One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) (7 page)

This is so wrong. I shouldn’t allow it.

But the wrongness of the kiss didn’t seem to matter at the moment. Nathaniel understood her as no one else did. When he looked at her, he saw only her.

Simply Georgette. Not an alliance with a powerful peer. Not a shadowy possible heir. Not the ephemeral crown of England.

Just
her
.

She grasped his lapels and drew him closer.

His mouth was a whole world. Warm, wet, and insistent. She dove in with abandon, lost in the mystery of a shared breath, a sigh that could have come from either or both of them.

Her hand slipped inside his jacket, smoothing over the superfine of his waistcoat and the fine lawn of his shirt. His hard-muscled chest radiated heat to her fingertips that shot up her arms and finally settled to swirl in her lower belly.

How wonderful a thing is a
man’s body, all hard and strong and unyielding.

Yet his lips were soft on hers, beguiling, teasing. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, then dared her to chase it back into his. They played a game of tag that quickly lost its lightheartedness when Nate began to thrust into her mouth with more force.

She welcomed him, suckling and nipping.

The warm tingle in her “nethers” started again. Then it deepened into a dull ache that was far from unpleasant. She was hollow with nameless longing.

So
this
is
what
Mercy
meant
when
she
talked
about
aching.

She really needed to listen to her maid more often, she decided.

Georgette was so absorbed in Nate’s kiss and the bewildering clamor it started in her body, she almost wasn’t surprised when his hands began to roam over her as she’d done to him.

Turn
and
turn
about.

It appealed to her notion of fairness, so she decided to allow it.

First, he ran his fingertips along the edge of her bodice, teasing the tops of her breasts. Her skin shivered with excitement.

Then he dipped a finger into the hollow between them. Her nipples pricked to taut awareness, the tight nubs throbbing with an ache of their own. His fingertip brushed one and a shock of sensation zinged from her breast to her nethers in a heart-stopping second.

Who knew such disparate parts of her were so intimately connected?

He flicked the sensitive tip of her breast again and she groaned into his mouth. Her nipples throbbed so, she nearly put a palm to her chest in an effort to still the ache. Before she could do that, Nathaniel slipped his whole hand down the front of her bodice and cupped her breast.

He held her bosom as if it were the most precious thing he could touch. Oh, the delectable sense of being cherished! Her insides turned molten, softening like warm beeswax, as his kisses and caresses continued.

His mouth traveled down her neck and followed the path his fingertips had traced along the lacy edge of her bodice. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts toward his lips. His mouth commanded her full attention.

Her stays were suddenly too tight again.

Oh! If she could only feel his mouth on her skin beneath the layers of her gown, stays, and chemise.

The courtesan’s memoirs she’d read with Mercy had made much of the delicious sensations to be savored with a skillful lover. It was possible, Madam Charpentier asserted, for a woman to reach “her pinnacle” merely on the strength of an adept man’s fondling of her breasts.

Georgette wasn’t sure what was meant by “her pinnacle,” but the way her nipples throbbed, she was certain a pinnacle was much to be desired. There was clearly more delight to be had in allowing Nate to explore her body.

But the world began to intrude. The cabby’s horse whickered his impatience and the hackney rocked a bit.

This was not the place to put Madam Charpentier’s theories to the test. Georgette pulled away from Nate’s kiss, her palms flat on his chest.

His blue eyes were dark with desire, and his breathing as ragged as hers.

“I don’t want to play the fool, Nate.”

But
I
do
want
to
play
, she finished silently.

Perhaps in addition to dance practice, he’d be willing to help her explore a few of the tantalizing ideas in the courtesan’s memoirs.

The ones that didn’t endanger her maidenhead, at least.

“You’re not foolish,” he assured her. “You’re quite wonderful, actually.”

“So are you,” she said. “But now is not the time and this is not the place.”

One of his brows ticked up slightly. “Have you a time and place in mind? Name it and I’ll be there.”

She almost asked him to sneak into her bedchamber at midnight but decided that sounded far too like a scene from a dreadful penny novel. She pulled her cloak close around her, trying to silence her body’s protests that a penny novel affair sounded utterly delicious and it was fully prepared to live out one of those sinful plots.

“I need to be in Mme. Reynard’s fitting rooms in less than a minute. If I don’t get this gown ordered, Mother will have a conniption.” She pulled her skirts close around her legs so he could slide past her to open the carriage door. “Kindly hand me down.”

A wall rose up behind his eyes at her rebuff. “As you wish, princess.”

“I’m no princess.”

Nathaniel climbed out the door, bowed with a flourish, and then offered her his hand.

“You will be,” he said ominously.

***

The trouble with women’s fashions, Nate decided, was that there were too many choices. A man’s suit of clothing was simplicity itself. And Nathaniel didn’t have to spend half a day in his tailor’s shop to order one. Instead of requiring him to visit a shop, the artisan came to him, bearing swatches of wool and superfine along with embellishment samples. It was a small matter of choosing the right fabric and a few elegantly understated buttons, and the ensemble was half-done.

For Georgette, there were myriad decisions to make. Long sleeves or short. Flounces or ruffles. How low to make the neckline in order to best display her décolletage. Which ribbons to lace at her empire waist. Should the hem trail a bit in the back or merely dust the ground?

“But we are getting ahead of ourselves,” the harried modiste said, her affectation of a French accent slipping in her frenzy. Nate was willing to lay odds she came from North Hampton, not Normandy. “First, the fabric. I wish we had time to order something special, considering that I have less than a fortnight to create a ball gown that will dazzle the royal duke. But
c’est la vie
! We shall have to be content with what I have in the shop.”

“Surely there’s a length of silk here that will suit,” Nathaniel said, eyeing the stacks of muslins and bombazines wearily. The modiste’s shop boasted enough bolts of cloth to sink a frigate.

“Mother said I needed to choose a red.” Georgette fingered a vermillion bolt that was shot with gold threads. “What about this one?”

“An excellent choice,” Mme. Reynard said, scooting around the shop collecting pins, shears, and looping her dressmakers’ measuring tape around her neck.

“It belongs in a harem,” Nate pronounced solemnly.

The modiste glared at him.

“I meant no insult. Merely an observation. I have nothing against harems, I assure you. Capital idea. It has the distinction of being both civilized and generous all around.” Georgette stuck out her tongue at him from behind Mme. Reynard. He gave both women a wry bow. “But I rather think Lady Georgette would not wish to be mistaken for an odalisque.”

Georgette stared down at the silk. She was still running it through her fingers as if she were contemplating what it might be like to perform the Dance of the Seven Veils.

The thought of Georgette decked out in filmy fabric, wearing bangles, and clinking finger cymbals made Nathaniel feel pleasantly male.

Then she took up a bit of muslin whose red shade leaned toward orange. “How about this?”

The modiste cast a hopeful smile. “A vibrant choice, my lady.”

“If you wish to impersonate a pumpkin,” Nate said under his breath.

It must have been loud enough for both women to hear him because Georgette released the offending cloth as if it were on fire. The modiste glowered at him as if she’d like to consign him to the flames.

Georgette wandered along the stacks, touching a few more bolts of scarlet, carnelian, and maroon. Exasperation rolled off her in irritated waves. “Which do you think I should choose, then?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think since I’m not the man you’re trying to impress,” Nate said. “But forget about red for a moment. What color do
you
like?”

Georgette cocked her head to one side. Nate would have bet good money she didn’t realize how appealing it made her look. Then she took a slow turn around the room. She finally came to a stop before a bolt of pale pink silk moiré, the color so faint it was a mere suggestion. When Georgette unrolled a yard or two of the fabric, the subtle pattern made it shimmer like a living being.

Nathaniel could imagine her in the finished gown. Light colors were difficult to keep clean and therefore were very dear. It subtly trumpeted her family’s wealth—an important consideration when trying to catch the eye of a heavily indebted royal duke.

But even more importantly, the soft hue suited her delicate coloring. Her alabaster skin glowed next to the glistening silk. In the right light, the blush-colored fabric would be all but transparent, showing the shadow of her legs in an unwitting maidenly display. She’d be impossible to resist.

It was perfect.

“But, my lady, your mother wished for you to wear red,” the modiste reminded her. The woman was obviously aware of who ultimately paid her bill.

Georgette lifted a corner of the pink fabric, draped it over one shoulder, and turned to face him. “What do you think, Lord Nathaniel?”

For a blink, he visualized her in nothing but that shimmering mantle, draped like Diana the Huntress, bow arm and one breast bared. He couldn’t decide if her nipple would be cherry blossom pink or ripe plum. Either way, the vision had him crowding his trousers.

He was certain the Duke of Cambridge had seen a miniature of her. Even courtships of such expediency as this one wouldn’t proceed without a passing knowledge of the lady’s appearance. But His Highness would no doubt discount her appeal in a small portrait, allowing for artistic flattery in the hope of future commissions. As soon as Cambridge got a look at Georgette in that pale pink, he’d be hot for the match to proceed at breakneck pace.

She was the goddess personified.

Then his goddess blushed as Diana never did. Desire must have shown too plainly on his features. Nathaniel feigned a sudden interest in an eggplant-colored bolt of tweed.

For an unworthy moment, he was tempted to side with the modiste and push for one of the more ghastly reds. The color might be eye-catching, but it would also wash Georgette’s delicate beauty out and make her seem pale and sickly. She wouldn’t do for the duke at all in that case, since his primary interest was in seeing an heir as soon as possible.

In the “Hymen Race Terrific,” only the healthy and fertile need apply.

“Nathaniel?” Georgette’s voice called him back from his musings.

“I think you should make your own decisions,” he said, silently cursing his better angel. How was he going to ruin her if his conscience kept leading him down such disgustingly proper paths of righteousness? “Once a woman marries, I gather she has few enough opportunities to choose much of anything. Make the most of this one.”

She was silent for ten beats of his heart. Then, sounding for all the world like the royal she was destined to be, she announced, “I’ll take the pink.”

“I assume Mme. Reynard had suitable fabric for your gown in her shop. She always has such an exquisite selection,” her mother said between delicate spoonfuls of the white soup. “I imagine she agreed that red is the bold choice required. A
royal
choice.”

“We finally settled on something,” Georgette replied circumspectly. She hoped the final product would be fetching enough to mollify her mother once she discovered her express wishes had been ignored.

“Trust me, Lady Yorkingham, she’ll be resplendent,” Nathaniel said. “Though that’s little credit to Mme. Reynard. Your daughter would be the making of any gown.”

He tossed a quick wink to Georgette, but it was his smile that warmed her to her toes.

They were seated opposite each other near the middle of the long table, with her parents occupying the distant head and foot. There was such an expanse of tablecloth between them, she was amazed that Lord and Lady Yorkingham were able to carry on even this stilted attempt at conversation without resorting to speaking trumpets.

They’re like islands dotting a white linen sea
, Georgette mused.
Never
touching, only catching glimpses of each other through the mist rising from the soup tureen.

Her mother was a stickler for formal suppers. Even if they hadn’t had a guest, the seating plan would have remained the same. Her parents seemed to be holed up in their own separate strongholds at opposing ends of the long table.

The only thing that would have been different if Nate hadn’t been dining with them was that there would have been no pretense at conversation.

Silence would have reigned.

There was such a thing as companionable silence. Georgette imagined that a couple seated by a cozy fire, each reading their own book, would enjoy a comfortable sort of quiet. The air above their heads might shimmer with imagination and adventure they could later share in animated conversation.

By contrast, the silence that filled her parents’ union was a hollow void, an emotional doldrums. Georgette had always promised herself she would not have a marriage of such deadly calm.

But what else could she expect to have with the Duke of Cambridge?

“How very gallant of you, Lord Nathaniel.” Her mother dabbed her lips with a linen napkin fringed with Belgian lace and motioned for the footman to remove the soup course.

Her father looked up when Mr. Darling, Georgette’s feckless footman, leaned over him to slide his soup bowl away. Her mother cleared her throat loudly and her father seemed to take the hint that he was expected to contribute something to the dinner conversation.

“I’m sure Georgette is grateful to have such a staunch friend as you, Lord Nathaniel. As we all are.”

Friend?
Georgette did not feel
friendly
toward him exactly. She felt…jittery inside toward him.

How did one categorize that?

Nathaniel made an attempt to engage her father in conversation about whether the Prince of Wales could be kept from mucking up the foreign policy the prime minister espoused, and the ensuing discussion carried them through the next three courses. Georgette was beginning to feel her family was almost normal.

“Oh, Georgette, did I mention I’ve sent word to your dancing master? Mr. Gooch will be here tomorrow at ten,” her mother announced as the treacle arrived for dessert.

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” Georgette said. “I’ve been dancing for years.”

“Yes, but you’ll want to put your best foot forward for the royal duke,” her mother said. “We certainly wouldn’t want a repeat of the debacle last Season at Almack’s.”

“That was
not
my fault.”

Georgette’s ears burned with embarrassment. There was every chance that Nathaniel hadn’t heard about the incident. How like her mother to make sure he did.

“Then whose fault was it, dear?” Lady Yorkingham asked with deceptive sweetness.

“Lady Bracegirdle’s, of course,” Georgette said through clenched teeth. “If she hadn’t worn that ridiculous turban with the ostrich plume, none of it would have happened.”

Georgette had watched in horrified fascination as the offending headdress came near to annihilation each time Lady Bracegirdle passed one of the lit candles in the wall sconces.

“I’ll concede that Lady Bracegirdle provided a distraction, but no one forced you not to attend to your dance partner,” her mother reminded her.

“If I was distracted, it was with good reason.” Georgette pushed the treacle aside. She couldn’t bear another bite of its cloying sugariness. “What if Lady Bracegirdle’s turban had suddenly gone up in flames? We’d have had only seconds to save her, though I warrant her silly turban would have been a total loss.”

“But that never happened, dear. There was no fire.” Lady Yorkingham turned her attention to Nathaniel. “Here’s what really happened instead. Georgette took a disastrously wrong turn, stumbled into Sir Isaac Kiddick, who I’m sorry to say had imbibed a bit too much before arriving but had somehow made it past the guard. After Sir Isaac lost his footing, the entire line in the country dance went down like dominoes.” Her mother pressed her napkin to her forehead. “It was most embarrassing for me.”

For
her?
“Let me assure you, it was no lark in the woods for me either, Mother.”

“Georgette, show some respect,” came her father’s voice from the shadowy end of the table. “Your mother is only trying to help.”

“She’s trying to help me into Bedlam.” Georgette narrowly resisted the urge to bang her forehead on the snowy linen.

“My one consolation is that because Sir Isaac had a distinct whiff of spirits about him, he was blamed for the mishap,” her mother said. “But I saw what actually happened and so did half a dozen other matrons. You have no idea the interminable favors that have been called in to insure they keep that little secret.”

Georgette was quietly livid over the rehashing of the disaster. At the same time, her chest ached at her mother’s disappointment in her. If she became royal, would all the times she let her mother down be forgotten?

It might make the match with the Duke of Cambridge worth the effort.

“At any rate, we can’t allow a reprise,” Lady Yorkingham said. “I simply will not endure another humiliation like that. You’ll practice with Mr. Gooch until you can dance a cotillion in your sleep.”

Something wilted inside Georgette at her mother’s words. This match meant the world to Lady Yorkingham. She’d been throwing all her resources, all her hopes behind making Georgette a prime candidate for the royal duke.

Perhaps if Georgette wed Cambridge, her mother would finally forgive her for living when Anne did not.

Suddenly the dining room seemed to have run out of air.

“May I be excused?” Georgette murmured. Then she rose and fled from the room without waiting for an answer.

***

“Her ladyship’s on a proper tear and no mistake,” Reuben Darling announced to the staff who’d gathered in the servants’ common room below stairs in Yorkingham House.

The Family’s supper had all been cleared away and his time was finally his own till breakfast. He settled into a shabby Sheraton chair that at one time had graced the very proper parlor on the ground floor. The stuffing in the seat was a little lumpy, but it was positioned so he could look his fill at Mercy, who had claimed the rocker in the corner.

“What’s the marchioness done now?” Mercy barely looked up from the stocking she was darning by the light of a beef tallow candle.

“Her ladyship has called Mr. Gooch to come back. He’ll be here on the morrow.”

“No!” Cook said. “The man’s insufferable. Thinks he’s master of everything, not just dancing. Do you know he actually had the gall to suggest what he called ‘improvements’ to my mince pie receipt?”

There were gasps throughout the room. Not even Mr. Rigsby, the butler who was still quietly feuding with Cook over the bust of Purcell incident, could defend Mr. Gooch over that.

“Lady Georgette left the supper table in tears, I tell you,” Reuben reported.

“I didn’t see that,” Mr. Rigsby said.

“You was in the pantry seeing to the after-dinner coffee when it happened,” Reuben explained to the man who was nominally his superior.

Of course, they all bowed to Mr. Humphrey, the house steward. He ruled as lord in all but name of the below-stairs folk.

Mr. Humphrey laid aside his paper and leaned forward in his chair. “Where is Lady Georgette now? If she’s left the supper table, Miss Atwood, ought you not to check on her?”

“If she needs me, I expect she’ll ring,” Mercy said with a shrug. “My lady isn’t so much a dainty doily as ye might think. There’s a bit of toughness about her a body would never suspect.”

Reuben was sure there was a bit of softness about Mercy too, but she hid it exceedingly well. He still wanted the chance to find it.

He’d certainly enjoy the search.

“It’s terrible that Gooch is coming back and all,” Mr. Rigsby said. “But I can’t see that there’s anything we can do about it.”

Reuben settled back into the Sheraton chair, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his head. “I’m thinking we won’t have to. Lord Nathaniel will likely do something about it for us. You should have seen the way he hotfooted it out of the dining room after Lady Georgette.”

Mercy’s brows arched at that. “Did he now?”

“That he did, and once they was outside the door in the main hall, I happened to overhear—not that I was trying to, mind”—Reuben directed this aside to Mr. Humphrey, who was adamant that the help not eavesdrop on the Family they served—“that the pair of them was off to the ballroom so’s as Lady Georgette could practice with a partner a bit afore His Nibs Mr. Gooch returned on the morrow.”

Mr. Humphrey frowned at this news. “The two of them? Alone?”

“Likely,” Reuben said. “Lord and Lady Yorkingham both retired to their own chambers after that.”

The steward cleared his throat loudly. “Miss Atwood, take Mr. Darling and make for the ballroom to see that Lady Georgette is all right.”

“Why, Mr. Humphrey,” Mercy said, casting him a sly smile. She reminded Reuben of a tabby toying with a mouse she fully intended to have for dinner. “Are you suggesting we spy on a member of the Family?”

“No, of course not.” His jowls shook like an indignant bulldog. “I’m suggesting you
protect
a member of the Family. I don’t need to remind all of you how important the match between the daughter of the House and the Duke of Cambridge is to Lord Yorkingham. Indeed, to us all. Nothing may be allowed to jeopardize that.”

“But Lord Nathaniel don’t mean her no harm. Didn’t he drag her out of that Covent Garden mess? All Lord Nathaniel’s doing is helping her with her dancing,” Reuben objected. “Seems to me that’s to the good, ain’t it?”

A look of understanding passed between Mercy and the steward. Mercy gave an almost imperceptible nod, but Reuben was still in the dark. She quickly folded up her darning and stashed it in her sewing basket.

“Mr. Humphrey is right. Come with me, Mr. Darling.” She crooked her finger at him as she sashayed out of the common room and up the back staircase. “Time for you to make your pretty self useful.”