One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) (6 page)

Then once he was gone, her mother’s calm, collected facade shattered. Lady Yorkingham shot back across the space to the bell pull, muttering decidedly unladylike things as she went. In Georgette’s imagination the swan had become a goose, squawking across the farmyard in an explosion of feathers.

“A fortnight!” Lady Yorkingham paced in a tight circle, waiting for the steward to appear. “The man has the audacity to demand a ball fit for royalty in only two weeks. Why, that’s not even enough time for new gowns. Let alone all the other myriad details to which I’ll have to attend. Honestly, does His Highness think all one needs to do is speak and the event will come to pass?”

“It’s called ruling by fiat, and yes,” Georgette said, “royalty does tend to think that’s how the world works.”

“Don’t be cheeky, Georgie,” her mother scolded. “Ah, Humphrey, there you are. We have an emergency. Bring my Domesday Book.”

That was her mother’s name for her collection of approved caterers, entertainers, and purveyors of assorted fripperies necessary for a grand fete. A vendor had to be a cut above his fellows in order to be accorded the honor of an entry in the Domesday Book.

“Call Cook, Mr. Rigsby, and Mrs. Thistle for a meeting here in”—Lady Yorkingham checked her pendant watch—“a quarter hour.”

Oh, dear. The cook, the butler, and the housekeeper all in one room
.

“Don’t you know they’re feuding a bit at present?” Georgette said. Mercy was a fount of information when it came to below-stairs gossip. “It seems Mr. Rigsby claimed that Mrs. Thistle moved the bust of Purcell from the music room, and Cook took her part when she said she didn’t. Then Mrs. Thistle told Cook she could hold her own against the likes of Mr. Rigsby, thank you very much, and the two women haven’t spoken a civil word since.”

“Not now, Georgette, I’m trying to think.” Her mother gave her a swift head-to-toe perusal. “No matter what, you simply must have a new gown. Something in red, I think. Yes, that’s it. We’ll do a St. Valentine’s theme. Thank heavens, the feast day falls close to the date His Highness has decreed.”

“Indeed,” Georgette said wryly. “Just imagine if the ball had fallen on the Feast of St. Sebastian. Our footmen should have been obliged to carry bloody spears instead of little gilt bows and arrows.”

Her mother frowned at her. “Honestly, Georgette, I don’t know where you come up with these odd ideas. Well, at least you didn’t say anything like that while his lordship was here. Now, get you gone and quickly. Oh, no, wait.” She called her back with a frantic gesture. “I shall need the barouche this afternoon. There are ever so many details to attend. Oh, I know.” She clapped her hands together in relief that one thing, at least, seemed to be going right with her newest, most urgent project. “Find Lord Nathaniel.”

“Why?”

“Your father told me he’ll be staying with us for a bit and he may as well make himself useful. Have Nathaniel escort you to the modiste by hackney. Yes, it’ll do the lad good to have something constructive to do.”

Her mother nodded as she tapped her temple, her mind obviously scurrying on to the next item on her rapidly composed mental inventory.

“Tell Madam Reynard that she shall have two, no, three times her usual fee if she turns out your new gown in time. Now off you go!”

Her mother waved her away and flew to the escritoire to record the burgeoning list of items to be accomplished before the fateful ball. “Two weeks,” she muttered.

Two
weeks.
The finality of it draped over Georgette like a shroud. In only a fortnight, she might be betrothed to a member of the royal family, her future plotted out for her without room for a single turn to the left or the right.

Her father and mother had discussed the possibility of the match with her the day after Princess Charlotte died last November. The Duke of Cambridge’s operatives had moved swiftly when they realized a crown was at stake in the “Hymen Race Terrific.” Georgette was quickly identified as one of a handful of young ladies to be given prime consideration for the honor of bearing a future ruler of England.

It hadn’t seemed real until now.

Numbly, she walked out the parlor doors and down the stairs to the library. Her kid soles seemed to swish the same message on each pair of steps: “Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks.”

Georgette chattered nonstop through Grosvenor Square. She changed topics several times and barely paused for a breath. All that was required of Nate was an occasional grunt of agreement or merely a nod if she happened to glance his way. As the cab neared the Mayfair establishment of Madam Reynard, the exclusive modiste who clothed the Yorkingham women, along with a few select others from among the top tier of the ton, Georgette launched into a second rehashing of her mother’s recommendations for the color of her new gown. She didn’t seem to recognize that there was only so much one could say about red.

Nathaniel let her talk. She obviously needed to.

Besides, he enjoyed hearing her voice, even if the words were running together and one sentence spilled onto the next without a proper break. Obviously she was excited about the upcoming ball, but he sensed it wasn’t simply girlish anticipation. He detected a glint of terror in her eyes each time she mentioned the royal duke. Finally he stopped her by pressing two fingers to her lips.

“I collect that you’re wound up, Georgette. Women generally are when a ball and a new gown are in the offing,” he said. “But something tells me you’re vexed as well.”

Her brows tented in obvious consternation. “It’s that apparent?”

“Probably not to anyone but me. But then, I am attending to you rather closely.” Against his expectations, he liked paying attention to Georgette. The mercurial change of expressions that flitted across her features made her face a constant feast for his eyes. “Now what’s bothering you?”

She gnawed her lower lip for a bit, long enough for him to wish he could suckle it as well.

“I simply don’t know how I’ll manage it,” she finally admitted.

“Manage what?”

She looked out the window, but he suspected she wasn’t interested in the foot traffic on the street. She was avoiding his gaze.

“Well, if you must know, although my parents are all agog with the idea, I’m not particularly keen on the match with the Duke of Cambridge.”

He snorted. “Most women would be in raptures at the thought of becoming royalty.”

Part of him was very glad Georgette wasn’t “most women.”

“I suspect the entire business of being royal is a great deal of trouble most of the time, but I suppose I could get used to
that
,” she said as if becoming a princess were as fine a thing as developing a bunion.

She was so different from any other woman of his acquaintance. He shot an approving grin at her.

“Then if it’s not the bother of being addressed as ‘Your Royal Highness,’” he said, “what is it that troubles you about the match?”

“Other than the fact that I know next to nothing about the duke himself, you mean?”

“What is there to know? The Duke of Cambridge is King George’s sixth son. His Christian name is Augustus Frederick, but no one calls him that.”

Nate could have added that the duke had already tried to marry Lady Augusta Murray twice, but each time the secret liaison was set aside because King George refused to approve it. If Georgette didn’t know that the Duke of Cambridge had already sired a couple of recognized bastards, that was all to the good. It certainly wasn’t the sort of information that would calm her fears.

“The Duke of Cambridge may not ever wear the crown himself, but if all goes as he plans, he’ll put his progeny on the throne after Prinny,” Nathaniel said. “That’s all most women would care to know.”

He might have imagined it, but he thought she shivered a bit.

“That’s not nearly enough information. There’s an ocean of things for me to know about a man if I’m destined to marry him.” She proceeded to tick items off on her gloved fingers. “What books does he like? Does he prefer cricket or lawn bowling? Did he have a pony as a boy? What was its name? What’s his favorite color? Were his—”

“Since marriage lasts ‘till death do you part,’” Nate interrupted to save her from running out of breath, “I expect you’ll have time to discover the answers to all those burning questions.”

She swatted his forearm with irritation. “Oh, you don’t understand. It’s not the answers that are important.”

“Then what is?”

“It’s the asking of them and listening to the answers. It’s getting to know the man behind those answers. And I hope he’d want to get to know me as well,” she said, her tone decidedly wistful. “Do you know I’ve never even seen the duke up close?”

Nathaniel had. He was no judge of male attractiveness, but he thought she hadn’t missed much. The duke was pushing forty-five years old and a life of dissipation had taken its toll. Nate wasn’t about to say so, however. Georgette was upset enough already.

“And if I wed the royal duke, long before I know who he is, he’ll have to…well”—her cheeks bloomed with those patches of pink Nate was coming to love—“to
know
me.”

“In the biblical sense, you mean.”

She nodded and stared down at her fingers which were hopelessly knotted together on her lap.

“So you’re concerned about the wedding night,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on the seat beside her. A red haze descended on his vision when he thought about another man taking Georgette’s maidenhead, and it had nothing to do with Mr. Alcock’s directive. “Perhaps that’s something you ought to discuss with your mother.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “I can’t imagine why. I rather suspect she’s still waiting for someone to talk with her about
her
wedding night. She and Father had an arranged marriage, you know. They quite literally met at the altar.”

“There you are. You have a perfect example of how a made match can work.”

Her brows drew together in a frown. “That’s just the trouble. I don’t know that it did. Maybe before Anne died things were different.” Her voice trailed away to a whisper. “I scarcely remember, but now, they both seem to live their own lives and only meet across the supper table.”

Nate squeezed his eyes shut. Before Anne died, everything was different.
He
was different. Why should Lord and Lady Yorkingham not be changed forever by their loss as well?

Suddenly he felt Georgette’s hand on his, soft and slender and warm.

“I’m sorry for mentioning Anne, Nate,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

He covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. “It’s not your fault. It simply is. Actually, it’s a relief to hear someone speak her name.”

Georgette made no move to extract her hand from his. “I know what you mean. It’s as if no one wants to even acknowledge she lived. As if we can pretend she didn’t leave a hole in all our hearts.”

“She wouldn’t want us to feel that way.” He was echoing his mother’s counsel. She insisted it was best to shove away the sadness. An act of the will, that was all it took. If Nathaniel were only made of sterner moral fiber, he could will away his grief.

“No, that’s not true,” Georgette said. “Anne would want us to feel the way we feel. She was very straightforward like that.”

He made a soft “hmph-ing” sound. “So she was. I’d forgotten.”

Georgette sighed. “I’m always afraid of that. Forgetting, I mean. Even now, sometimes I can’t see her face clearly in my mind.”

Nate’s chest constricted. So many things had happened since he lost Anne—his life of soldiering and subsequent disgrace along with his attempt to live down to his bad reputation. There’d been too many meaningless wagers, too many empty couplings with women who meant nothing to him or he to them, too many endless nights of drunken revelry that he couldn’t recall properly the next morning.

Some days Anne was a shadowy figure in his memory and he blamed himself for losing her afresh.

“I know what you mean,” he admitted, tapping his temple. “She’s a bit hazy around the edges.”

“Perhaps that’s the way things are meant to be,” Georgette whispered. “I think it’s time’s way of softening memories that are too hard to bear if they stay so crisply edged. That doesn’t mean we don’t still love her. It only means our hearts are protecting themselves.”

He studied her profile and wondered why he’d never noticed the sweet indentation beneath her lower lip that gave her chin its determined set. Winsome and willful, hers was a face full of contradictions.

What else had he missed about Georgette?

“When did you become so wise?” he asked.

She laughed again, but it was different this time. Not the wry laugh of the cynic, or the annoying twitter of most debutants, but a low musical sound that bespoke true amusement. “When one has been a wallflower as often as I, one has plenty of opportunity to think.”

“I can’t imagine why you’ve been on the sidelines.”

“Really? Do you think strong opinions endear a young lady to prospective suitors?”

“At least you have opinions. Most debutants don’t. Unless it’s about something to do with the latest French lace.” Of course, he’d avoided debutants as if they might give him hives. Underappreciated wives or jaded widows had been his bed partners of choice in recent years.

She sighed. “In truth, I’m hopeless in social settings.”

“Never say so.”

“It’s true. I dance like an angel for my dance master, but put me in a quadrille square with a real partner and I’m terrified of turning the wrong direction and ruining the set for everyone.”

“Perhaps we should practice together, then.” It would give him a chance to touch her and hold her close without arousing her suspicion. Though to his pleasant surprise, she was still allowing him to hold her hand. “I’m not your dancing master so it’ll be more like an actual ball.”

“That might help.” She tilted her chin, considering his offer. Then a smile broke over her face, luminous as a thousand candles. “Thank you, Nathaniel.”

“It’ll be my pleasure.” He squeezed her hand and she suddenly withdrew it from his grasp as if she’d just realized he was still holding it.

“Oh!” She leaned toward the window and peered out. “How long has the cab been stopped?”

“A while.”

“We ought to be going in then. Madam Reynard will close soon.”

“In a moment. You asked some penetrating questions earlier,” Nathaniel said. “Even though I’m not the Duke of Cambridge, I’d like to answer them.”

He took her hand again and sandwiched it between his. She stiffened briefly, but then relaxed her fingers.

“Now let me see if I can remember them all,” he said. “The best book I ever read was
Robinson
Crusoe
. I don’t like either cricket or lawn bowling. Fencing is my game. My first pony’s name was Thistle. The fat little beast was a demon on four hooves and wasn’t happy unless he ran me under a low-hanging branch at least once a day.”

“Oh, I remember him! What a good judge of character Thistle was.” She laughed again and this time her cheeks bloomed with that glorious pink as well.

“And my favorite color,” Nathaniel said, leaning toward her slightly, “is whatever color your eyes happen to be at the moment.”

“Oh.” Her mouth parted softly. “That may well be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Then the world is full of fools.” He reached up and cupped her cheek. “You really are extraordinary, you know.”

“Am I?”

“You are. And you should be told so often enough for you never to doubt it again.” He bent to kiss her again and brushed her lips lightly. “We’ve known each other for a long time, and yet I feel in some ways as if we’ve just met. I remember the girl you were. I’d like very much to know the young woman you’ve become.”

And
not
only
in
the
biblical
sense
, he finished silently. He moved closer and would have followed up that light buss of her lips with a deeper kiss, but she put a splayed hand to his chest.

“Nate, do you think…I mean…is this wise?”

“Wise? Probably not. But didn’t I just tell you the world is full of fools?” He claimed her mouth again.

This time she didn’t stop him.