The Rake (12 page)

"I didn't exactly help things while he was alive. I might have taken more of an interest in the properties."

"You made your own way. And I had no idea we were that close to ruin until it was too late. I don't know how you could have seen it coming," Shaw said.

"I knew I was the heir. I didn't take that very seriously."

"And now you are. That's more than he did. If his creditors hadn't spread the rumors all over the
ton
when he died, I don't imagine anyone would even suspect the mess he made of everything."

"He was careful," Tristan said.

"No, he wasn't.
You
were careful. You still are."

Tristan smiled.
"So full of compliments tonight.
You want me to have a word with Penrose, don't you?"

Bradshaw chuckled. "No.
Just the opposite.
I want you to stay as far away from him as possible. He still remembers that two hundred quid you won from him at faro. I can't tell you how many times he's reminded me of that 'damned lucky brother of mine.' "

"Luck had nothing to do with it, my boy."

Sighing, Shaw patted his brother on the knee. "And I suppose I wanted you to know that I understand how little you like the idea of marrying for wealth, and that I appreciate it."

"I was actually thinking that you look so splendid tonight,
you
might snag an heiress and
I
could go back to pursuing actresses and opera singers."

"Not likely," Shaw scoffed.

"Me with the opera singers, or you getting married?"

"Either one."

Bradshaw was probably correct, and on both counts. Without the lure of a title, Shaw's prospects were even less promising than his own.

It wasn't that Tristan had lacked for partners, but he'd become more circumspect about the process. Mistresses didn't want him for his money, though they did still seem to want him. At times, however, he felt like a prime stag with his antlers missing. Women were more than willing to share his bed, but he didn't get shown off much. He understood it, but he didn't like it, all the same.

For that reason he'd almost come to dread gatherings
like the one at the Devonshire ball. This evening, though, anticipation ran hot under his skin. It had nothing to do with his promised dance with Amelia, however, and everything to do with seeing and holding Georgiana in that emerald gown. If she said her dance card was full, someone was going to get hurt.

He saw her as soon as he and Shaw strolled into the ballroom. He had been right about the gown; in the chandelier's glow she seemed to have an ethereal light that drew his, and every other
male's
, attention. Even if she'd been in rags, though, he would have noticed her.

"Your Amelia is fluttering at you," Bradshaw muttered.

"She's not my—"

"And there's Penrose. You're on your own, brother."

Tristan was used to seeing a crowd of single men around Georgiana at every soiree, and he'd never attempted to make himself part of it. The two of them together had been simply too volatile. Catching her for a swift exchange of insults or a knuckle-bashing late in the evening had been the best he'd hoped for, and it was enough, barely, to satisfy his masochistic desire to see her up close. Tonight, though, he needed to join the throng. Tonight, he wanted to dance with her.

"Tristan, I've saved the first waltz for you," Amelia said, sweeping up to him, angelic in pink and white.

"And when is the first waltz?"

"As soon as they end this quadrille.
Doesn't everyone look magnificent tonight?"

"Yes, magnificent." He glanced at the orchestra. In
two or three minutes he would be out on the floor with Amelia, and by the time the waltz ended, Georgiana's dance card would be full with a dozen alternates waiting in the wings for slips or falls on the part of primary partners. Damnation. "Will you excuse me for just a moment?"

Her pretty face fell into a heartbroken frown. "I thought you might want to chat with me."

Tears would be next; he'd seen the progression before. "Of course I do. And I'll chat with you after the waltz, as well. But Lady Georgiana is looking after my aunts, and I had a message from them for her."

"Oh. That's all right, then. Hurry back, though."

"I will."
Sweet Lucifer.
He hadn't even asked for her hand, and she was already trying to dictate with whom he could socialize. Whatever the outcome of the next few
weeks, that
particular irritation was not going to continue.

Without a backward glance, he strode across the edge of the ballroom floor up to the cluster of males surrounding Georgiana. He was taller than most of them, and she caught sight of him immediately. To his surprise and suspicion, she smiled.

"Lord Dare, there you are. I was about to give your spot away."

She'd saved a dance for him.
"My apologies."

The Marquis of
Halford
stepped into the tiny clear space around them. "Are you playing favorites, Lady
Georgie
?"

"Careful, my lord, or your spot will open up, as
well," she said, regarding the marquis evenly. "We're all friendly tonight."

The broad-shouldered
Halford
glared at Tristan for a brief moment,
then
sketched a bow in Georgiana's direction. "I have learned never to argue with a beautiful woman."

"What a ridiculous thing to say," Tristan scoffed. "Now you can't argue with any woman, or she'll think you believe her to be ugly."

A stifled laugh sounded in the crowd.
Halford's
face turned red, but before he could respond, Georgiana grabbed Tristan's arm and steered him toward the refreshment table.

"Stop that."

"No. It was a half-witted thing to say, and you know it."

"I hear half-witted things from men all the time," she returned, her voice low.

The quadrille ended, and Tristan glanced over his shoulder to see Amelia looking at him hopefully. He would rather have spent the waltz talking with Georgiana, but he'd given his word.

"Are you ready?" Georgiana asked, holding out her hand.

"Ready for what?"

"Our waltz."

Tristan uttered a low curse. "
Georgie
, I..." He took a breath as the waltz began. "I can't."

Her mouth opened and then closed again. "Oh."

"I promised this waltz to Miss Johns yesterday."

She glanced past his shoulder, her expression unreadable, before she nodded. "Then go dance with her."

Before she could turn around, Tristan seized her arm. "Don't be angry," he murmured. "This is not a slight to you."

Surprise crossed her emerald eyes. "I'm not angry. But I wanted ..."

"You wanted to dance with me," he finished, with a slow smile. "And you will."

She scowled. "What makes you think—
"

"I have to go."

He released her to lead Amelia onto the dance floor, and Georgiana watched them begin. Amelia was skilled at the waltz, and Tristan had always been one of the most athletic, graceful men she'd ever known. They made an attractive couple, swaying across the floor and keeping just the proper distance between
themselves
.

Tristan had kept a commitment to Amelia. Georgiana should have felt elated; instead, she felt frustrated.

Lord Westbrook strolled up to her. "Lady Georgiana, I can't believe you decided to forgo the evening's first waltz."

"I've just been waiting for you, my lord," she said, holding out her hand and smiling.

"You accept my apology, then," the tawny-haired marquis said, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles.

Georgiana blinked.
"Your apology?
Oh, for that silly
exchange in the park. Of course I do. I blame Dare entirely."

"I wonder, then, why you continue to tolerate his presence."

She couldn't begin to explain that, herself. "He's my cousin's closest friend," she said, giving her standard answer, "and his aunts are delightful."

"No, Georgiana,
you
are delightful."

Accustomed as she was to meaningless flattery and compliments, Lord Westbrook didn't give them lightly. He was also one of the few gentlemen of her acquaintance, aside from Tristan
Carroway
, who had never proposed to her.
Yet, anyway.
"You are very kind, my lord."

"You called me John, a few days ago."

"John, then."
She smiled into his serene brown eyes. "How is it that you have no partner for the waltz?" With his wealth and title, he was as closely pursued as she was.

"I hadn't intended to dance, tonight."

"Oh. I'm sorry, then. I—"

"Because I thought your card would be full. I'm happy to be mistaken."

Across the floor she caught a glimpse of Tristan looking at them as he turned Amelia in his arms. The dark expression in his eyes startled her. He was dancing with the woman he was supposed to marry, for heaven's sake, yet he looked as though he would rather be brawling with Lord Westbrook over her.

Jealousy from him was new, if that was what this was. He'd made a point of arguing with the marquis in
the park, but she'd ascribed that to his general contrariness.

Then again, perhaps her plan was
working,
and even better than she'd expected—which both thrilled and horrified her.

It was past two o'clock in the morning when the Dowager Duchess of Wycliffe's coach stopped in front of
Carroway
House. Georgiana rubbed her tired toes one last time and stood as the liveried tiger pulled open the door for her.

"I'm glad
Milly's
doing better," Frederica said. "Do tell her I said so."

"I will." Georgiana kissed her aunt on the cheek. "Good night."

"Come and visit me more often, my dear."

She stopped, looking over her shoulder at the duchess. "I won't be here forever.
Milly's
nearly able to get about on her own, and then you'll be able to get tired of me all over again."

"Never, child."

Dawkins couldn't seem to remain awake during the day, much less after one in the morning, so Georgiana
let herself in. Tristan and Bradshaw had vanished fairly early in the evening, undoubtedly to one of the half dozen gaming rooms the Duke of Devonshire had set up. She'd hoped Tristan might come by the ballroom again to at least see with whom she might be dancing, but he hadn't. She wondered whether Amelia had looked for him as well, but swiftly dismissed the thought. At least Amelia had gotten to waltz with him.

One lamp still burned in the foyer and she saw another at the top of the stairs, enough to light the way to her bedchamber. She'd told Mary not to wait up for her, so she would have to find a way to unfasten the back of her dress on her own, or she would have to sleep in it. She wasn't eager to take it off, anyway.

The way Tristan had looked at her, practically devouring her with his eyes, had started that once-familiar warmth in the pit of her stomach. Six years ago it had thrilled her, knowing
she
had been the one to catch his attention, and that Dare had eyes for no one but her. Good Lord, she had been stupid and naive. What did it say about her, that a compliment and a hungry look from him could still make her feel that way?

"Georgiana."

The whisper, coming from the dark drawing room, made her gasp.
"Tristan?
What—"

"Come here."

Frowning, she crossed the hallway to where he stood just inside the doorway, all dark planes of shadows but for his eyes. Thank goodness he couldn't read minds.

He took her hand, pulling her into the room and closing the door behind them. "Don't move," he
murmured,
his breath warm on her temple. "I'll get the light."

In a moment the table lamp flared, bathing the room in golden, flickering light. Tristan still wore his formal clothes, though he'd shed his gloves and his greatcoat. He straightened from the lamp, his eyes dark and glittering in the dimness.

"It's very late, Tristan," she said in the same low voice. "Tell me whatever you want to tell me, because I want to go to bed."

He
smiled,
a slow, delicious curving of his lips that made her mouth go dry. "Where did you get that gown?"

"Madame
Perisse
. Is that why you wanted to see me?"

"It looks like something faeries would weave from
spiderwebs
and dewdrops."

She'd been complimented all night, and none of the words touched her as much as those did. "That's what I thought when I first saw it. Thank you."

He took a step toward her. "Dance with me. I promised you a waltz."

"And music?"

"I'll sing if you want, but I wouldn't recommend it."

She chuckled. "I think I can count the time, if necessary."

He was in a very good mood. For a moment she wondered whether he'd proposed to Amelia and she'd accepted, but
Georgie
didn't think that would make
him smile. The two of them danced with too much precision to be in love—yet.

The thought of him with Amelia made a sensation very like panic rise. She took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. Nothing had happened; he wasn't ready to marry yet. She hadn't prepared him for it yet. Not even to herself would she admit that she hadn't prepared herself for his marrying someone else, either.

"Come here," he repeated, holding out his hand.

"How did your waltz with Miss Johns go?" she asked instead, folding her hands behind her back. She'd grown
more wise
over the years; she knew that. Why, then, couldn't she seem to resist him?

"I would rather have danced with you," he answered in his low voice. "Are you going to take my hand, Georgiana? I promised you a waltz."

"You've made me promises before that you haven't kept."

His eyes narrowed. "That was a long time ago. I keep my promises now. Or I try to, anyway. You're making it a little difficult."

"I want to waltz with you."

He took another step closer, smooth and sure as a panther. Oh, this was a mistake. She needed to leave before she ruined everything she'd been planning, because she couldn't seem to hate him any longer. "I have a question for you," she said, trying to make her brain work again. "I want to know—"

"Why?" he finished. The question didn't seem to surprise him at all.

"No lies or flowery explanations, Tristan," she said flatly. "Just tell me."

Slowly, he nodded. "For one thing, I was twenty-four, and very stupid. When I heard someone at White's propose the wager to win a kiss and one of Lady
Georgie's
stockings, I jumped at it." He gazed at her, the confident arrogance for once missing from his expression. "Not because of the wager, though. That just gave me an excuse."

"An excuse for what?"

He reached out, running the back of one finger along her cheek.
"For this."

Georgiana trembled. "There was a time I would have given you my stocking. You didn't need to . . ."

"And that's all I meant to do—ask you for your stocking. But once I touched you, I wanted more than that. I was used to getting what I wanted. And what I wanted was you, Georgiana."

She knew what he meant. When he had kissed her— when he kissed her even now—lightning swirled up her spine. "All right, I'll accept that. But when I heard about the wager, why didn't you explain anything?"

Tristan gave a brief frown, looking down at his boots like a guilty schoolboy. "I was wrong to do what I did," he said, catching her gaze again, "whatever my reasons for participating. You had every right to be angry with me."

Her mouth was dry. "Then where's my stocking?"

For some reason that made him smile. "I'll show you, if you like."

He still had possession of it, then. Somewhere in the back of her mind she'd hoped that he'd kept it. It had always worried
her, that
he might have given the stocking to someone else or discarded it where someone could find it, and because of the wager they would realize whose it was. She'd lived with the fear of being ruined in everyone's eyes for years, never knowing when it might happen. "Show me."

Lifting the lamp in one hand, Tristan motioned her to follow him. He headed down the hallway toward the west wing of the house, and she hesitated. His private rooms and his bedchamber lay in that direction. But if he thought she might forgive him, then perhaps he could fall in love with her in time to help Amelia. She followed his quiet footsteps as if this midnight escapade didn't unsettle her in the least.

They stopped before a closed door. With a backward glance at her, as though to make certain she was still there, he opened it and stepped inside. Squaring her shoulders, she entered behind him.

"This is your bedchamber," she said, swallowing as he closed and latched the door behind them.

Without answering her, he walked to the chest of drawers at one end of the large, dark room and opened the top drawer. "Here," he said, facing her again.

He held a small wooden box in his hand, nearly the same size as her fan boxes. Frowning, she crossed to him and lifted the engraved mahogany lid. Her stocking, neatly folded, lay inside. She knew it was hers, because she had embroidered the flowers along the top of it herself.

She looked up to find his gaze steadily on her face, assessing her expression. "You did lose the wager, then," she whispered.

"I lost more than that." Setting the box back in the drawer, he gently took her face in his hands. "I'm sorry, Georgiana," he murmured. "Not for what I did that night, because I still wouldn't change that, but for everything it's done to you since then. I'd make it right, if I could."

Before she could answer, he touched his lips to hers. Heat seared through her, but he didn't deepen the kiss as she'd expected, and wanted. Instead, his hand swept down her back to her waist, while his other slid down her arm to her fingers.

"And now," he said, smiling again, "I owe you a waltz."

Tightening his grip around her waist, he swept her in a slow circle around his bed and in front of the glowing fireplace at its foot. Georgiana had never thought she would be dancing in the half dark silence of any man's bedchamber, much less his. As a giddy breathlessness filled her, she knew that with no man but Tristan would she dare be so bold.

He turned her again, moving to a silent waltz she seemed to feel beating in her heart. Her skirt rustled around his legs while he held her far too closely for
propriety. In here, though, they could do as they liked. No one would know.

"Wait," she whispered.

He slowed and stopped, not questioning, as she leaned against him and twisted sideways. Slipping out of one slipper, and then the other, she nudged them toward the fireplace.

"Much better."

His low chuckle started warmth deep between her legs. "When was the last time you waltzed barefoot?" he asked.

"When I was ten, in the drawing room at
Harkley
.
Grey was teaching me the steps, and he insisted that I take off my shoes if I was going to trample him like an elephant. Mother was appalled." She leaned her cheek against his chest as they moved in a slow circle again. His heart beat hard and fast, in time with hers. "I think at the time she fancied the idea of Grey marrying me. As if I would ever marry someone so mean."

"He used to talk about you, at Oxford," Tristan's low drawl mused as they danced.

She closed her eyes, listening to his heart and to the rhythm of his voice. "Nothing nice, I suppose."

"He mentioned tossing you in the Wycliffe duck pond when you wouldn't stop following him about the estate."

"Yes, headfirst. I surfaced with a leech attached to my nose. For days after that, he insisted that it had sucked out my brains. I was six, and he was fourteen,
and for a while I believed him, until Aunt Frederica made him stick a leech on his head to prove he was lying."

His laugh deepened. "He always spoke of you very affectionately, mostly tales about how stubborn and bright and self-assured you were. I had always imagined you striding about in breeches with a cheroot clamped between your teeth, for some reason. When I first set eyes on you..." He was silent for a long moment as they slowly twirled about the room. "You took my breath away."

He had done the same to her. Georgiana leaned back, letting her hips sway to the beckoning silence of the waltz. Tristan leaned in, running his lips down the base of her jaw to her throat. With her hips against his, she became aware of his arousal as they stepped and turned. It should have made her angry to think he would dare try to convince her to join him in bed again, after what had happened the last time.

In her deep excitement, though, she didn't have room to be angry. It had been so long since she'd been in his arms, and she had missed his touch so much it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

"Let your hair down, why don't you?" he suggested in a controlled, husky voice. "You'll be even more comfortable."

If she had any sense remaining, she would flee as fast as her
stockinged
feet could carry her. But then he would have to stop kissing her, and she didn't want him to stop. She freed her hands and lifted them to her head,
pulling pins and clips and dropping them to the floor. Her hair cascaded down her back, golden and curling in the candlelight.

The waltz slowed and then stopped before the fireplace. "My God, Georgiana.
My God."