One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) (13 page)

“Since she didn’t fight back, do you think Vesta knew her attacker?” Georgette asked once they were safely shut into her father’s waiting carriage.

Nathaniel pushed the velvet curtains aside so he could sweep the dark streets with his gaze. “I doubt she even saw her attacker.”

Georgette scrunched the fabric of her skirt in her fingers. It would wrinkle abominably, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She’d never known anyone who was done to death before, and twisting the muslin helped keep the rising panic at bay. “That makes it worse somehow. She had no idea why she was being murdered.”

“Trust me, if someone is trying to snuff the life out of you, ‘why’ isn’t the first thing you think.”

She cast him a sidelong glance, but the coach was too dark to make out his expression. “I’ve never asked about your time in the military—”

“Don’t spoil your record now.”

She clamped her lips shut. He’d been so calm, so matter-of-fact in the face of a senseless death, she could only surmise it was due to the fact that he’d already seen his share of lifeless bodies. If he didn’t want to talk about it, she’d be doing him no favors to press the issue.

On the surface, Nate seemed the same as ever. She recognized the boy he’d been in the man before her. Yet surely such familiarity with death changed a person. She wondered how it had changed him.

When Anne died, there’d been no wake, no open coffin. Everyone was too concerned about the contagion spreading, so she had been quietly interred in the family crypt without much ceremony. Even now, it was hard for Georgette to imagine her lively sister dead, since she’d been recovering from the same fever at the time and she had never seen the body. Anne was simply there one day and gone the next.

One
taken
and
one
left.

She gave a quick inward shudder and decided to change the topic to something less morbid.

“I think I should ask my father to buy a secondhand carriage for me,” she announced. “For choice, something with peeling paint and a swaybacked nag to pull it.”

“In God’s name, why?”

“Don’t you see? That way when we go back to Covent Garden, we won’t stand out so much.”

“I’m thinking you shouldn’t go back there at all.”

“But you know I will.”

He sighed deeply. “Even if you have the meanest conveyance in all Christendom, you’ll still stand out on Lackaday Lane. You’d have to come here in rags and on foot in order to blend in.” He shifted on the seat beside her. “Why are you fretting about coaches right now?”

“Because it’s better than thinking about dead girls.” Morbid or not, she couldn’t order her mind to leave the image of Vesta laid out on the table.

“You have me there.”

“It seems such a waste,” she said. “Vesta had her whole life before her.”

“None of us are promised tomorrow.”

“I wonder what her hopes were,” Georgette said. “Being a shop girl for a florist doesn’t seem like much.”

“Not to the daughter of a marquis, I’m sure,” he said. “But if one has pride in what they do, it doesn’t have to seem like much to others.”

“You’re very philosophical all of a sudden.”

They were sitting side by side on the squab, close enough that she felt his shoulder lift in a shrug.

“No. Just practical. Vesta was playing the hand dealt her the best she could. It’s not her fault the cards weren’t very good to begin with.”

“It sounds as if you believe in fate.”

“No, we all make our choices and have to live by them,” he said, his tone sounding unspeakably weary. “Some just have better things to choose from than others.”

She wondered what sort of choices he faced but decided, like his military service, that was another topic he didn’t wish to pursue. They rode in silence for several blocks. The only sound was the creak of the carriage wheels and the steady clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobbles.

“What are your hopes, Georgette?”

The question caught her by surprise. Her parents were busy planning her life for her, and until her forays into Covent Garden, she’d always done what was expected of her. No one had ever asked her about her hopes for the future.

She knew the
correct
answer. All English misses ought to hope to be a dutiful daughter. She should hope to become a virtuous wife and loving mother. To please her parents, she must hope to give birth to the future sovereign of England.

But that wouldn’t be the
true
answer.

When she’d lain sick with scarlet fever, alternately drenched in her own sweat or burning so hot her skin blistered, she’d spent a good deal of time praying. It wasn’t so much bargaining with God as it was agreeing that if she was spared, her life wouldn’t belong just to her. She’d have to pull her nose out of her books and her imaginings and pay attention to those around her.

She’d have to care about them.

She’d have to
do
something. She’d finally screwed up her courage to try it when she found Mercy and convinced her to leave Lackaday Lane to become her maid.

“I hope,” Georgette said slowly, “to make a difference for others.”

“Then you have realized your dream.” She couldn’t see it but she heard the smile in his voice. “You’ve certainly made a difference for me.”

“Pray, do tell. Seems to me you’re still an incorrigible rake.”

His voice dropped to a sensual rasp, like worn silk sliding over her. “Yes, but now I’m an incorrigible rake with a conscience.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

He took her hand and began undoing the little seed pearl buttons on her gloves. Then he brought her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the exposed skin of her inner wrist. A thrill raced up her arm. She couldn’t bear the thought of pulling her hand away.

“For example,” he said, “there was a time when I’d never let a coach ride with a lovely young woman pass without trying to seduce her.”

“Yet now you will.” Disappointment fluttered under her ribs.

“No, I’ll still try to seduce her,” he said, “but now I’ll feel guilty about it.”

Georgette wasn’t sure if he kissed her or if she moved to kiss him, but suddenly their mouths found each other and for the life of her, she wouldn’t let him go.

It seemed so wrong. Hadn’t they just come from a house filled with death?

Vesta could feel no more. Her sister had been gone for years. Surely she and Nate ought to be soberly contemplating their own mortality.

But instead, life pounded in her veins, demanding she celebrate it, wallow in it. When Nathaniel’s hands swept over her breasts, pleasure sparked in their wake, vibrant and sharp-edged. She suddenly found herself crowding closer into his arms, climbing onto his lap, kissing him as if her next breath depended upon it. Greedy for him. Moving the soft places on her body against the hard place on his with urgency.

Oh, would that ache never stop?

He kissed as much of her bare skin as he could reach, all down her throat and along the edge of her bodice, but there was too much fabric, too many layers in the way. They would arrive at her parents’ door far too quickly to do anything besides frustrate themselves beyond bearing, but she still ran her hands over his chest, reveling in the hard muscles under his clothing, pretending she stroked his bare skin instead.

Georgette had never been tipsy before, but she imagined it must feel a little like this. Off balance. Out of control. Likely to do
anything
…

Her hand drifted lower and she rubbed his full length through his trousers.

That
certainly
qualifies
as
anything!
She felt equal parts pride and wonder over herself—pride at behaving so outrageously and wonder that she was willing to throw aside her carefully crafted sense of “oughtness” in order to behave that way.

He fairly growled into her mouth and a thrill of feminine power coursed through her.

Not to be outdone, he reached under her skirt and slid his hand up to her throbbing core.

God
bless
the
modiste
who
devised
open-crotch pantalets
, Georgette thought fervently.

She was already slick with wanting when he thumbed her sensitive spot.

“Come to me, Georgette,” he whispered into her ear. “Come to my chamber tonight.”

She tipped her chin to give him easier access to the column of her throat. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” His fingers moved on her with unrelenting precision, driving her to that dark place where there was only heat and hollow longing. The sound of her own blood in her ears pounded like the surf at Dover. “We only have now, Georgette.”

Only now. Only this man. Only this wicked touch.

Then suddenly
now
was gone. The carriage lurched to a stop and he pulled his hand out from under her skirt. A shuddering sob escaped her lips. She’d been so close to that blessed state where she’d slip her bonds and go soaring. Her body all but wept with frustration, but sanity slammed back into her.

She wasn’t escaping the horror of Lackaday Lane any longer. She was safe. She was home. This was her life. She wasn’t meant for furtive trysts in moving carriages. She was meant to be a royal.

If only she didn’t still have that damnable ache between her legs…

Nathaniel smoothed down her skirts and did up the buttons at her wrist again. “I’ll wait for you tonight,” he said softly as he helped her alight from the carriage.

“Don’t.” Shakily, she forced one foot before the other toward the front door. Before she reached it, the portal swung open and her father stood framed by the wide opening.

He didn’t have to bellow “Georgette Frances Barclay Yorkingham” this time. Judging from his storm-cloud frown alone, she could tell the marquis was not at all pleased.

***

And neither was Lady Yorkingham. Georgette’s mother swooped into the foyer and shooed her up the staircase, like a hen gathering her wandering chick.

Which left Nathaniel to face Lord Yorkingham on his own.

The marquis said not a word. He merely jerked his head in the direction of the stairs and Nate fell into step with him. He marched alongside his lordship to his study. Evidently he was to receive his dressing down out of the hearing of the servants. All things being equal, Nathaniel decided he’d rather take his chances with the marquis instead of Georgette’s mother.

The
female
of
the
species
is
always
the
most
deadly
when
her
offspring
is
threatened.

But he was still obliged to step lively to explain why Georgette was gallivanting about Covent Garden at a time of night when all good Christian girls should be at home safe in their own beds.

“I understand that she’s become fixated with helping these unfortunates,” Lord Yorkingham said gruffly. “But I asked you to stay here in order to protect Georgette, not aid in this misbegotten crusade of hers.”

Still standing because he’d not been invited to sit, Nate clasped his hands behind his back. There was no pretense of equals seated near the fire together this time. Lord Yorkingham was ensconced in the throne-like chair behind his desk.

“Lady Georgette was set on going once we received word of the death of one of the girls there. If I hadn’t taken her with me,” he said, “she would have simply gone on her own.”

“Damn it all, you’re probably right. That willful, stubborn…” Lord Yorkingham raked a hand through his thinning hair. “Why must she muck about in that festering sewer? Why can’t she simply hold teas and raise funds for the care and reformation of these soiled doves from a safe distance in a conventional fashion?”

“Because, my lord, your daughter is not a conventional girl.”

“Bite your tongue, man. She is. She has to be.”

Lord Yorkingham stood and stomped over to glare out the window, looking down on his pleasant, well-lit street. It occurred to Nathaniel that even though the marquis had enough wealth, power, and prestige to dazzle the ton, he was not a very happy man. His misery showed in every tense line of his frame.

“The duke may want someone who flies in the face of orthodox behavior for his mistress,” Yorkingham said, “but for a royal consort and the mother of his heir, Cambridge wants a pattern sort of girl.”

“Have you considered that Georgette may not want to be a royal consort?”

Dark eyes snapping, the marquis turned back to face Nate like a man-o’-war with canvas flying, all guns ready to be brought to bear. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she does. No woman of sense would eschew such a high honor.” Then he leaned on the back of his desk chair as if all the wind had suddenly spilled from his sails. “Has she said as much to you?”

“Not in so many words,” Nathaniel admitted. “But I think she’s not as appreciative of the honor His Royal Highness pays her as you are.”

“Then you’ll have to convince her.” Georgette’s father finally motioned for Nate to pull up a chair and sit down. “Heaven knows, she won’t listen to me.”

“Perhaps it’s not words she needs from you,” Nathaniel said as he sat down, relieved the adversarial portion of the conversation seemed to be over. “Part of what concerns Georgette is that this arrangement with the royal duke is not a love match.”

“Rubbish! What difference should that make?”

“None. I know. It shouldn’t make a particle of difference, but women tend to see such things differently, I’m told.” Nate leaned forward slightly. “I understand your own marriage was a made one.”

“What of it?”

“Perhaps if Georgette were to see that you and the marchioness are happy together—”

“Who told you we weren’t?”

“No one.”

“I should say not. What passes between Lady Yorkingham and myself is no one’s business but our own.”

“Of course. I quite agree.” Nate leaned against the tufted back of his chair. “Then I take it you and her ladyship are happy in your arranged marriage.”