The Greatest Lover Ever (12 page)

Now she must submit to a more ruthless tyrant than any of them might have been. To think that once upon a time, she’d found Lord Pearce’s smooth dangerousness rather thrilling. Now he took on the grim, sadistic aspect of a jailer.

Fortune did not favor her. As soon as they reentered the ballroom, the musicians struck up for the waltz.

Without a word to her, Pearce slid an arm around her waist and drew her swiftly into the dance. As one who had the right.

*   *   *

As soon as he entered the ballroom, Beckenham’s gaze flew to Georgie like iron filings to a magnet. She was dancing with Pearce. Damn him to hell!

“So it’s true our friend is back,” said Lydgate as if he’d read Beckenham’s mind. “Thought he’d never show his face again.”

“You underestimated his gall.”

Lydgate might be abreast of the latest news, but Beckenham had made his own inquiries about Pearce. The dog had returned to his kennel, all right. Hoping to get his hands on a sizable inheritance.

After six years, it seemed everyone was prepared to forget Pearce’s transgression. At least until they knew whether he’d succeeded in securing his aunt’s fortune. Despite the veneer of gentility, the Ton was a venal, fickle lot.

“I suppose you’ve heard about his aunt,” said Lydgate. “Rich as Croesus, so they say. Holed up in Bath on her deathbed, besieged by adoring relations.”

Beckenham nodded. He didn’t care about Pearce’s prospects. He was far more interested in the way Georgie seemed to hang on Pearce’s every word.

The years rolled back. He remembered other nights, in other ballrooms, where he’d propped himself against the wall, watching Georgie and Pearce waltz. All that raw emotion flooded back. He wanted to pummel the smiling villain into a bloody pulp.

How dare he so much as speak to her? How dare he touch her hand?

Beckenham had believed Georgie when she told him there was nothing between her and Pearce all those years ago. Now, watching them entertain each other, he began to wonder. How had Pearce come by that lock of hair?

But Georgie was no liar, and she’d denied all knowledge of the incriminating ringlet. Call him gullible, but he still believed her version of events.

That didn’t mean he was happy to see her whirling down the floor in Pearce’s arms, looking delighted to be there.

As they spun past, Beckenham had a fierce urge to thrust his hand out and yank Pearce away from her by the absurdly high collar of his immaculately cut coat.

“From what I hear, it’s by no means a foregone conclusion where the aunt will leave her fortune,” Lydgate was saying. “That’s why Pearce felt he had to come back here to turn her up sweet. Rumor has it the old lady is very haughty and as shrewd as she can stare. Not pleased about his fall from grace over the duel. She won’t see him, so he’s come to Brighton to lick his wounds and regroup.”

Beckenham had a fair idea of the reason Pearce was in Brighton now. Well, whatever the case, he could forget about trying to get his hooks into Georgie.

The waltz ended and the two of them were swallowed by the crowd.

“Hold this, will you?”

Beckenham shoved his glass at Lydgate—who muttered something about not being a damned footman—and headed in Georgie’s direction.

He spent some little time searching the throng before he saw Georgie. Alone now, she moved with her usual grace but in an inexorable fashion toward the ballroom’s entrance.

Without appearing to hurry, Beckenham lengthened his stride to catch up.

As if she knew he followed her, Georgie darted a glance over her shoulder. Alarm flared her nostrils, widened her eyes. Her entire body seemed poised for undignified flight.

The reaction was brief. She appeared to collect herself sufficiently to stand her ground and make a regal curtsy as he bowed deeply to her.

He held out his hand. “My dance, I think.”

She hesitated, then rewarded his bold assurance. Her fingers trembled a little as she placed her hand in his. He saw the defiance in her glinting smile.

“You seem very cozy with Pearce tonight,” he muttered as he led her back to the floor.

“How on earth can one be cozy in the midst of a crush like this?” Her voice was light, a little shaky.

“Oh, I think you know precisely how. You waltzed with him.”

She nodded, not meeting his gaze. “I have danced with many other gentlemen, too.”

And not just this evening. No doubt she’d danced with hundreds since she’d last taken the floor with him.

The feel of her in his arms, even with the regulation distance between them, was so all-consuming, he could scarcely think straight. He might almost pity those other poor sods who would never in their lives get closer to her than this.

Her scent drifted to him, light and floral but with the merest hint of some exotic, smoky note. The flagrant femininity of her flooded his senses.

He’d known many women intimately, yet he felt as if he’d lived without the mere sight of one for the past age. Nothing compared to his hand clasping Georgie’s, his arm around her waist, the top of her head tantalizingly close to his lips.

“I must suppose you know the reason I’m here,” he said.

She looked up. “Yes. But I wish you had not troubled yourself. My answer has not changed, my lord.”

Something plummeted in his stomach. “Nevertheless, indulge me with a stroll on the terrace.”

He realized the request had come out as more of an abrupt order, but he was put out by how much more welcoming she’d been toward Pearce. With Pearce, she’d laughed and flirted and tossed her head.

Her eyes narrowed, presumably at his tone.

He rephrased. “My dear Miss Black, you appear a trifle overheated. Might I escort you to the terrace to take the air?”

Her lips twitched. Then she gave a rueful sigh. “Very well, my lord. Since you ask so nicely.”

*   *   *

They did not linger on the terrace for long. Moonlight streamed through the trees, making shifting patterns on the soft turf beneath their feet. A number of couples had accepted the invitation provided by paper lanterns that lined the walks throughout the garden to lose themselves for a minute or an hour in the sylvan setting.

Georgie slipped outside her own body to watch herself with Beckenham, desperate to capture and remember the perfection of this moment. A quiet interlude with the man she … With Marcus. The fresh, ocean-washed air seemed sweet with promise, tantalizing. She might still turn back from her purpose, fling herself into his arms, sob out the whole story, beg him to keep her safe.

His solid, large presence beside her invited her trust. But trust had never been the problem between them. She’d trust him with her life. She simply did not trust him with his own.

It didn’t help to tell herself that until that day, she’d no hope of ever having even this much from Beckenham. Somehow, it seemed doubly cruel that any chance they might have had together would be snatched from her a second time.

Perhaps she’d been wrong all those years ago. Perhaps she ought to have behaved like a lady and let him fight that duel. If she had, he might have won it by shooting Pearce in the shoulder or some such civilized method, while Pearce’s shot missed. They would both have lived, honor satisfied, and she would have wed Beckenham as planned.

But at the time, the affair had seemed momentous to her, a clear-cut matter of life and death. Had that been mere vanity on her part? What girl doesn’t dream of men fighting over her? How her friends sighed and exclaimed over it when they’d heard. But she’d always been a practical woman, impatient with such fancies.

Afterwards, Lady Arden had accused her of deliberately engineering the situation.

She hadn’t meant to do it, but that didn’t lessen her culpability. Perhaps it made it worse. Stupid, stupid girl!

She still thought that Pearce, at least, had held a deadly purpose in provoking the challenge. And her intervention had achieved its aim, hadn’t it? Beckenham was neither dead nor living in exile as an escaped murderer. They’d been free of Pearce for six years. If it hadn’t been for this aunt and her fortune, they might never have seen him again.

But no matter the rights and wrongs of her behavior, she couldn’t go back and change the past. And even if Pearce hadn’t returned, she couldn’t accept Beckenham.

He didn’t love her, and that was that.

In a quiet stand of trees, Beckenham stopped and suddenly, she was in his arms. A shiver of longing and desire ran through her. How could the strength and warmth of him feel so utterly perfect, when everything else was all wrong?

He bent his head toward her, but all of a sudden she couldn’t go through with that part of her plan. She’d wanted to give him a disgust of her by playing the wanton, but she wasn’t strong enough to let him kiss her. Not tonight. Or ever again.

She gathered all her strength and pressed her palm to his shoulder, holding him at bay. “Marcus, I meant what I said. I will not marry you.”

He stilled. Then his arms slowly dropped to his sides. It seemed to her that he paled, though that could have been the moonlight. “Why not?”

She couldn’t tell him the truth, so she made herself give a careless shrug. “I’d be a fool to marry. I want for neither position nor fortune. In a very few months I shall be my own mistress. I find I like that idea very much.”

“You cannot mean it,” he said, incredulous. “You wish to remain a
spinster
?”

She laughed, though she felt the reverse of mirthful. “You say that as if it’s a dreadful fate. Don’t you see how I should loathe being at any man’s beck and call?”

“Our marriage would not be like that.”

She snorted. “Oh, would it not, Marcus? The first instance of defiance and you would be quick to show me who was master.”

He fell silent for a time. Then he said, “You cannot deny the passion between us. At least be honest about that. It
was
you at Steyne’s villa, wasn’t it?”

How fortunate he couldn’t see her blush. She made herself give a throaty laugh. “Yes, it was I. Of course it was.” She waved her hand. “There. I’ve admitted it. Make of it what you will, I am sure I do not care. But cease all this nonsense about marriage. No one knows what happened between us that night. There is no need to make a martyr of yourself over it.”

“It is not martyrdom to act as a man of honor,” Beckenham began.

If she heard one more word about his confounded honor, she’d scream. “Answer me this, Marcus. Do you—?”

She broke off. She’d almost asked him if he loved her. But she couldn’t bear to see the look of pure astonishment on his face at the very notion.

Instead, she said, “If you had not met me at Lord Steyne’s that night, it would not have occurred to you to propose to me. Would it?”

“But I did,” he said with irrefutable logic. With a touch of impatience, he added, “Come now, Georgie, it’s not like you to be missish.”

She gasped. “Missish?” To require that her husband love her, choose her as a bride freely, with no suggestion of duty or obligation?

His brows drew together. “I’m offering a practical solution to our difficulties. I compromised you. What else are we to do but get married? It’s not as if my situation in life has altered since you accepted me the first time.”

“So you are saying we should just pick up where we left off, is that it? How prosaic.”

If she weren’t so humiliated and furious, she could have flung herself on the ground and sobbed. Good Lord, could the idiot not see what she wanted from him? What she’d always wanted?

She’d retrieve her tattered dignity if it killed her. “I cannot marry you, my lord. Thank you for the honor you do me, but the answer must be no.”

“Georgie, I need a wife,” Beckenham said. “It was my intention to look for one. In fact, I came to Brighton to … Well, never mind that. But it seems to me as if our meeting again like this was somehow…” He shrugged uneasily, as if the notion didn’t sit well with him. “Fated, I suppose.”

Her heart smacked against her ribs, as if trying to escape her chest.

He captured her hand, gazed down at her with those serious, dark eyes that never failed to melt her a little inside. “Marry me, Georgie. Let’s forget the past. Let’s forge a future together.”

His hand enveloped hers in a strong clasp. They both wore gloves, yet the gesture felt searingly intimate. It spoke of all she could never have from him.

Georgie gathered every last vestige of courage within her and drew her hand away. “No, Marcus. The past cannot be undone.” How she wished it could be wiped like chalk from a slate. “I will not marry you. That is my final word upon it.”

His jaw was set so hard, she thought it might crack. There was a fierce look in his eyes, as if he’d been forced to accept defeat in an unfair fight. Then he stepped back with a short, sharp nod. “So be it. If that is your final word.”

Georgie turned and left him in that quiet grove, her head as high as a queen’s. But the lights from the ballroom took on a nimbus through a sheen of hopeless tears.

Chapter Eight

Beckenham sighted the target, took aim, and fired. A splinter on the left edge of the playing card exploded into the air.

Not good enough. He was off his game this morning but he’d put a hole through that pip if it took him all day. He reloaded and took aim again.

“Your pistol throws to the left. Try mine,” said Xavier, offering him an ornate ebony-handled dueling pistol.

Beckenham shook his head. “It’s a poor tradesman who blames his tools.”

He’d deliberately chosen the old pistols from his coach to give himself the added handicap. He needed something that required all his concentration, so his thoughts wouldn’t return constantly to her.

They both took another shot. Xavier, relaxed, annoyingly negligent in his deadly accuracy. Beckenham, vibrating with suppressed emotions, wound tight as a spring.

Damn her! Damn
him
for being so ridiculously hopeful that she’d accept him. What idiot wouldn’t have learned his lesson and let her be?

Lydgate moaned softly from his prone position on the lip of the fountain. “Barbarians. I wish you wouldn’t. Not at this hour.”