A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season (18 page)

Miss Saunders was already on her way to the door. At Anthony’s final words, her step faltered, but she did not turn.

‘And now, perhaps you would open the champagne, Anthony?’ Aunt Harriet’s foot was tapping impatiently. ‘We are all waiting to toast Marcus and his bride.’

With practised skill, Anthony opened the bottles and filled the glasses. But he took only a single mouthful of wine for the toast. ‘Excuse me,’ he said quickly. ‘My dog…I must take her outside. Pray do not allow me to interrupt the celebrations.’

Surprised, Marcus glanced at Anthony’s face and then looked round for the old setter bitch. She was still sound asleep under the table. Marcus opened his mouth to say as much and then thought better of it. Anthony was well able to make his own decisions.

Anthony thumped his heel on the floor. Disturbed by the vibration, the setter opened her clouded eyes and got to her feet rather grudgingly. Then she padded across the room and followed her master out.

Sarah caught her husband’s eye and laughed.

‘What maggot has got into Anthony’s head now?’ Cassie exclaimed.

‘Really, Cassie! Such language!’ Great-aunt Harriet
set down her ear trumpet in order to pick up the glass that John had just refilled for her. ‘I do declare that marriage has made the gel worse than ever.’ She turned to Peter Quinlan. ‘May I suggest, sir, that you take her in hand?’

Quinlan choked on his champagne.

Poor Quinlan. Marcus was beginning to feel quite sorry for him. Had he any idea about the sort of family he had married into? Marcus smiled down at Amy and tucked her fingers more securely under his arm, pulling her further against the warmth of his body. She looked up at him with glowing, laughing eyes. There was no need for words.

And there was no need for an audience.

Marcus decided that a diversion was called for. ‘Since we now have both a marriage and a betrothal to celebrate, I think we need to ensure that Anthony’s little firework party becomes the splendid affair that you suggested, Aunt Harriet. I am convinced that you will be the one to persuade him, ma’am. He listens to you as to no one else.’

Great-aunt Harriet fixed Marcus with a long, steady glare. Then she broke into a deep chuckle. ‘Be off with you, you young dog. Take this lovely girl of yours out into the gardens. I promise you that, just this once, no one in the house will be watching.’

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C
linging to the shreds of his control, Anthony contrived not to bang the drawing-room door behind him. Curse the wench! Damn her to hell and back! Did she think to avoid him
ad infinitum
? The devil she would!

Fury scalded him as his gaze swept the hall, as if expecting her to materialise. A snort escaped him. Hah! She must know he’d be on her heels. Well, if she thought Great-aunt Harriet’s chamber would prove a sanctuary this time, then she was sadly misinformed.

He caught Stella’s puzzled, cloudy gaze and gently waving tail. Rudely awakened from her snooze beneath the tea table, she clearly expected something in the nature of a walk. Disgustedly, Anthony realised that he’d outwitted himself—now he’d have to take her to the stables for the night. Which gave his quarry plenty of time to go to earth.

He took her gently by the collar. ‘Come along, lass.’

Half an hour later, standing in the darkness of the cupola, Anthony concluded that his quarry was not in the house. God only knew what the staff thought of his descent to the nether regions of the kitchen and cellars, but he was
beyond caring. After all the brouhaha over Marcus’s escapade, the staff were probably inured to shock. He hoped they were. They were in for another.

If she’d left the house…fear coursed through him as he stared out over the wooded park. It was a warm enough night, the sky clear and bright with stars, but still, there was that man thought to be lurking. A chill flooded him—he muttered a few choice words under his breath that would have given Great-aunt Harriet pause, and stormed down to his bedchamber. He’d have to change these shoes for boots or Timms would skin him alive.

Despite the darkness enveloping his bedchamber, Anthony crossed unerringly to the fireplace for a candle and the tinder box.

As light flared a quiet voice spoke. ‘Are you looking for me?’

Anthony whipped around. There, by the huge bed, stood his quarry. The world stilled and contracted to a pair of defiant hazel eyes in a white face.

Every muscle tensed as he realised that she had walked straight into the lion’s den. Eyes narrowed, he took in every detail—the thick, dark hair escaping its prim chignon, the wide eyes with their fringe of dark lashes, the delicate features and that soft, vulnerable mouth. The slight figure stiffened under his gaze. So familiar, yet…different. Older. A shadow in the eyes and a set about the mouth that had not been there four years ago.

‘Sir—we…I must speak with you.’ Her voice shook.

And well it might!

An ominous silence spread through the room. Anthony was dimly aware that he stood at its centre, that
she was waiting for his response. He didn’t think it would be quite what she expected.

His fingers went to his cravat.

‘Speaking,’ he ground out, ‘can wait.’ His cravat hit the floor. ‘Right now,’ several buttons pinged off his waistcoat, ‘at this moment—I have other plans.’ The waistcoat itself landed in the general vicinity of the dressing table.

Eyes widening further with shock, she backed away, as he hauled his shirt off over his head.

‘Anthony, no, please! Wait! I won’t do this!’

‘No?’ He scarcely knew his own voice, his own hurt fury. ‘Are you daring to refuse me?’ He stalked her mercilessly as she retreated, his eyes locked on hers. ‘I find you here. Here! In my bedchamber—and you think to deny me? Believe me, Madam
Wife
—you’ve ceded me any rights I choose to claim.’

He prowled closer. A large, powerful hand clamped about her wrist. Willing herself not to betray fear, Georgiana looked up into the face of her furious husband as he dragged her into his arms.

His mouth crashed down on hers. Possessive, demanding, his mouth ravished hers until her senses whirled, until she could barely think, let alone remember all the reasons she should refuse him. Her body melted against his, all the bitter regret and longing of the past four years welling up from deep within her in a wild outpouring. Her arms slid up around his neck as she clung for support, dizzy and breathless.

His grip loosened slightly as one hand slid between them. With a shock she felt swift fingers unbuttoning her bodice, felt her gown pulled from her shoulders to fall about her waist.

One large, warm hand closed over a breast and she
arched instinctively, accepting the caress, pleading for more as pleasure washed through her.

A rough sound broke from him as his fingers shifted to the neck of her chemise and jerked downwards. The worn linen ripped and his hand returned to her exposed breasts, his thumb stroking over her nipples, which burst into aching life.

He released her mouth and stared down at her, grey eyes stormy.

Her breath came in gasps, her lips swollen from his possession. A measure of sanity returned. This was madness. They had to talk…

‘Anthony—’

He silenced her with his mouth at her breast, drawing it deep into the heat and wetness. A pleasure that was almost pain crashed through her and she cried out, her fingers locking on his scalp to press him closer.

Abruptly he released her and she staggered, only to find herself swept up into his arms. He strode back across the room and dropped her on the bed. Staring up at him, she could not doubt what he intended. And, God help her, she wanted it too. Her body sang and throbbed in longing for this man who had all but disowned her in public and then abandoned her.

He unbuttoned his breeches. ‘It would seem, madam, that I can still drag a response from you. It remains to be seen what new tricks you have been taught since last you deigned to share
my
bed.’

His words made no sense. But the scorn and condemnation in his voice lacerated her.

‘This ought to have been our marriage bed, Georgiana. Just once, I intend to have you on it, before I end this farce once and for all.’

She shuddered into stillness as his words sliced through her.

Just once…before I end this farce…

He meant to divorce her. The abyss she had feared yawned black at her feet, blinding her to all else. Doubtless she deserved his anger for her foolishness, but—

‘Anthony, please, wait…’

His mouth silenced her as he came down over her, pushing her skirts to her waist and reaching between her thighs, to seek out and find the aching, molten softness. She trembled at his touch. It had been so long and it had never been like this, not this wild melding of fury and passion. He had been gentle with his virgin bride four years ago, but now he was all fierce demand. His fingers stroked, possessed, demanding her response. She gave it. Wildly. Desperately, knowing that this might be all she would ever have of him. And hoping that his passion was fuelled by some remnant of affection. Helpless, her body answered in liquid surrender. She wanted him. And he knew it.

With a growl of satisfaction he pushed her thighs wide and settled between. He braced himself over her and reached down between their bodies. Then she felt him, hot and hard, pressed against her.

‘Mine!’ he uttered. And thrust deep.

A momentary pain shot through her and she cried out in shock, her body jerking under his at the sensation of having him buried so deep within her after so long.

He froze, shuddering in restraint. She willed herself not to struggle, to lie still despite the unexpected pain.

‘Georgie?’ His voice sounded shaken. ‘Oh,
Georgie
.’

His body lowered on to hers and he held her, a gentle
hand caressing her cheek. The unexpected tenderness shattered her control and she pushed at his shoulders.

‘No! Let me go, damn you!’

‘Georgie! No. Lie still—’

It was too late. Even as he tried to reassure her, the squirming of her soft breasts beneath him, the unintentional caress of her body, broke Anthony’s control. All the pent-up hurt and guilt of the past four years, along with the savage frustration of the past few days, swept through him in a shattering release. He could only hold himself as still as possible while the storm raged.

At last it was over. Shaking and spent, he withdrew himself carefully from her body and rolled to the side. His lack of control sickened him. He had taken her, before she was anywhere near ready, practically forcing her, without bothering even to undress fully. He hadn’t even removed his shoes.

‘Are you…have you finished?’

The tightly controlled voice tore at him as did her very stillness. As though she dared not move.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ He heard the restrained fury in his own voice and winced.

‘I…it doesn’t matter. May I go now?’

‘The hell it doesn’t matter!’ he exploded, raising himself on one elbow. ‘And, no! You may
not
go! You are my wife. You remain here.’

Instinctively he reached for her, meaning to comfort her, reassure her. She jack-knifed away from him in a flurry of skirts, clutching her ruined bodice. Shame roiled his guts as he drew back.

‘You need not fear,’ he said bitterly, hating himself for what he had done. ‘I have no intention of dishonouring myself any further tonight.’

That stilled her. The hazel eyes met his gaze, bleak and shuttered.

‘I will not be your wife for very much longer, Anthony. Even if I didn’t learn any new tricks.’

He thought his jaw might crack under the strain of not roaring a denial.

‘At the moment however, Georgiana, you remain my wife. And you will sleep here. In my bed.’

Georgie’s heart faltered. The hard line of his mouth, the savage blaze in his eyes, told her that he meant it. If she tried to leave he would stop her. Physically. And she didn’t dare let him touch her again. He hated her. His touch would sear her. She knew now exactly what he thought her.

‘I…I…very well.’

What was she to sleep in? She had no nightgown in here. Her body burned in shame at the thought of disrobing in front of Anthony. Of feeling those grey eyes on her, assessing her. Dismissing her. As a whore.

‘You can borrow one of my nightshirts.’ His voice shocked her out of her daze.

‘No!’ Meeting his gaze, she flushed. ‘Thank you. I’ll…I’ll just sleep in—’ In the shift he’d nearly torn off her? ‘In my gown.’ She wasn’t wearing stays. It wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.

He was frowning again. ‘As you wish.’

He turned away and she barely suppressed a gasp as he stood up and finished undressing. Shameless, to stare so as he walked naked to the dressing-room door. Yet she could not tear her eyes from that broad, muscled back, the narrow hips, so lithe, so…He disappeared into the dressing room and her breath returned in a rush.

Catching at her wits, she stripped off her stockings and garters, dropping them beside the bed. Better to be
safely between the sheets before he returned. Frantic fingers rebuttoned her ruined gown.

Five minutes later he slid into the bed on the opposite side. She didn’t dare to look to see if he wore a nightshirt.

‘There is a cloth and ewer of water in the dressing room, if you…if you need it. If you wish to cleanse yourself…’

She felt her blush all the way to her breasts, felt a renewed awareness of her body, sticky and slightly tender from his possession.

‘I…no. I’m fine. Th…thank you.’ She hated the wobble in her voice. Hated herself for the vivid memory of the night he had finally come to her chamber in Brussels to complete her seduction and claim his bride. He had cleansed her himself that night, tenderly wiping away the traces of her virginity, easing her soreness. And then he had made love to her again. So gently, so completely that she thought she had never before been whole.

Now there was nothing to ease the soreness of her heart. The knowledge that she had behaved like a spoiled, frightened child and destroyed her marriage with her foolish flight. Her stupid dream that if he truly wanted her, he would come for her.

‘Shall I snuff the candle, then?’

‘Please,’ she whispered.

The light wavered and was gone, plunging the room into welcome darkness. Turning on to her side, she wriggled a little closer to the edge of the bed, unwilling to intrude on his space. He had felt dishonoured in bedding her. The knowledge brought silent tears spilling over.

She had made this particular bed herself. If it was lumpy, she only had herself to blame.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

He lay in the darkness, violently aware of Georgiana, finally asleep on the far side of the bed. If she tried to get any further away, she’d roll out on to the floor.

He didn’t blame her. With horror and shame he reminded himself just how limited her marital experience had been. Knowing that she had cared for the heedless young idiot who jilted her, he had not insisted on claiming his seventeen-year-old bride on their wedding night. Instead he had applied himself to winning her trust, her affection, at the same time slowly, but surely, seducing her.

He had only permitted himself to bed her the night before the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. Four years ago. His eyes closed in pain. She had been so damned innocent. She’d had no idea of what the marriage bed involved. Until he’d shown her. Step by gentle step. His restraint had been rewarded with a response that had seared him to his soul.

And now…

He swallowed. Now he had taken her with the assumption that she had enlarged her experience. He would give his soul to be able to take back what now lay between them. He had treated her as a whore and she had been no more experienced than when he left her bed on the morning after taking her virginity. Inevitably he had hurt her then, too, but at least he’d been gentle with her, had eased himself inside her trembling body tenderly, soothing her, reassuring her, until she softened enough to accept him fully.

Now…now he had hurt her. Carelessly. All the more so because it stemmed from his belief that she had betrayed him. In that at least he had been wrong.
Unfortunately he had said enough for Georgie to realise what he had thought of her.

Still—four years without a word! Not even a note to reassure him of her safety! And then the brazen little baggage thought to insinuate herself back into his life by taking a position with Aunt Harriet, damn her eyes. Where the hell had she been all that time, if she hadn’t been under some man’s protection?