raised him too far above the interests of common life had squandered away his small inheritance and had long roved through the world rapt in poetic visions foretelling as he pretended to those who would hear him that which futurity would more fully develop. –Camioli was the name he had assumed ...

  In three days’ time, Christian was strong enough to sit in an easy-chair, well propped with pillows. In four, he was able to walk without assistance. On the fifth day, he announced at breakfast that he meant to ride into the village on his own. To this perilous proposition, Georgie strenuously objected. In the end, she could neither persuade him not to go, convince him to take her with him, nor winkle out of him the purpose of his errand. When the Captain offered to accompany his friend, and Christian accepted, Georgie was vastly relieved—and also extremely curious.

  What could he have to do in the village that was so secretive and urgent?

  Something to do with their engagement, she suspected, which, to her vexation, he still had not announced to their friends and relations.

  On New Year’s Eve, when they all gathered in the parlor for the evening’s entertainments, Georgie was sure the moment had arrived. Christian did make an announcement, but not the one she expected. Instead, he made it known that he would like them all to perform Lovers’ Vows on the eve preceding Twelfth Night.

  The suggestion aroused great excitation within the group, marked by cries of “Oh, let’s do” and “That is a capital idea.”

  When the rumpus died down, Christian continued: “Now that Miss Stubbs is no longer among us, I trust no one will object to Georgie performing the part of Amelia.” He waited, but no one raised a protest. “I further trust that no one will complain if I invite Lady Bennet and her two youngest daughters to attend the performance.” Again, nobody opposed the suggestion. “And my father, too, of course. In fact, if he is amenable and a quick-study, he might help us out by filling the role of Count Cassel.”

  “While I make no claim to being an actor of any merit, I would not mind taking part in your play,” said Lord Wingfield to the group. “For I do so love the theater.”

  “Excellent,” said Christian with satisfaction. “Then it is settled. We will mount the performance here, in the Billiards Room, on the eve of the eve of the Epiphany.”

  Georgie was almost certain he was up to something—something related to his mysterious errand the day before—but, not wish to spoil whatever he had up his sleeve, she gave no voice to her suspicions when she visited his bedchamber later that evening.

  Since the trouble with Miss Stubbs, they had exchanged little more in the way of physical affection than chaste kisses, and Georgie was desirous of resuming their previous level of intimacy as soon as Christian was well enough.

  She waited until the household was asleep before venturing into the hallway. She proceeded cautiously to Christian’s bedchamber door and rapped softly. “Christian, are you awake? It’s Georgie.”

  Within seconds, he opened the door, took her by the forearm, and pulled her inside. After closing the door behind her, he drew her into his arms, took her face between his hands, and tilted back her head. Then, looking deeply into her eyes, he said, “Have you come to be my nurse or my lover?”

  She blushed under his heated stare. “I was under the impression you no longer needed a nurse.”

  “Your impression was accurate,” he said with a devilish twinkle in his eye, “and your answer the one I hoped it would be.”

  Sliding his hands into her hair, he brought his mouth down on hers, claiming her with a heated kiss that warmed her all the way to her toes. Clearly, he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She parted her lips, inviting his tongue. He gave it to her readily, gliding it against hers in
a sensual dance that made her blood smolder and her bones dissolve.

  He tasted as delicious as he smelled: like whisky and tobacco and man. Her man, which made the moment all the more delectable. He growled against her mouth, pulling her more firmly against him. As they devoured each other, she was acutely aware of his body: the crush of his chest against her breasts; his solid, sinuous frame; the solid proof of his passion for her pressed between them like a special flower concealed in a book.

  Hungry for more, she thrust her hips against his groin as her fingers twisted in the soft, white cambric of his nightshirt. Separating her lips from his, she whispered, “Take me to bed, my darling. Take me to bed and ravish me.”

  “With pleasure,” he said hoarsely as he scooped her into his arms.

  He carried her to the bed and set her down before climbing onto the counterpane beside her. The room was warm and softly lit by two candles and a little fire in the hearth. As she studied him, she wondered if he knew how truly beautiful she found him. He wasn’t just handsome; he was art and poetry and music mixed together and brought to life.

  “And now, darling,” he said, getting up on his knees, “let me show you what only you and I have the right to show one another.” Catching her wrists as he spoke, he looked straight into her eyes and pointedly repeated, “Only you and I.”

  His touch had never been sweeter or more sublime. Already she felt every cell vibrating under it. She let her head sink into the pillows as he brought his face close to hers. Fusing his lips to hers, he plunged his tongue into the depths of her mouth—nay, into the very core of her being—in a profound exploration.

  As he opened her dressing gown, she felt her breasts swell and their nipples rise, as if reaching for him. His hands enveloped each one, cupping and kneading as he whispered to her, “These are mine. Do you hear me? Mine and mine alone.”

  “Yes, darling,” she dreamily replied, thrilled by his possessiveness. “Yours and nobody else’s.”

  His tongue, a soft, pink snake, coiled around each nipple in turn before his lips closed upon one. As he sucked and teased one after the other with the tip of his tongue, he opened the front of her dressing gown.

  “I want to see all of you,” he said softly, “so that my eyes can feast on all my tongue cannot taste.”

  As she lay before him, naked and unembarrassed, she felt as if he truly was devouring her with his ardent gaze. One of his arms slipped under her back and wound around to clasp her breast. At the same time, his other hand gently pried her legs apart. As his fingers played among her petals, she felt the sweet swellings of her body bursting into bloom.

  The sensation was so exquisite she did not want him to stop; but when his head bent lower, and his lips pressed upon her swollen bud, she felt no need to complain. “Ah …” she gasped, flinging her legs apart. Catching one of her hands, he bent over and kissed her lips as he pressed his erection into her hand.

  “My sweet angel,” he breathed, as she stroked and caressed him.

  After a time, she moved downward. When she was eye-to-eye with his member, she examined it like a botanical specimen, endeavoring to decide which it more closely resembled: Passiflora Quadrangularis Erotica, the South American fruit commonly known as “penis passionfruit,” or Nephantes Edwardsiana, the carnivorous, phallic-shaped pitcher plant found only in the mountains of Borneo.

  It was the first time she had seen a man’s aroused phallus up close, and her heart beat excitedly. When a drop of moisture pearled at the tip, she wicked it away with her tongue. Taking the creature into her mouth, she swirled her tongue around its empurpled head. With the goal of driving him mad with pleasure, she took it deeper, sucking and licking like a toothless man eating a sausage. The animal sounds her efforts provoked only spurred her on the more.

  Then, in a trice, he took away her toy, pressed her knees apart, and plunged into the depths of her grateful body. In paroxysms of ecstasy, she received his piercing thrusts as if they were arrows of love from Cupid’s quiver.

  When it was over and they lay together in the honeyed afterglow of their lovemaking, she asked him when he planned to announce their engagement. “When the stage is set, my dove,” he replied with an enigmatic smile, “and not a moment sooner.”

  * * * *

  The next evening, in the hours leading up to 1817, the company played parlor games, sang songs, drank wassail until they were tipsy, and had a discussion as to what was the great point and crowning glory of Christmas.

  For Christian, Benedict, and the Captain, it was the beef, mince pies, and plum pudding; for Louisa, it was the food, carols, and decorations; and for Georgie and Winnie, it was the mistletoe.

  “All of these traditions are indeed prodigious,” said Lord Wingfield. “But, in my opinion, a blazing fire is the great indispensable of Christmas. “You may do without beef and plum-pudding; even the absence of mince-pie may be tolerated; there must be a bowl, poetically speaking, but it need not be absolutely wassail. A bottle might do just as well, for example. But a huge, heaped-up, over heaped-up, all attracting fire, with a semicircle of faces about it, is not to be denied us. It is the lar and genius of the meeting; the proof positive of the season; the representative of all our warm emotions and bright thoughts; the glorious eye of the room; the inciter to mirth, yet the retainer of order; the amalgamator of the age and sex; the universal relish. Tastes may differ, even on a mince-pie, but who gainsays a fire?”

  When he’d finished his speech, cheers of “here, here!” erupted in the room.

  “Here’s to the fire,” Christian said, raising his cup of punch, “the true heart and soul of the season.” With a meaningful glance toward Georgie, he added, “And surely love is the true heart and soul of life.”

  “Here, here!” they all said again.

  When her brother returned to the parlor, Winnie tapped a spoon against her glass to gain their attention. “With all due respect, Lord Wingfield, Lieutenant Churchill, and all the rest of you, I heartily disagree that fire is the true heart and soul of the season. In my opinion, it is Christian charity that makes the season so magical. For at no other time of the year are people half as disposed to show goodwill toward their fellows as they are at Christmastide.”

  “Well said,” Benedict shouted, raising his glass to her. “Let us all drink a toast to Christian charity and goodwill Christmas inspires in the human heart.”

  “To goodwill and Christian charity,” they all cried in unison.

  Moments before the clock struck twelve, they formed a circle and sang Auld Lang Syne, after which the Captain, being master of the house, hobbled to the front door and opened it to usher out the old and bring in the new.

  When the clock chimed its final note, he closed the door. A chorus of “Happy New Year” was raised amidst the clinking of cups and glasses. When the cry went up to “Kiss the person you hope to kiss all year,” Christian looked around for Georgie. Their engagement might still be a secret, but couples did not have to be betrothed to join lips on New Year’s Eve.

  To his surprise and dismay, she was not in the entry hall … or the parlor … or anywhere else on the main floor he searched with mounting anxiety. Cursing himself for being too caught up in the festivities to notice her absence before now, he hurried up the staircase and down the hall to her bedchamber. Knocking softly, he called through the door, “Georgie, are you within?”

  “I am,” came her faint reply.

  “Did you overindulge in wassail?”

  “No.”

  “Are you unwell?”

  “No.”

  He rattled the handle, surprised to find the lock engaged. “Will you not let me in? I had hoped we might kiss at the stroke of midnight.”

  “And I had hoped you might announce our engagement before that hour arrived.”

  Oh, dear. She was upset with him. “I told you I would make the announcement when the time was right.”

  “And when will that be, Christian?” she asked crossly. “The Twelfth of Ne
ver?”

  Her vitriolic tone took him aback. Clearly, she’d been nursing a grudge toward him, for his failure to make their betrothal known. “Open the door, Georgie.”

  “Why? So you can get more free milk from the gullible cow?”

  He frowned at the door. “What cow? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Tell me the truth, Christian. Do you really intend to marry me?”

  “Of course I do,” he said, raising his voice. “How can you even ask such a thing?”

  Her voice wavered as she said, “I can ask it because you are treating me like your bit of stuff instead of your future wife.”

  Judas God. Women really were exasperatingly nonsensical creatures. “I only wanted to make the announcement extra special.”

  “Was not Christmas special enough for you? Or New Year’s Eve?”

  “Georgie, please. Open the door so we can clear the air like civilized people.”

  There was a long, agonizing silence before she said, “Go away, Christian. I’ve decided not to speak to you … or grant you any more favors … until you have made the fact of our engagement known, to our families and friends at least.”

  “Georgie, if you only knew …” He stopped himself, mid-explanation. Unbeknownst to her, he’d gone to a great deal of trouble to plan it all out. On the Eve of Twelfth Night, when they performed Lovers’ Vows, he would use the scene in which Anhalt and Amelia declared their love to propose to Georgie properly—in front of everyone present.

  The other day, when he claimed to have errands in the village, he paid a call on Lady Bennet at Craven Castle, to plead his case and ask for her consent to marry Georgianna. After obtaining it and swearing her to secret, he and Capt. Raynalds rode to the vicarage, to arrange for the banns to be read, starting this Sunday. He’d also set the date for their marriage.

  Only then did he ride into the village to purchase a ring. He chose a gimmel style, with interlocking bands they each would wear throughout their engagement period.