Page 50 of One Night with a Rake

She wondered what sort of choices he faced but decided, like his military service, that was another topic he didn’t wish to pursue. They rode in silence for several blocks. The only sound was the creak of the carriage wheels and the steady clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobbles.

“What are your hopes, Georgette?”

The question caught her by surprise. Her parents were busy planning her life for her, and until her forays into Covent Garden, she’d always done what was expected of her. No one had ever asked her about her hopes for the future.

She knew the correct answer. All English misses ought to hope to be a dutiful daughter. She should hope to become a virtuous wife and loving mother. To please her parents, she must hope to give birth to the future sovereign of England.

But that wouldn’t be the true answer.

When she’d lain sick with scarlet fever, alternately drenched in her own sweat or burning so hot her skin blistered, she’d spent a good deal of time praying. It wasn’t so much bargaining with God as it was agreeing that if she was spared, her life wouldn’t belong just to her. She’d have to pull her nose out of her books and her imaginings and pay attention to those around her.

She’d have to care about them.

She’d have to do something. She’d finally screwed up her courage to try it when she found Mercy and convinced her to leave Lackaday Lane to become her maid.

“I hope,” Georgette said slowly, “to make a difference for others.”

“Then you have realized your dream.” She couldn’t see it but she heard the smile in his voice. “You’ve certainly made a difference for me.”

“Pray, do tell. Seems to me you’re still an incorrigible rake.”

His voice dropped to a sensual rasp, like worn silk sliding over her. “Yes, but now I’m an incorrigible rake with a conscience.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

He took her hand and began undoing the little seed pearl buttons on her gloves. Then he brought her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the exposed skin of her inner wrist. A thrill raced up her arm. She couldn’t bear the thought of pulling her hand away.

“For example,” he said, “there was a time when I’d never let a coach ride with a lovely young woman pass without trying to seduce her.”

“Yet now you will.” Disappointment fluttered under her ribs.

“No, I’ll still try to seduce her,” he said, “but now I’ll feel guilty about it.”

Georgette wasn’t sure if he kissed her or if she moved to kiss him, but suddenly their mouths found each other and for the life of her, she wouldn’t let him go.

It seemed so wrong. Hadn’t they just come from a house filled with death?

Vesta could feel no more. Her sister had been gone for years. Surely she and Nate ought to be soberly contemplating their own mortality.

But instead, life pounded in her veins, demanding she celebrate it, wallow in it. When Nathaniel’s hands swept over her breasts, pleasure sparked in their wake, vibrant and sharp-edged. She suddenly found herself crowding closer into his arms, climbing onto his lap, kissing him as if her next breath depended upon it. Greedy for him. Moving the soft places on her body against the hard place on his with urgency.

Oh, would that ache never stop?

He kissed as much of her bare skin as he could reach, all down her throat and along the edge of her bodice, but there was too much fabric, too many layers in the way. They would arrive at her parents’ door far too quickly to do anything besides frustrate themselves beyond bearing, but she still ran her hands over his chest, reveling in the hard muscles under his clothing, pretending she stroked his bare skin instead.

Georgette had never been tipsy before, but she imagined it must feel a little like this. Off balance. Out of control. Likely to do anything…

Her hand drifted lower and she rubbed his full length through his trousers.

That certainly qualifies as anything! She felt equal parts pride and wonder over herself—pride at behaving so outrageously and wonder that she was willing to throw aside her carefully crafted sense of “oughtness” in order to behave that way.

He fairly growled into her mouth and a thrill of feminine power coursed through her.

Not to be outdone, he reached under her skirt and slid his hand up to her throbbing core.

God bless the modiste who devised open-crotch pantalets, Georgette thought fervently.