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Riding Samson reminded him of the time he’d ridden with Gina. It was the day he’d come to Oakfield, the day he’d first seen her again. She had allowed him to lift her up and steady her on Samson’s back, offering herself to trust him.
And that was a curious thing about her. For all that life had done her wrong, she wasn’t hardened by it. She was a generous person by nature. And she trusted him even when she shouldn’t.
He missed his Gina already. Missed making love with her. Missed having her shoulder tucked under his chin while they slept. Missed her scent up in his nose.
He pictured her beautiful body, of how her breasts puddled to the side when she was on her back. He thought of the small birthmark on her left hipbone and how he liked to trace over it with his tongue. He thought about how glorious it was to be covered deep inside her heat, of wanting the sensations to go on forever, but knowing he’d die if he didn’t spill, thus bringing that encounter to a sweet kind of death.
They hadn’t made love together since that night she’d recalled the details of her attack, and the loss made him melancholy. And it worried him, too, now that she remembered everything. In a way, not knowing the specifics had been easier for her. He hated to think of Gina suffering anew as she dredged up exactly what had been done to her. He couldn’t even bear to think about the specifics what she’d suffered. He didn’t want those images sullying the beautiful thoughts of her he carried around in his head.
And that last time he’d taken her, drunk and out of his mind? Hell, he’d wanted to gut himself when she shrank from him in fear. In that instant, in her view, she’d seen him as her rapist. He shuddered in the leather saddle and rubbed the middle of his chest.
Jeremy was determined to make it up to her. As soon as this “problem” was resolved, they could begin enjoying perfectly lovely, mundane days filled with baby-making and whatever the hell else struck their fancies. They had a life to get started, and he vowed no single person or any other obstacle was going to get in the way.
At their farewell, he’d promised they would make plans for a trip to Town at Christmastide, as soon as he returned from this “urgent business.” Thank heavens she hadn’t inquired too far into the details of that imaginative fabrication. He felt guilty for lying to her, but he deemed that the justification served the means when it came to protecting her.
Looking over the dull autumn landscape, his eyes confirmed what his nose had detected earlier. London could be scented long before it could be seen, and even in the stench it looked lovely, the lights of the outskirts twinkled like glow flies hovering on the heath.
Two hours more and Jeremy was seated in a hired hackney. He’d ensconced Samson at the first London stable they’d come upon with instructions, and plenty of coin, to insure his horse was rewarded for getting him to Town so swiftly. He hoped Samson was contentedly enjoying a bag of oats right about now, for the lovely beast truly deserved it.
Jeremy rapped on the window to signal the driver. A few moments later the hack pulled up to the prearranged stop. From the opposite side of the road, Jeremy took in the surroundings of number forty-four, Peake Street. He perused and sized it up from all angles. He needed to know everything he could about his enemy before he struck. That’s why he’d come three days early. His knuckles rapped again to indicate it was time to move on.
The next stop was as familiar to him as the previous had been unfamiliar. He knew every inch of it. His grandfather’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square was situated on a corner, very smart, bright white with black trim. A servant admitted him from the back entrance, stealthily quiet and under shadow in the dark alley. Other than the occupants inside, who awaited him and would keep his secret, he didn’t want anyone to know that Jeremy Greymont had arrived in Town. Not yet at least.
* * * *
The wet drizzle prevented a walk along the shore, so Georgina opted to return to Hallborough for the day. The discom
forts of pregnancy had Marianne resting anyway, and Georgina wanted to check on any correspondence that had arrived while she’d been gone. The note she left for Marianne promised her return by dinnertime.
She smiled down at Frisk, leaning into her on the carriage seat. He was just as good and smart as Mariah Rawles had praised him to be, and she didn’t have a single regret about taking him. He would grow into a magnificent dog when he reached his full size, and no doubt be an excellent companion for her. She stroked the soft waves of warm umber fur and thought about Jeremy.
The past three days at Stonewell with the Rourkes had been all right and she’d done her best to quell her growing unease, but self-doubt was definitely getting the upper hand. Jeremy had seemed so different the day he’d left for London. Granted, the time leading up to his departure had been awful with the death of the Rawles boy and then her memories returning of the attack. With his business in crisis—something about one of the ships fallen into piracy—she wondered if he’d had time even to write yet.
How could she have cringed from him like that? She cursed herself, wishing she could take that one night back. Jeremy had been aghast. She’d seen the stricken look on his face. Her fear had bewildered him until she told him why.
And that telling of the reason had been the very worst of all. Even though he had said he didn’t care about her past, she knew that he did care. It bothered him that another man had taken her, and she worried about what would happen now between them. Was he disgusted? Or was he wary because he figured she couldn’t bear his touch when he wanted her in that wildly passionate, desperate way of his?
Georgina didn’t know exactly what Jeremy was feeling, but she did know they hadn’t made love since that night. He’d slept in the same bed with her, but he hadn’t reached for her under the covers like he usually did, telling her how much he needed her and how beautiful she felt to him, the declarations of a lover. And this had her greatly worried.
Mrs. Richards brought all of the correspondence and a cup of tea to her desk in the library. With Frisk at her feet, she sorted through everything. There was no letter from Jeremy, but one missive caught her eye. It stood out starkly from the rest. The hand was rough, readable but unrefined, with no address of origin. Something compelled her to open it. The essence of urgency screamed from the folded paper for some reason. It was short, but very telling.
They have Marguerite. Madame Therese begs you to come, as do I.
Luc
Georgina let the note slip from her hand, her fingers losing their grip. She watched it flutter gently down to the desktop. The parchment, the black ink scrawl, contrasted harshly with the mahogany table.
Who was Marguerite? Madame Therese? Luc? Who were these people, and why had she never heard Jeremy speak of them? Unease settled in her belly. It came on her instantly, the second she read the words, like a flash of lightning. One minute she was assured. The next she thought her breakfast might come up. She brought her hand to her mouth and willed the bile back down, just standing there, clutching the side of the table and forcing her stomach to calm.
It didn’t take Georgina long to decide what to do next. She left the library with the letter and went directly to Jeremy’s study, Frisk close at her heels.
The search through his correspondence bore fruit about ten minutes later when she found a letter from someone named Therese Blufette. In it, she asked Jeremy pointedly to come to London, saying it must be in person and at her place of business, an establishment with the unusual name of The Velvet Swan. Comparing the two missives, she deduced that Therese Blufette from the letter in his study and Madame Therese in the note from Luc were one and the same person. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to figure this was most likely the reason Jeremy had left so abruptly for London.
Her Jeremy had gone to meet a woman, and this Luc person wanted him to come because of…Marguerite? And he hadn’t said anything to her. She froze, her mind struggling to accept that which surely was the truth. Jeremy had lied.
“Why did he lie to me, Frisk? Why would my Jeremy do that?” she murmured down to the dog. He sat patiently, blinking his attentive eyes back up to her.
She thought she knew. And it crushed her. Maybe he’d gone back to be with other women—women who could bear his touch and wouldn’t flinch away in panic like she had done. This Marguerite, whoever she was, worried her, too. Was she someone Jeremy cared about? A past dalliance? Might he want to go back with her again? The very idea crushed her heart to bits.
