The Kiss (2 page)
"Mamma," Anthony interjected. "Enough. It is done and I will not undo it. She is not a nobody. Our Mr. Wilde is a gentleman—merely impoverished. Wasn't his cousin the earl of some shire or other? You will just have to learn how to live with her. She really is a darling girl and . . . and I love her. I've always—"
"And her vile, common mother," the marchioness interrupted. "Clearly her parents helped her hatch this evil plan and somehow they worked on you in secret to soften your tender sensibilities. And to think I was on the point of arranging for the Duke of Eddington's daughter for you. She won't have you now. But then perhaps we could hush this up. Now there's an idea. I could prevail upon—"
"Mamma," Anthony said so quietly and tiredly that Georgiana could barely hear his voice through the wall. "Enough."
The sound of his footfalls came toward the connecting door before it opened and Georgiana could see the distraught form of Lady Ellesmere beyond. The virago's face was bright scarlet, which hid quite effectively the faded beauty that had once graced the older lady's countenance.
The marchioness shook a finger at her. "Don't you dare look at me—you scheming
interloper.
When I think of everything our family has done for yours. And this is how you repay us? Why, there is a special place in the devil's home for girls like you. I shall not rest until this sham of a marriage is—"
Anthony closed and bolted the door against his mother's ranting and took five long steps toward the second bottle of brandy on his bedside table. Not bothering to pour the amber-colored liquid into a glass, he pulled huge gulps of the spirits directly from the bottle for long moments.
Georgiana watched his Adam's apple bob below the shadow cast by the putrid green bottle and resisted the urge to caution him. She'd never seen Anthony exude anything but charm and good humor during their younger years. The Anthony who had returned to Penrose had a dark and tired sort of malaise coursing beneath his worn, thin, cheerful facade.
His mother still raged beyond; presumably her daughters and the housekeeper provided a more sympathetic audience. Georgiana heard something about London, a solicitor, and calling for a carriage while she crossed to Anthony and softly clasped his rigid back against the softness of her breasts. "Oh, Tony ..."
There was nothing more she could say. She could only swallow her hurt feelings. There was no purpose to regret, no chance to unravel what they had done. They must go forward, make a life together. At least she could promise a productive, useful life, even if she had to drag him to the point.
She turned him into her arms and took hold of the now half-empty bottle and gently forced it from his lips. He looked down at her from his great height, his slightly dazed sloping eyes glittering in pain and disillusionment.
"It's all right," she murmured, initiating for the first time an embrace with her new husband. "Everything will be right as rain in the morning, I promise. It always is. She'll get used to the idea. And even if she doesn't right away, I'll do my best to—"
He cut her off. "What have I done to you? I'm so sorry. I've always ruined everything. I should've thought how difficult this would be for you. But I only thought of myself. Georgiana, I was always selfish. I just wanted you for myself. You're my Georgie girl—my friend, my conscience, my love. I promise I shall protect you and I'll make this up to you. I will. See if I don't."
"Shhhh," she whispered as his lips came down to hers. The taste of the brandy wound 'round her senses and relaxed her slightly. It was strange how shared anxiety was binding her closer to her friend, more so than any of his overtly romantic tactics.
He pulled away distractedly and began rubbing his left shoulder and arm while muttering more apologies. She tugged his hand to her mouth and kissed it softly before releasing it to stroke his overly long burnished gold hair, which gleamed in the candlelight.
"Don't, Tony. Don't apologize. I'm glad we married. I know you love me."
He looked at her, a strange anxious look in his expression. "And you love me, don't you? Finally . . . you love me." He pushed a curl from her eyes. "Passionately? Ardently? At least devotedly?"
She swallowed. "I have loved you forever." She paused awkwardly and forced a smile to her lips. "Since the day you gave me Achilles."
He chuckled. "God, I'd forgotten that. He was the one with the back markings that looked like a map of Prussia, wasn't he?"
"Actually it was more like Italy," she replied with a small smile.
"It was very generous of me to give you that frog."
She thanked God the moment had passed. She hated to see his confidence waver. It made her feel very alone and unsafe.
"I know," she replied, making certain there was a hint of humor threading her voice. "In fact, I do believe I prefer that slimy creature over this ridiculous ring."
His lips twitched. "I knew we'd be back to jewelry eventually. But at least I'm prepared. Never say a Fortesque doesn't know how to please his wife. Hmmm . . .
wife.
I like that word. It fits you perfectly—as perfectly as this will." He slowly extracted a long rope of pearls from his pocket, all the while watching her face.
"Oh, Tony ... you shouldn't. I mean, well, perhaps you should"—she smiled—"but really, all this is too much for one day."
"Shhhh . . . they'll serve a very good purpose. You're to bite them while I make love to you." He nipped at her neck and tickled her until she collapsed onto the bed in a gale of laughter.
Playfully holding her wrists in one hand, Anthony somehow managed to fully undress her and himself while he kissed her unmercifully. The last coherent thing she noted was the sound of the heavy front entryway door banging shut— presumably by the hands of the enraged marchioness—so forcefully that the very walls of Penrose seemed to shudder in pain, or perhaps relief.
Tangled within the heavy bedcovers, Anthony proceeded to demonstrate the difference between friendship and love. And buried as Georgiana had been in the simple, raw life of Cornwall, she had no idea such things went on between a man and his wife. None of it even vaguely resembled what her mother had described in simple country terms. She'd known there would be kisses but hadn't known he would remove every stitch of clothing. Hadn't known that it would be so terribly embarrassing. He was supposed to just raise her night rail and his night shirt and then couple with her—painfully the first time. And then—
"What is going on in that head of yours?" he asked, lifting his lips from the tip of her breast. His eyes were unnaturally glazed over as he pressed yet another kiss upon her. "If I can't hear your sighs of approval now, I fear what I'll hear later. Try to relax and enjoy this. You're mine now, and I intend to remind you of that every night in this bed."
A thread of discomfort unraveled within her. She wasn't sure how she was going to be able to repeat this every night for the rest of her life. It all just felt so awkward. She forced herself to run her fingers through his blond locks, which curled at the ends. At least his face was so very dear to her. It was only his amber eyes that had always given her discomfort. Eyes so much like ... She shoved away the thought ruthlessly.
Perhaps it was the dimness of the light in the room, but he suddenly looked much older than his twenty-eight years, his face pale despite the fine sheen of sweat on his brow.
"I've always loved you, Georgiana. You always made me happy. You alone understood me. Well, Quinn understood me in a fashion too, I suppose." His lips twisted. "He always saw through me—unlike everyone else."
She removed her hand from his hair and pressed it against the bed.
Oh God. No, please don't let him continue.
She couldn't bear hearing the name that represented every lost dream.
"Enough." He dropped his gaze to her body and exhaled. "I want to kiss you everywhere. Ah, I'm a selfish beast, all right, but then you knew that when you married me." He smiled wickedly and ran his fingers down the side of her form all the way to her knee. His gaze trailed after his hand.
She stiffened. "You promised you wouldn't look at my legs."
His eyes returned to her own. "But I didn't promise not to touch."
"Please, Anthony," she implored softly. If only she could forget how ugly her limbs were tonight.
He touched the end of her nose with his finger. "I will, but only to please you. You know I will never torment you about your deformities. It was my fault, after all."
She closed her eyes in unbearable pain. "You promised not to mention it. And I've told you over and over it wasn't your fault."
His expression proved he had never forgiven himself, but that didn't stop him from resuming his exploration, touching, tasting, nipping her lips, her breasts, her fingers, until he tensed and covered her body all at once with his own. As he moved his body in alignment with hers, Georgiana realized this was the moment of truth.
She forced herself not to squirm and raised her eyes to meet his gaze. She dispassionately noticed the deep grooves on his damp forehead. Shockingly, she felt his fingers trail a path over her belly and touch her intimately. She wanted to clamp her legs together in shock. Oh God, how was she to let him do this? It was all too intimate. Too mortifying.
It was all wrong. All unbearably wrong.
He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. "You're not..."
"I'm not what?" she whispered.
"You need some brandy. Could use more myself. Damn my mother . . . Damn them all to . . ." He stopped and his head swayed. His face was suddenly very flushed.
"Tony?" she whispered. "Are you all right?"
His eyes snapped open, but he seemed slightly confused. "Sorry," he muttered. "Hard to know how much is too much and how much is not 'nuf." With a dazed expression he looped the almost forgotten rope of pearls around her neck and teased her mouth by drawing the pebbled length against her lips. Tony sighed heavily and edged his weight onto her again. He was such a large man and Georgiana struggled slightly to breathe. Suddenly, his blunt flesh was against her most sensitive place and he was pressing into her.
And now it was not only embarrassing but also uncomfortable, and he was too stifling hot and clammy on top of her. And something else was wrong. She was dry and taut and unyielding and he was relentless and—
"Dearest," he said, straining. "Just think of... Just think of... of me. Always of me. Not of
him..."
"What?" she said, her voice thin.
His eyes widened and then rolled back into his head before he slumped on top of her, his full weight pressing her down until she thought she might faint. The forgotten pearls slithered from her neck and mouth to the decadent silk sheets.
"Tony . . ." Something was terribly wrong. "Tony? Anthony!" She squeezed the massive shoulders that had collapsed against her own. She was shaking uncontrollably, and unable to budge him.
My God...
Oh please, Lord . . . Please help. Oh please, please help me...
