Page 36 of One Night with a Rake

This was not a normal night.

She squirmed and fidgeted under her sheets, but nothing could persuade her to stop reading. The first time she’d skimmed through this section of Madam Charpentier’s journal, it hadn’t meant much to her. The courtesan’s memoirs stirred up all the feelings Nate’s waltz had awakened in her and made her body pound afresh. She’d never dreamed mere ink on a page could rouse her so.

But then she’d never had any carnal experience to draw upon in order to breathe life into the words before. Now her imagination, always prodigious, danced about like a drunken nymph at a bacchanalia.

During the day, she kept busy with fittings for her new ball gown, social calls, and all manner of honorable pursuits. But at the most inopportune times, her mind would drift back to that night in the ballroom and the waltz that upturned her world.

Only yesterday at Lady Hepplewhite’s luncheon, Georgette mentally wandered off somewhere between the cucumber sandwiches and lemon cake. Sitting there surrounded by worthy matrons and tittering debutants, all she could think of was the feel of Nate’s mouth on her breast and the wicked sensation of his hand between her thighs. Lady Hepplewhite had to ask her twice about the upcoming ball. Her mother was quick to excuse Georgette’s wool-gathering as maidenly anticipation of a grand event.

If her mother had been able to read her mind, she’d have been shocked into apoplexy.

Now at night in her own chamber, there was nothing to call Georgette back from her shocking thoughts. She smoothed the coverlet over her breasts, tried to ignore the way the tips ached, and resumed reading the courtesan’s memoirs.

And if there is no gentleman available to give her ease, a lady can always take matters into her own hands, as it were, Madam Charpentier suggested.

Oh, bother! Georgette tossed the little gilt-edged book across the room. It smacked the wall with a satisfying thud and slid to land facedown, the spine cracked wide open.

Georgette regretted giving in to the fit of pique almost instantly. That thud might bring Mercy, or worse, her mother, to investigate. She held her breath, listening for sounds of anyone stirring in the great house.

Except for the constant patter of rain against the windows, silence continued to reign. She exhaled in relief.

The problem with the courtesan’s advice was that there was a gentleman available. And even though Nathaniel had been on his best behavior of late, she imagined he was still more than willing to “give her ease.”

What would he do if I turned up unannounced in his chamber? she wondered as she climbed out of bed and went to retrieve the little journal. She picked it up and closed it gently, feeling guilty about the cracked spine. Georgette secreted it back in the drawer that held her unmentionables where it belonged, but she didn’t return immediately to her bed where she belonged.

According to chimes of the long case clock in the parlor below, it was a quarter past one. No one could possibly be about. Georgette knew every creaking floorboard between her chamber and Nathaniel’s and could easily avoid detection.

There’d be no need to even light a candle. All her life, she’d divided her time between Yorkingham House and the family’s country estate. She could navigate the labyrinthine halls with her eyes closed.

Or even asleep.

If someone were to stumble upon her on her way to Nathaniel’s room, she could feign sleepwalking. A few months earlier, she’d read Edgar Huntley by Charles Brockden Brown. It was a rather ghastly American tale of a man who sleepwalked through an entire murder investigation. But the whole point was that a body might do any number of unlikely things while totally unaware of it.

Even let someone shag me.

No, no one would believe her so simple.

Then why are you thinking about it, ninny?

Georgette climbed back into bed. She blew out the candle and pulled the coverlet up to her chin. Under the linens, one of her hands wandered to her “nethers.” She was all achy and swollen and damp. That sensitive bit of her was so warm, she wondered if it were possible for only part of her to have a fever while the rest of her was perfectly healthy.

No, it’s no fever. It’s simply a case of wanting what I shouldn’t.

And there might be a way to relieve herself without going to Nathaniel. But even if she was willing to “take matters into her own hands,” she wasn’t sure what that entailed exactly. Madam Charpentier could probably give her a few hints, but if memory served, the next part of the journal was uncharacteristically coy and dripping with euphemisms.

Lightning illuminated her room for a heart-stopping second, followed almost immediately by a thunderous boom. Then the rain began to fall with more insistence, a steady tattoo of wet rhythm slapping the windowpanes. Like most winter showers, she expected it to ease up in a few minutes, but this storm raged and sulked and raged again. It reminded her of a spoiled two-year-old working itself into a frenzy.

Well, the weather isn’t the only thing that’s worked up.

The restless ache wouldn’t let her sleep, let alone sleepwalk. Finally, she tossed back the linens and sought her wrapper.

A different sort of book, that’s what she needed. Something about drains or ditches or the inherent difficulties in transporting silk from the Japans. She’d be satisfied with anything so long as it was dry as dust and had no mention of body parts and their delightful uses.

Well, not satisfied, she amended. She suspected only Nathaniel could do that. But if she could be bored to sleep by one of her father’s dusty tomes, it would do.

Georgette slipped out of her room, not even bothering to toe on her slippers, unconcerned about being caught wandering the halls now. After all, she was headed to the library, not a gentleman’s bedchamber. She purposefully stepped down on the third from the top step on the staircase.

Let someone hear that creak. She didn’t care. Her conscience was clear.