Rogue Grooms (22 page)

He remembered best of all how very sweet her lips tasted.

He remembered her white, hurt face under the lanterns at Vauxhall.

And he had known, as he stumbled back to his rooms at dawn, that he was a hundred times a fool.

Georgina Beaumont was a talented, beautiful, dashing woman, who every man in London admired. Yet she had loved
him!
Alex Kenton, the crusty colonel. Not the duke. Him. What were pride and money, next to a woman like her? Next to a love like they could share?

Nothing. They were as nothing. Yet he only saw that now, when it was too late. After he had gone charging in like some hell-bent bull, bashing all the beautiful things they had together. He had crushed love, trust, and honor beneath his quick anger.

Alex groaned and buried his face in his pillow. Even that, along with the demons dancing in his skull, could not erase his misery.

He should never have gone to her when he was so exhausted from his journey, and so angry. He should have waited until he could see her again in daylight, clearheaded and rational, when he could speak to her in a calm manner.

Seeing her in the moonlight, so beautiful and radiant, had killed every vestige of a rational thought. And, he was ashamed to admit, the sight of the rich pearls at her neck had only fueled his anger.

Well, his troops had not called him Hotspur for nothing.

Now he saw so clearly what he should have done. He should have taken her in his arms, ridiculous shepherd’s crook and all, and held her so tightly she could never leave.

If she would only listen to him now, give him a chance to redeem himself, he would not care if she wrapped herself from top to toe in pearls! Or if she even papered his house in diamonds.

He did not even care if people speculated that he was a fortune hunter. He only wanted her to accept his love, and give him a chance to win her back.

He knew it would not be easy. Georgina would no doubt blister him with her redheaded temper, challenge him to a duel, run him over with her curricle. He did not care; she could do her worst, for he deserved every bit of it. And more.

But he had to try to get her to forgive him. He
had
to. His very life depended on it.

Slowly, very slowly, Alex rolled out of bed and went to pour some cold water into a basin. He judged from the quality of the light at the window that it was already late afternoon, and he had a very important call to make.

 

“She is not here, Lord Wayland.” Elizabeth Hollingsworth’s gaze was cool as she looked at Alex, where he sat across from her in her drawing room.

If Alex needed any reminders of how far and how fast he had fallen from grace, this coolness, after Elizabeth’s warm friendship, would have done it neatly. However, he did
not
need any reminders. He needed to see Georgina as quickly as possible, to begin to repair the damage he had so heedlessly done.

“Not here?” he said, stunned. “Has she gone out driving, then? Or perhaps to Hookham’s Library? If I could just wait for her . . .”

“I do not think that would be a good idea.”

“Oh, please, Lady Elizabeth!” Alex found he was not above begging. Not any more. “I must see her. I must—must tell her how very sorry I am, how wrong I was.”

“Yes. Georgina told me of your little—contretemps last night. You were very naughty.”

“Then, you know how very desperate it is that I see her, talk to her.”

Elizabeth sighed, and he could see her relenting. Some of the frost in her gray eyes melted as she looked at him. “I can see that you are very sorry.”

“I am! More than I can say. I should never have said such things. But my blasted temper—oh. Do pardon my language, Lady Elizabeth.”

She waved away his apologies. “I myself often say blast, and worse. I fear it is quite appropriate in these circumstances.”

Alex felt a chill, as if a cold wind had suddenly blown down the chimney and extinguished the fire. “Has she said she hates me, then? That she will never forgive me?”

“I am sure Georgina does not hate you. But I fear that when I said she was not here, I did not mean that she was at the park or at Gunter’s. She has gone back to Italy.”

Alex gaped at Elizabeth. “Italy?”

“Yes. She would not be dissuaded from such a rash course, not once I assured her that my health was so improved I could have no need of her until the babe comes. Her ship left on the morning tide, and has surely cleared the Thames by now.”

Alex lowered his aching head into his hands. All of the energy that hope had given him, that had kept him upright, had made him hurry to the Hollingsworths’ house, suddenly deserted him. He felt as drained and flat as Lunardi’s balloon before it was filled. He felt old and weary.

She was gone. She was beyond his apologies, and his love.

Or was she? He looked up, a faint hope starting to bloom.

“I love Georgina as my own sister,” Elizabeth was saying. “But I fear she has a fierce temper, and she often does quite rash things. Such as rush off to Italy. I suppose that is the reason she is so very creative, much more fine an artist than I will ever be.”

“It is what I love the most about her,” Alex murmured. “Her fire.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Yes. I was sure you were the man for her, despite your bad behavior last night.”

Encouraged by her words, Alex said quickly, “Lady Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to give me Georgina’s direction in Italy?”

“Are you going to write to her?”

“I am going to do better than that. I am going after her.”

Elizabeth laughed merrily, and clapped her hands. “Oh! How very romantic. She will be so surprised to find you on her very doorstep.”

“And pleased, do you think?”

“
Very
pleased, though she will not admit it at first.” Elizabeth stood, and went over to her small writing desk, searching through the drawers until she found what she sought. “She is in Venice, and here is her address. No doubt she will rail at you when you first arrive—perhaps even throw things, which she has been known to do in the past. You must take no notice. The storm will soon pass, and she will be very touched that you have come so far after her. A woman cannot help but be flattered that a man would go hundreds of miles, just to apologize and grovel! You do plan to grovel, I hope?”

“Most assuredly.” Alex accepted the paper from her, and tucked it away safely in his coat pocket. That slip of paper was more valuable than gold. “I pray that you are right, that she will forgive me and accept me.”

“I know that I am.” Elizabeth suddenly went up on tiptoe from her petite height, and kissed his cheek. “I wish you
bonne
chance, Alex.”

Alex nodded, deeply moved. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I fear I will need all your good wishes and prayers.”

 

Georgina was deeply sorry the moment the English coast disappeared from view.

What had she done? Oh,
what
had she done!

She paced along the ship’s deck, her burgundy red pelisse whipping about her in the stiff wind. She wore no hat, and long strands of hair had come loose from their pins and lashed at her eyes and cheeks. But she took no notice of the wind, or of the crew who hurried around her, or of the maid she had hired for the journey, who shivered against a wall.

Lady Kate, sheltered in a coil of rope, watched her mistress with anxious black eyes.

Whatever was she thinking of, to run off to Italy just because she was mad at Alex? Because they had had a quarrel, which had probably been just as much her fault as his?

She should have stayed to see what he would have to say, once he calmed down.
If
he ever had anything to say to her again, after that shocking scene at Vauxhall.

Georgina paused in her pacings, to lean over the railing and look down at the water below. As if there might be an answer to her dilemma written in the roiling gray waves below.

There wasn’t, of course. There did not seem to be any answers anywhere—not even inside herself. She only had the sickening feeling that she had been foolishly impetuous, for the five hundredth time in her life.

Georgina sighed and sank down to sit on the coil of rope next to Lady Kate. She had leaped without looking, as she always did! She saw now, horribly clear, what she should have done. She should have understood what using her money before they were wed would cause Alex to feel—and to do. He was such a proud man.

Just as she was a proud woman. Too much so.

She also should have stayed in London, so they could have talked and come to a right understanding. This craven running away was not at all like her, and she did not know why she had done it. Not even anger should have made her do something so rash.

Oh, yes, you know why you did it
, a tiny voice at the back of her mind whispered.
You were afraid.

I certainly was not! Georgina protested indignantly.

You were
, the voice insisted.
And you still are. You are afraid that you love him, and need him. You don’t want to need him.

Of course I do not! Georgina cried silently. After all, if she were to need someone, he could die and leave her all alone, with the entire world shattered about her.

Like her parents. Like Jack. Even like dear old Mr. Beaumont.

Georgina pressed her gloved hand to her mouth. That was it! That was what had driven her to be so alone for so long. Fear.

Beneath all her dash, her bravado, she was scared to death. She had seized on her quarrel with Alex as an excuse to leave him, to scurry back to the safety of Italy. A desperate need to escape her love for him, her fear to lose him.

But she knew now that that was futile. Even if she never saw him again, her love for him would follow her all the rest of her days. It was a love that was stronger than any fear.

She saw that all too clearly now, when it was too late and a sea lay between them. Even if he came to call on her, he would find she had left, and he would think that she no longer cared. Perhaps he would be hurt, but eventually he would marry someone young and pretty and suitably duchess-like. He would take her to the home that should have been Georgina’s, to be welcomed by the family that should have been Georgina’s.

He would give her the wedding night that should have been Georgina’s. He would make love to some milk-and-water miss in Georgina’s very bed!

Georgina pounded her heels on the deck in consternation at the melodramatic scenario she had concocted in her mind.

Oh, what had she
done!

Venice was delighted by the return of the oh-so-dashing Signora Beaumont. And Signora Beaumont plunged into the revels of Venice with every bit of her former relish, and then some.

If that relish, that dash, was just a tiny bit forced, well, who could notice? Any hint of melancholy was hidden by exquisite new gowns, a new hairstyle, and plenty of champagne.

Bianca, the loyal Italian maid who had been with Georgina for years, had kept the Venetian house impeccably in her absence—or what passed for impeccable with Bianca, anyway. Georgina was able to move back in as if she had never been away at all.

The society of Venice, both Italian and English, welcomed her back as if she had never been away, as well. From her very first evening home, she was pulled into a whirl of balls, suppers, breakfasts, water parties, and casinos. Her old suitors were most eager to renew her acquaintance, and soon the narrow halls and small, high-ceilinged rooms of her house were filled with the color and scent of masses of flowers.

Georgina had loved this life, had relished the excitement and glitter and noise of it. She threw herself back into it, dancing and laughing as if nothing had ever happened. Every once in a while, in the midst of a merry crowd, she could even feel like nothing
had
happened. That she was the Georgina Beaumont she had been before she left for England.

But something had happened. She was not the same, and she never would be again. She had seen a new life, filled not just with the gaiety of balls, but with family and close friends. Quieter, perhaps, more respectable, certainly. It was not a life she would have thought she would crave, when she was younger and more restless.

Sometimes, in the quiet darkness of her bedchamber at night, she imagined that life. She imagined herself as mistress of Fair Oak, strolling its halls and garden paths with her husband. Lady Kate would run ahead of them, cavorting with Emily and perhaps a few golden-haired children.

She imagined presiding over suppers and balls for all the neighbors, and painting all their portraits.

She imagined long, sweet nights in the grand duke’s bedchamber, in her husband’s arms.

And then, still alone, she would turn her face into the pillow and cry, with the silvery light of a Venetian moon falling across her bed from the window.

 

This had to be the house.

Alex looked down at the address Elizabeth had given him, then back up at the house. It was quite pretty, a narrow confection of gray-pink stone, with wrought-iron balconies dotted with pots of vivid red and pink flowers. The shutters were open to the early summer day, and sheer white curtains fluttered in the light breeze.

It
looked
like Georgina’s house. Elegant, warm, and artistically lovely.

Alex took a deep breath, and closed his fist tightly about the slip of paper. He had faced French hordes on battlefields, faced death by bullet or bayonet or cannon. But he had never been so terrified as he was now, about to face the woman he loved and had wronged.

He had had many hours to envision this meeting. He had replayed in his mind, over and over, their confrontation on the dark pathway at Vauxhall, until it became worse and worse every time. He berated himself for his ass-like behavior, saw again Georgina’s face in the lantern light, pale and stricken and furious.