The Rake (14 page)

The light scent of lavender clung to the
bedsheets
and the pillow on which his cheek rested. Eyes closed, Tristan breathed deeply of her, of Georgiana.

Six years was a damned long time to wait for her, but he would have waited longer. As he came more awake, he still couldn't quite believe that he'd been forgiven. He wanted to thank her again—several more times, in fact—before the household rose and she had to leave his room.

But even then he wouldn't let her escape from him or his bed for long. Now that he had earned another chance with Georgiana, he wasn't going to ruin it. Thank God he hadn't proposed yet to Amelia; at least in
Georgie
he'd found a wife with whom he enjoyed sex.

He stretched carefully, not wanting to wake her,
then
opened his eyes. Her side of the bed was empty. Tristan scowled, sitting up.
"Georgiana?"

Silence answered him.

As he shifted, something slid against his bare backside. He reached back and lifted it.
The box.
For a long moment he looked at it, willing his sated brain to begin working again. Swiping his hand through his disheveled hair, he turned his attention to the pillow where the box had been. A stocking lay neatly across it, a folded paper beneath.

With all his being, he didn't want to look at that note. Neither could he sit naked in bed all morning staring at it, though, so with a deep breath he picked it up and opened it. In Georgiana's neat hand it said, "
Now you have a pair of my stockings. I hope you will enjoy them, for you won't have me again.
Georgiana
."

She'd planned it all along. And he'd fallen for it with all the ardor of a schoolboy suffering his first crush. Anger ripped through him, and he crushed the note in his fist, hurling it into the fireplace. A single curse tore from his chest, quiet and vehement.

He shot out of bed, grabbing for trousers and a clean shirt.
No
one
played him for a fool. He'd been planning proposals and entwined bodies, and she'd been waiting for him to wake up, laughing about how she'd waited six years to do it, but she'd finally gotten even.

Deeper than the anger, a knot of solid hurt wound tighter and tighter inside him, as though someone had kicked him in the gut. He tried to push it aside, but it remained, keeping him from breathing. This was unacceptable. He did not like feeling this way.

He slowed, yanking on his boots. When he'd bedded
her six years earlier, it hadn't been to win the damned wager. It had been because he'd wanted her. He hadn't been thinking any further than finding pleasure in her body; he hadn't expected to spend the next six years remembering and wanting her again.

Tristan strode to the wardrobe, grabbing a waistcoat and a jacket, pulling them on with cold, black anger. Last night had been different, even better than before. He'd been thinking beyond the moment this time.

He scowled, reaching for a clean, starched cravat and knotting it around his neck. Georgiana had been thinking beyond the moment, too. She'd been thinking about how she planned on getting even.

Even. They were even.
The word was somehow significant, but he was too furious to dwell on it. Tristan stalked to his door, slamming it open and striding down the hallway to the east wing of the house. He didn't bother to knock on her door, but shoved it open. "
Georgi
—"

She wasn't there. Clothes lay strewn across the coverlet and the floor, but the bed hadn't been slept in. Drawers hung half-open, clothes dripping from them to the floor in multicolored falls of silk and satin, and half the toilette items on her dressing table were gone.

He assessed the chaos. She had gathered some things together quickly, not bothering to hide the fact. That meant she hadn't packed yesterday, in advance of her little
coup de
gr
â
ce
.

Turning on his heel, he went back to his bedchamber. The note lay just inside the fireplace, and he picked
it up, smoothing it out and brushing off smudges of charred coal. Her writing wasn't as precise as
usual,
the ink smeared a little because she'd folded the missive before it was dry. She'd been in a hurry.

The question was, why? Had she wanted to finish before he awoke, or before she lost her nerve? Shoving the note in the drawer of his nightstand with both stockings, he returned through the hallway and down the stairs. Dawkins stood in the foyer, yawning.

"Why are you up already?" Tristan
demanded,
the frayed rein on his anger threatening to pull loose and run rampant over the next person he came across.

The butler straightened. "Lady Georgiana summoned me nearly half an hour ago."

"Why?"

"She requested that I call a hack, my lord, for herself and her maid."

She'd taken her maid. That meant she didn't plan on returning. Tristan's muscles were wound so tightly with fury and tension that he shook. "Did she say where she was going?"

"She did, my lord. I—"

"Where?"
Tristan growled, taking a step closer.

The butler took a quick step backward, stumbling into the hat stand. "To Hawthorne House, my lord."

Tristan reached around him and snatched his greatcoat. "I'm going out."

"Shall I have
Gimble
saddle Charlemagne for you?"

"I'll do it myself. Move aside."

Swallowing, Dawkins sidestepped, and Tristan then
yanked open the front door. He took the steps two at a time, shrugging into his coat as he went. The stable was dark and quiet, since it was barely dawn. He was surprised to see Sheba still in the stall
beside
his gelding. She wouldn't have left her horse if she'd been thinking ahead. She wouldn't have brought her horse here in the first place, if she'd meant to leave as she had.

He paused as he tightened the girth of Charlemagne's saddle. Last night had not been a game. He'd felt her heat and her passion, and she'd been as moved as he had been. Whatever lesson she'd decided to teach him, then, had been an afterthought. Or at least the method had been.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking, trying to justify why he'd once again been utterly unable to resist the lure of her body, damn all the consequences. Tristan swung into the saddle and urged Charlemagne out of the stable, bending low against the bay's neck as they passed under the low doors and out to the street.

Even this early, Mayfair was filling with vendors and wagons delivering milk and ice and fresh vegetables. He wove through them to Grosvenor Square, where the Dowager Duchess of Wycliffe's manor stood amid the abodes of the oldest and wealthiest families in England. No groom appeared as he jumped down from the gelding; the duchess's household was probably still abed.

But someone would have had to let Georgiana into the house. He pounded on the door. A few long seconds passed with no response from inside, and he knocked again, louder.

A bolt slid and the door opened. The butler, looking much more composed than Dawkins, stepped into the doorway. "The servants' entrance is—Lord Dare.
My apologies, my lord.
How may I help you?"

"I need to speak with Lady Georgiana."

"I'm sorry, my lord, but Lady Georgiana isn't here."

Tristan waited a heartbeat, trying to draw his raw temper back under control. "I know she's here," he said, very quietly, "and I need to speak with her.
Now."

"The... please..." The butler stepped back into the foyer. "If you will please wait in the morning room, I shall inquire."

"Thank you." Tristan strode into the house. He was tempted to continue up the stairs and straight to Georgiana's bedchamber, but he wasn't certain if she still slept in the same one she'd kept six years ago—and angry as he was, he knew questions would arise if others realized that he knew precisely which bedchamber out of twenty was hers.

Too angry to sit, he paced back and forth across the morning room, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His skin still smelled faintly of lavender. Damnation. He should have taken the time to scrub her scent off himself, before it drove him mad.

According to the clock on the mantel, it was forty-eight minutes past five. If she'd left
Carroway
House half an hour before he awoke, in a hired hack, she'd probably been there for perhaps fifteen minutes. He'd taken less than ten to cross through Mayfair, since he'd been on horseback and furious.

Another curse broke from him. If she didn't come down soon, he was going to go and find her. Escape was
not
going to be that easy. Not after what he'd felt between them last night. Not after the plans he'd made.

"Lord Dare."

"What in hell..." He trailed off as he faced the doorway. "
Your
Grace," he said, sketching a bow.

"You're here early," the dowager duchess said, cool green eyes assessing him from the doorway. "Would you care to finish your sentence?"

He swallowed down a retort. She was dressed and her hair put up; she'd likely awoken the moment Georgiana returned. Had
Georgie
expected him to come by and ruin everything?
To make this little escapade of hers into his fault?
"No, Your Grace, I would not. I am here to see Lady Georgiana."

"So Pascoe informed me. You appear to be highly agitated, my lord. I suggest that you return home, shave, get control of yourself, and return at a decent hour for visitors."

"With all respect, Your Grace," he snapped, as he stalked back and forth, "I need to speak with Georgiana. I am not playing games."

She lifted an eyebrow. "No, I can see that you're not. I have already inquired of Georgiana, however, and she does not wish to speak with
you."

Tristan took a deep breath. Everything meant something, he reminded himself. His days as a gambler had taught him that
much,
and he had learned it well. "Is she ... all right?" he forced out.

"She is in a state nearly identical to your own. I will not speculate, but you need to leave, Lord Dare. If you do not do so voluntarily, I will call my footmen to see you out."

He nodded stiffly, his muscles beginning to ache from being held so tightly. Pushing through a wall of her aunt's footmen might be satisfying for a moment or two, but it wouldn't serve his cause.
"Very well.
Please inform Georgiana that her message
was ..
.
received
and understood."

The curiosity in the duchess's eyes deepened. "I will do so."

"Good morning,
Your
Grace. I won't be returning today."

"Good day then, Lord Dare."

She vanished from the doorway, and Tristan returned outside to Charlemagne. This wasn't over. And if his growing suspicions were correct, the way Georgiana had left things might be the best news he'd received in six years. All he needed to do was keep himself from killing her for long enough to find out.

"He's gone, my dear." Aunt Frederica's quiet voice came from the hallway.

Georgiana pulled in her breath with a gasping sob. "Thank you."

"May I come in?"

The last thing she wanted was to face her aunt, but she was acting like a madwoman, and the duchess deserved some sort of explanation. Wiping her tears,
Georgiana stumbled to the door, slid the latch off, and opened it.
"If you wish."

Frederica took one look at her face and brushed past her.
"Pascoe!
Send up some herb tea!"

"Yes,
Your
Grace."

The duchess shut the door behind her and leaned back against it. "Did he hurt you?" she asked, very quietly.

"No!
No, of course not.
We ... argued, is all, and I
just.
. . didn't want to be there any longer." She drew a shaky breath, retreating to the reading chair by the window. Curling into it, she drew her knees up to her chin and wished with all her might that she could become invisible. "What did he want?"