The Rake (25 page)

Amelia sat in the morning room, embroidering a pretty flower on the corner of a handkerchief. Her mother sat at the writing desk, sending out correspondence, and she knew her father was in his office pretending to do accounts.

Given the importance of the day, she thought she looked remarkably composed. The light blue muslin she'd chosen for the event was both demure and lovely, and it set off her eyes to great advantage while accenting the creamy complexion of her throat and arms. The double strand of pearls she wore was perhaps a bit much for a luncheon appointment, but she wanted to remind Tristan
Carroway
of precisely what she would be bringing to their union.

He'd been right about one thing; a formal declaration was turning out to be much more satisfying than a forced marriage to preserve her reputation. And this
way her parents would be able to say that Viscount Dare had come to them, and not that she had tricked him into anything. Well, perhaps she had tricked him, but no one else need ever know that.

The clock behind her had just chimed the quarter hour, and she took a breath. She wasn't precisely excited; rather, she felt expectant. She had put in a good few weeks' work, and the rewards of that effort were about to materialize at the front door and make her a
viscountess
.

Coaches and pedestrians passed by on the street below, but she barely noted the noise. She didn't expect him to make his appearance early; he'd said one o'clock, and that was when he would arrive. She'd told her parents as much.

If anything, they had been more excited than she was, although they were of course careful not to mention what everyone expected to happen. Protocol was everything, and neither of her parents would utter the word "marriage" until Dare said it first. But they knew, as she did, that by the end of luncheon she would be a betrothed woman.

When someone scratched at her door just before one o'clock, Georgiana expected that it would be her Aunt Frederica with a cup of herb tea. "Please go away," she said, rocking in the chair by the window, a throw pillow clutched to her chest. She'd probably have to get rid of it; it was soaking wet with tears.

"My lady," Mary's voice came, "Lord Dare and his brother are here to see you."

Her heart jolted. "Tell Lord Dare that I do not wish to see him," she managed, "ever again." Even saying his name hurt.

"I'll tell him, my lady."

Avoiding him in London would be nearly impossible, since they traveled in the same circles. No, this time she would go home to
Shropshire
, as she should have done the moment she left his bed. She would never run across Dare there.

The scratching sounded again at her door. "My lady, he's quite insistent that he and his brother speak with you."

For a moment she wondered which brother he'd dragged here with him. Probably Edward, since he knew that she had a soft spot for the boy. He was not going to wear her down with adorable children, though. What he'd done this time was worse than inexcusable. "Tell him no, Mary."

The maid hesitated. "Yes, my lady."

This time when Mary reappeared at her door, her voice was agitated. "He won't leave, Lady Georgiana. Shall I fetch Gilbert and Hanley?"

Part of her would enjoy seeing Dare removed from Hawthorne House by the burly stable hands, though it wouldn't be as easy as Mary seemed to think. But telling him to his face to leave her alone and never call on her again might be even more satisfying. "I'll be down in a moment."

"Yes, my lady." Mary sounded relieved.

Her body shook as she climbed to her feet. Lead
seemed to fill her shoes, and every step took an effort. Concentrating on walking helped, and she kept her mind focused on putting one foot in front of the other as she left her room and went downstairs, Mary at her heels and looking exceedingly worried.

"Where are they?" she asked.

"The front sitting room, my lady.
Pascoe wouldn't let them any farther into the house."

Good for Pascoe. Squaring her shoulders and hoping that her eyes weren't as red and puffy as they felt, she pushed open the sitting room door, ready to say something devastating and final—and then forgot what it was.

Tristan, a bruise on the left side of his face, stood close to the doorway. Bradshaw was seated on the couch, one eye black and swollen almost shut, and his lip puffy and bruised. Neither man looked at the other as she entered.

"Georgiana," Tristan said, his face deadly serious, "give me one minute, and then do what you will."

"You're assuming, Lord Dare," she said, amazed that her voice sounded crisp and businesslike as she closed the door on Mary and Pascoe, "that I think you deserve one minute. I do not."

He opened his mouth,
then
closed it again, nodding.
"Very well.
Then please give Bradshaw one minute."

The look he sent his brother, dark and full of anger, surprised her. She'd never seen him express anything less than warmth and affection for all the members of his large family. "One minute."

Bradshaw stood. "I placed a wager in the books at White's yesterday," he said in the same flat tone his brother had used, "about whom Tristan would end up marrying. I thought it would be amusing. He didn't know anything about it. In fact," he touched his fingers to his lip, "he was very unhappy when he learned what I'd done. I apologize, Georgiana, if I've done anything to hurt you. That was not my intention."

A tear ran down her cheek, and she brushed it away. "Did he put you up to this?" she asked, refusing to look at Tristan.

"He made me accompany him here. He said if I didn't, he would send me packing." He slid his gaze sideways, sending Dare another angry look. "Other than that, no, he didn't put me up to anything."

"Georgiana," Tristan said urgently, "I've been an idiot in the past, but I hope you know that I would never do anything like this—to you, or to anyone else. I have learned my lesson."

He hadn't said she should trust him, but that was what he meant. She reluctantly met his gaze. Blue eyes searched her face, his expression worried. Did it bother him that much that she might send him away for good? She was probably being a thrice-cursed fool, but she did trust him. She trusted him because she wanted to do so, and because it would hurt too much if she decided once and for all that she could not.

Slowly she nodded. "I believe you."

As though released from invisible chains, Tristan strode forward and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead, her cheeks,
her
mouth. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She kissed him back, seeking the heat and comfort of his warm, lean body. If he had been planning a trick, this wasn't it. And given his reaction, she began to think that perhaps he wasn't playing, at all.
If he wasn't...

"Ahem."

With a gasp she pulled backward, but couldn't escape far because Tristan caught hold of her arms. Bradshaw wore an expression of supreme curiosity and surprise.

"Did I miss something along the way?" he asked, folding his arms.

"That's obvious, isn't it?" Tristan returned, his gaze not leaving Georgiana.

Seeing Bradshaw standing there reminded her that he wouldn't be the only one speculating about her. She shuddered. "What about the wager?" she asked.

"It's gone."

Bradshaw frowned. "What do you mean, 'it's gone'? It's on the books at White's. Much as I hate to say it, those wagers don't just go away,
Tris
."

"This one did."

"And how did you manage that?"

"I ripped it out of the book and destroyed it." Tristan ran his fingers along Georgiana's cheek.
"Got myself banned from White's in the process.
That's probably a good thing, when I consider it. I wouldn't want to be a member of a club that would allow people like me through its doors."

She chuckled, though it came out sounding a little soggy. "On behalf of
myself
and the other ladies involved, thank you." Looking at Bradshaw, she scowled. "And shame on you."

"I've learned my lesson, too," he said. "And I'll be remembering it for quite some time, I can assure you. Next time you pummel me, take off your damned signet ring, Dare."

Tristan still looked more angry than conciliatory. Rather than let another fight break out, Georgiana pulled free from his grip and summoned Pascoe. "Would you gentlemen care to stay for luncheon?" she asked them.

Bradshaw started to nod, but Tristan looked abruptly uneasy. "What time is it?"

"A quarter past two, my lord," the butler supplied.

"Damnation. I would like to stay," he said, turning for the door, "but I have a previous engagement for which I'm very late." He stopped, looking again at Georgiana. "Wycliffe's hosting a dinner tonight. You'll be there, won't you?"

"Yes, I'll be there."

His expression still serious, he sketched a bow. "Then I'll see you this evening."

Bradshaw trailed after him, his gait a little stiff. He touched Georgiana's shoulder as he passed. "I've never seen him like that. Thank you for forgiving me."

She pursed her lips. "If he hadn't blackened your eye, I would have, Bradshaw."

"Fair enough."

People would still speculate about the wager, especially now that Tristan had terminated it in such a spectacular manner. But he'd done it to protect her honor—and because it had upset her. Whatever else had happened over the past six years, one thing was becoming rather clear: Tristan
Carroway
had indeed learned his lesson.

Her relief when Bradshaw had explained the wager made something else equally clear: Her heart, her desires, and her dreams had ceased to listen to any kind of reason and sense. All she could do was hope that this time she and Tristan had set off down a different path, and that she would end up somewhere besides ruined.

By the time Tristan returned to
Carroway
House, swore Bradshaw to secrecy, changed clothes yet again, and climbed back on Charlemagne to head for the Johns residence, it was nearly three o'clock. Hopefully, if he managed to be sufficiently tactful with Amelia, nothing more would come of last night's visit. And he was going to do his damnedest to be extremely tactful.

The Johns butler showed him into a downstairs sitting room close to the front door. It was beginning to look as though no one in London wanted him in the depths of their household today. That was fine with him; after his last encounter with Amelia, the closer to an avenue of escape he was, the safer he would feel.

Amelia entered a few minutes later, and he sketched
her a
shallow bow. "I owe you an apology," he drawled with a smile. Charm generally worked with young ladies.

She tilted her head at him, and for once he couldn't read her expression. When they'd first met, he'd thought her a naive, grasping little chit, hardly more than a girl and willing to sell herself for a title. As a wife she would have been petty, pretty, and easily ruled. What she'd attempted last night, however, had taken planning, courage, and determination, which made him distinctly uneasy. It had either been a fluke, or he'd been badly mistaken in his estimation of her character.

"We sat for luncheon without you," she said, gesturing for him to take a seat.

"I'd hoped that you had.
Again, my apologies.
Something of... utmost urgency came up."

He sat on the couch, allowing her to dictate the conversation for the moment. Even so, the hairs on the back of his neck pricked, and he kept one eye on the doorway, just to be sure it remained open. She'd caught him off-balance once; he wouldn't allow her to do it again.

"I'm very angry with you," she said, taking the seat opposite him.

"I don't doubt that. I'm not entirely happy with you, either."

The butler stepped through the door. "Shall I bring tea, miss?"

She smiled. "Would you like tea, Lord Dare?"

He would have preferred whiskey. "Tea will be fine. Thank you."

"At once, Nelson."

"Yes, miss."

Her smile remaining, she folded her hands in her lap, the very vision of a prim, proper debutante. If he hadn't seen her disrobed in his bedchamber last night, he never would have believed the tale. And that, he sensed, could become a very large problem.