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Georgiana expelled a breath she hadn’t realized she held. There was a rustle behind her, and she whirled around to see her brother sauntering over.
“We’ve let the lion close, now we must guard ourselves and not allow him too much room to twist us into knots,” Simon said, staring in the direction Mr. Tremayne had vanished.
She was unable to refute his claims as unnecessary dramatics. The meeting had been brief but charged with tension and awareness she had never encountered before. “You’ve got the animal wrong,” she murmured and then wished she’d kept a tighter lid on her fanciful thoughts.
“What?”
Unwilling to appear flustered, she met Simon’s eyes. “I simply had the thought Mr. Tremayne was more of a jaguar, sleek and crafty, handsome, but unquestionably dangerous.”
The sheer shock that bloomed on her brother’s face pulled a light laugh from her. “Dear Simon, close your mouth.”
“Georgie,” he began warningly. “Mr. Tremayne is not a man—”
“Say no more, brother.” She touched his arms lightly. “I’ll be very careful in my business dealings with Mr. Tremayne.”
“And keep them in the realm of business,” Simon said, his eyes narrowed in warning.
She arched a brow. “But of course, what else could they possibly be? We do not belong to the same society. I cannot fathom why you would think it necessary to issue such a stern warning.”
But Georgiana knew… She had been unable to hide the interest the mysterious man stirred inside her. She was inexplicably filled with a longing that threatened to overwhelm her good sense. The cold nights, the lonely dreams, the one time they hadn’t haunted her waking thoughts was just now.
Mr. Rhys Tremayne was dangerous.
Chapter Three
The skies had darkened, and it appeared that rain would be imminent, allowing Georgiana to postpone her ride with the Marquess of Locksley in Hyde Park. The marquess was quite amiable, handsome, good-humored, and obliging. He had called upon her several times since she had been in town for the season. There was an expectant quality about him when they conversed, and she had slowly realized he was waiting for the opportune time to make his offer. Not one of marriage, but for them to be lovers. As a widow, it was her prerogative to initiate a very discreet affair, with mutual benefits, not exclusive to only pleasures of the flesh. Lord Locksley was indeed a credible candidate, but she doubted he would assuage the loneliness that sometimes chilled her heart. It was an easy conclusion to arrive at, for he had never stirred temptation in her heart.
“My lord, I fear our ride will be delayed today,” Georgiana said with a soft smile as the marquess entered the blue parlor.
“To my everlasting regret.” He was a handsome devil with his dark-blond locks, athletic physique, and blue eyes. The marquess was also a fashionable man, and even for a simple ride, he was dressed impeccably. “Though I will not lament much, for I now have the privilege of taking tea with you in privacy. There is much to discuss.”
His eyes warmed and moved over her appreciatively.
“Is there?” She lowered herself into a single high wingback chair, a strategic move that would encourage him to sit away from her.
The marquess glanced at the sofa beside the chair with a slight frown before sitting on the edge closest to her. “Your Grace.” He cleared his throat. “If you will permit me to call you Georgiana?”
She had danced with him at the last two balls she had attended and had invited him to her box at the opera, but she had not allowed him the intimacy of her name. After the slightest of hesitation, she replied, “You may.”
He smiled, and it transformed his golden features into a picture of perfect male beauty. Yet nothing stirred inside her. Instead, an icy pair of gray eyes wafted across her vision, and she sucked in an embarrassingly audible breath. It was alarming the dratted man appeared in her thoughts at such random moments.
“Please, call me Andrew. I do hope this is a promising start to the relationship I hope we will pursue.”
She canted her head to the side, and he seemed to take it as appropriate encouragement since he leaned forward eagerly.
“You must know I admire you ardently. You are a very beautiful woman, Georgiana, and dare I say it…passionate.” A slight flush covered his cheeks. “I desire to court you.”
She froze. “Court me?”
“Why, yes. I…ah…I spoke with your brother last week and made it known my intentions are purely honorable.”
She had truly expected an offer of an affair. The marquess was the embodiment of a most eligible gentleman—he owned an estate that commanded a significant income, he was respected in the House of Lords, and he was quite handsome with an amiable disposition. He could also certainly have his pick of any of the beautiful young butterflies fluttering through the current season.
“It is not my current desire to remarry,” she said bluntly, then proffered a smile to soften the sting. Though she missed the sweet intimacy of male companionship, she also enjoyed the freedom of being directed by her own desires. Her husband had directed much of her interest, even informing her which literary salon to be a part of. It was only since his death that she had explored her interest and had found an uncommon love with the arts, to which she had become a known patron. It was easy for her to deduce another husband would try to gently steer her in the direction he thought best for her. After all, women were believed to be too frail and gentle and need the supervision of their more resilient husbands. She bit back her snort and affixed a slight smile on her lips for the marquess’s benefit.
He frowned. “Your mother led me—”
“My mother?”
He had the grace to flush before his lips flattened in a firm line. “The morning is not unfolding how I envisioned it. Perhaps it is best we resume this conversation at a later time.”
She took a delicate sip of her tea, peering at him over the rim, before lowering her cup and saucer to the small table with a deliberate and decisive clink. “Am I to understand you spoke with both my brother and mother before approaching me?”
He inclined his head stiffly.
She stood, gently clasping her hands together, lest she did something unladylike like smack him for his indifference to her position, reputation, and power. “I am not a young debutante to be directed by my brother or my mother’s desires, my lord. Pray, do not make such a mistake in judgment again.”
He, too, stood and moved scandalously close, forcing her to tilt her head to meet his regard, for she would not retreat.
“I assure you it will not happen again,” he said with quiet intensity, his gaze never departing from hers. “You are not a debutante, you are young, beautiful, intelligent…and I want you.”
She gasped softly at his uncensored admission.
“Not just as a lover,” he continued earnestly. “But you have the influence and bloodlines to make me a suitable and estimable wife…and I will endeavor to make you comfortable and dare I hope, happy.”
“I—”
“Please do not proffer your reply with haste.” Gently, he took her hands between his. He bent low and lightly kissed her lips. When she did not retreat, he pressed an advantage and deepened his embrace. She allowed herself a soft response, hoping to feel the flare of heat that would indicate a need for more. While his kiss was decidedly pleasant, no hunger fluttered within her breast.
He lifted his head, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “I will not press for an answer, but I ask you to not dismiss my affections so easily. I will ask you again at the end of the season…and do not be alarmed at my ardent admiration before then.”
“I won’t be alarmed.”
She gently turned the conversation to the current political tension, and they discussed a few stirring arguments currently circulating. With subtle encouragement, she steered him to the gardens for a stroll, where they exchanged a few more pleasantries. She found herself relaxing, laughing at his effortless charm. She was delighted with his aff
ability and felt genuine regret she was not more aroused by him. Perhaps the passions the poets spoke of were nonexistent. She had been married to Hardcastle for six years before he died, and while their marital relations had been pleasant, it had not been as earth-shattering as her dear friend Lady Derwood swore it was.
An hour after Lord Locksley departed, Georgiana was comfortably curled on a sofa in the blue parlor, her favorite room in the townhouse, reading Kenilworth by Sir Walter Scott. The passion Robert Dudley displayed for his wife on the pages of Kenilworth made Georgiana’s heart ache. The rain had begun falling in earnest, and she had decided to stay inside for the day, canceling all previous outings. Despite the book being wonderfully entertaining, her thoughts continually strayed to her loneliness. Her darling son filled most of her heart and mind, but the need for something more simply could no longer be denied. She felt haunted by that missing something. An overwhelming ache throbbed behind her eyes. Perhaps it was indeed time to start a very discreet affair. But with whom? Since last year, several gentlemen had hinted their desire to pursue a romantic attachment with her, of the carnal sort. However, none had aroused her interest. It seemed rather pointless to have an affair with only tepid passion.
She’d not had a grand passion with Hardcastle. He had not rushed her to the marriage bed. In fact, he had been so patient and kind that it had been Georgiana, who after six months of being in an unconsummated marriage, had pressed her lips to his one night. The duke had breathed a deep sigh of relief that his customary good-night peck had translated to a warm embrace, and their marital relations had started. They’d had a good marriage, and she had loved him, even though he had not made her heart beat with the wildest of passion.
Despite her desire to procure a lover to assuage the hollow feeling, she was not sure fulfillment was to be found from that endeavor. She was not the passionate type. Yet, she desperately missed intimacy and was almost dizzy with longing. She had been fighting the need to be touched, kissed, stripped bare, and swept away by desire for five long years.
