Page 51 of One Night with a Rake

She was already slick with wanting when he thumbed her sensitive spot.

“Come to me, Georgette,” he whispered into her ear. “Come to my chamber tonight.”

She tipped her chin to give him easier access to the column of her throat. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” His fingers moved on her with unrelenting precision, driving her to that dark place where there was only heat and hollow longing. The sound of her own blood in her ears pounded like the surf at Dover. “We only have now, Georgette.”

Only now. Only this man. Only this wicked touch.

Then suddenly now was gone. The carriage lurched to a stop and he pulled his hand out from under her skirt. A shuddering sob escaped her lips. She’d been so close to that blessed state where she’d slip her bonds and go soaring. Her body all but wept with frustration, but sanity slammed back into her.

She wasn’t escaping the horror of Lackaday Lane any longer. She was safe. She was home. This was her life. She wasn’t meant for furtive trysts in moving carriages. She was meant to be a royal.

If only she didn’t still have that damnable ache between her legs…

Nathaniel smoothed down her skirts and did up the buttons at her wrist again. “I’ll wait for you tonight,” he said softly as he helped her alight from the carriage.

“Don’t.” Shakily, she forced one foot before the other toward the front door. Before she reached it, the portal swung open and her father stood framed by the wide opening.

He didn’t have to bellow “Georgette Frances Barclay Yorkingham” this time. Judging from his storm-cloud frown alone, she could tell the marquis was not at all pleased.

***

And neither was Lady Yorkingham. Georgette’s mother swooped into the foyer and shooed her up the staircase, like a hen gathering her wandering chick.

Which left Nathaniel to face Lord Yorkingham on his own.

The marquis said not a word. He merely jerked his head in the direction of the stairs and Nate fell into step with him. He marched alongside his lordship to his study. Evidently he was to receive his dressing down out of the hearing of the servants. All things being equal, Nathaniel decided he’d rather take his chances with the marquis instead of Georgette’s mother.

The female of the species is always the most deadly when her offspring is threatened.

But he was still obliged to step lively to explain why Georgette was gallivanting about Covent Garden at a time of night when all good Christian girls should be at home safe in their own beds.

“I understand that she’s become fixated with helping these unfortunates,” Lord Yorkingham said gruffly. “But I asked you to stay here in order to protect Georgette, not aid in this misbegotten crusade of hers.”

Still standing because he’d not been invited to sit, Nate clasped his hands behind his back. There was no pretense of equals seated near the fire together this time. Lord Yorkingham was ensconced in the throne-like chair behind his desk.

“Lady Georgette was set on going once we received word of the death of one of the girls there. If I hadn’t taken her with me,” he said, “she would have simply gone on her own.”

“Damn it all, you’re probably right. That willful, stubborn…” Lord Yorkingham raked a hand through his thinning hair. “Why must she muck about in that festering sewer? Why can’t she simply hold teas and raise funds for the care and reformation of these soiled doves from a safe distance in a conventional fashion?”

“Because, my lord, your daughter is not a conventional girl.”

“Bite your tongue, man. She is. She has to be.”

Lord Yorkingham stood and stomped over to glare out the window, looking down on his pleasant, well-lit street. It occurred to Nathaniel that even though the marquis had enough wealth, power, and prestige to dazzle the ton, he was not a very happy man. His misery showed in every tense line of his frame.

“The duke may want someone who flies in the face of orthodox behavior for his mistress,” Yorkingham said, “but for a royal consort and the mother of his heir, Cambridge wants a pattern sort of girl.”

“Have you considered that Georgette may not want to be a royal consort?”

Dark eyes snapping, the marquis turned back to face Nate like a man-o’-war with canvas flying, all guns ready to be brought to bear. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she does. No woman of sense would eschew such a high honor.” Then he leaned on the back of his desk chair as if all the wind had suddenly spilled from his sails. “Has she said as much to you?”

“Not in so many words,” Nathaniel admitted. “But I think she’s not as appreciative of the honor His Royal Highness pays her as you are.”

“Then you’ll have to convince her.” Georgette’s father finally motioned for Nate to pull up a chair and sit down. “Heaven knows, she won’t listen to me.”

“Perhaps it’s not words she needs from you,” Nathaniel said as he sat down, relieved the adversarial portion of the conversation seemed to be over. “Part of what concerns Georgette is that this arrangement with the royal duke is not a love match.”