The Greatest Lover Ever (17 page)

Sometimes, when he was obliged to listen to Lady Charlotte Cross’s prattle, he would happily choose the “perish” option.

He had only himself to blame, of course. He’d drawn up the exclusive list of candidates. They’d been here for close to a week already, save for Violet Black. Though he knew the girl was coming, the thought that Georgie might accompany her hadn’t entered his head.

Had he secretly hoped this would happen when he agreed to add Violet’s name to the list?

He didn’t like to think himself capable of using Violet to get to her sister. That notion was so foreign to his character, he was momentarily disgusted with himself for even letting it cross his mind.

By considering Violet, he did nothing but his duty. Everyone had agreed that a match rejoining Cloverleigh to the Winford estate was highly eligible when it was Georgie who stood to inherit. Why should that have changed now that Violet would get Cloverleigh?

At dinner, Lady Arden seated Georgie as far away from Beckenham as it was possible to be, and yet his every fiber was aware of each breath that entered and left that magnificent bosom of hers. The ambivalence of his feelings put him at constant war with himself.

All through his conversation about horseflesh with Miss Margo deVere, Beckenham thought resentfully of Georgie’s lush body, of its ridiculous power over him.

He shifted a little in his chair. No, best not to think of that.

Had Georgie planned to make his possible courtship of her sister as difficult as possible? She seemed to have a deep affection for Violet. No doubt she’d warned the girl against him.

He’d seen at once that Xavier was right about Violet Black. She was precisely the sort of lady he wanted. Calm, sweet, with a quiet dignity that did her great credit.

Pretty, too. As pretty as a rosebud.

His gaze slid back to Georgie, whose beauty was more like a tropical flower. Lush, vibrant. Carnal.

Good God, he needed to stop thinking about her.

Yet he couldn’t help noticing that her manner was retiring in the extreme this evening. She’d barely spoken two words to him in the drawing room, where they’d gathered before moving in to dinner.

She wore a watery gray gown, a color he’d never seen her in before. What the Devil was she doing in gray? She wasn’t in half mourning, was she?

And the demure way she cast down her eyes and most correctly restricted her conversation to the guests to her right and left made him wonder what game she was playing.

The old Georgie would have commanded the admiring attention of the male half of the table; the envy of the female portion. She possessed an inner fire that drew men like moths.

The old Georgie would laugh that low, husky laugh of hers, make men turn their heads, break off their conversations, lean toward her, forgetting their dinner companions entirely.

Lady Arden, he saw, looked upon Georgie with approval. Had she read her kinswoman the riot act? Was Georgie behaving herself in obedience to Lady Arden’s decree?

Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Georgie had been enlisted to
promote
a match between him and Violet.

The notion did not sit well with him. Georgie had more than her share of pride. Surely it galled her to be obliged to take a hand in catching him for her sister.

Unless she didn’t care whom he married …

*   *   *

Georgie forced herself to ignore Beckenham as much as possible. Which was exceedingly difficult to do, for if ever a man appeared to advantage in evening dress, it was he. There was something about the contrast between the rugged austerity of his face and the clean lines of black and blinding white that set her pulse pattering like a military drum.

No. She had a job to do. She needed to observe the other candidates for Beckenham’s hand, analyze their strengths, their weaknesses, and plan how she would knock them out of the running. On Violet’s behalf, of course.

Four other young ladies were present, and a formidable opposition they were. Miss Priscilla Trent, Lady Harriet Bletchley, Lady Charlotte Cross, and Miss Margo deVere.

At dinner, she’d noted that Priscilla was a cool blonde with impeccable manners. Lady Harriet was very taking, but no beauty. She had an intelligent spark to her eye, however, and who could say but that Beckenham might take a shine to her? He’d liked her enough to invite her here, hadn’t he?

Lady Charlotte Cross was a classic dark-haired beauty. One to watch, Georgie thought. And Miss deVere, despite her unfortunate family background, was attractive and animated. By the small amount of her conversation Georgie overheard, Miss deVere was hunting and horse mad, so her sporting interests would please Beckenham.

Georgie had more opportunity to observe her quarries when the ladies removed to the drawing room after dinner.

Lady Arden dispensed tea. Georgie took her cup with thanks and turned to find Lady Trent, Miss Priscilla’s mama, at her elbow.

“So brave of you to come, in the circumstances,” she murmured, her eyes shooting sparks, her lips thinly smiling.

Ah, so now it started. “I am no more than a chaperone for my sister,” said Georgie. “I see nothing courageous in that, ma’am. Violet is such a pretty-behaved girl, I’ve practically nothing to do.”

“Indeed?” said Lady Trent. “One wonders that Miss Violet’s mama is not here to lend her support.”

“Does one?” Georgie smiled. “I’m afraid my stepmother’s health does not permit the exertion. However, Violet is fortunate that our kinswoman, Lady Arden, is here to lend as much, er,
support
as she requires.”

That made the stiff-rumped matron poker up. Perhaps she’d forgotten that Lady Arden hailed from the Black family.

“For me, visiting Winford is like a homecoming,” said Georgie, warming to her theme. “Violet and I grew up on the neighboring estate, you know. The property will be hers upon her marriage.”

She lifted her chin and searched the crowd beyond, pretending not to notice the thunderstruck look on Lady Trent’s face. “Excuse me. I must greet an old acquaintance.”

Georgie glided away, leaving anger and uncertainty in her wake. She was beginning to enjoy herself, just a little. She did not doubt the news of Violet’s distinct advantage over her peers would be all over the drawing room in seconds flat.

Perhaps she’d made Violet a target for malice, but as soon as they all saw how superior her sister was in every respect, they’d be aiming their poisoned darts at her anyway. Against Violet’s looks, disposition, and dowry, those other young ladies did not stand a chance.

The only fly in the ointment was Georgie herself. She knew in her bones that Beckenham was too decent to fail to consider her feelings on the matter. Her presence here was most unfortunate. If she’d stayed away, he would have been able to put her out of his mind and do his duty to marry Violet and reclaim the estate his grandfather had lost.

Whatever the case, it might be to Beckenham’s benefit to marry Violet. Georgie still needed to reserve judgment about whether Violet would be happy as Beckenham’s countess. She must not lose sight of that. Violet herself seemed content at the prospect, but what did eighteen-year-old girls know, after all?

Seeking a respite, Georgie took her tea to where the Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury surveyed the gathering with a gimlet eye and seated herself beside her.

Here was a friendly face, if not an ally. Lady Salisbury wore an impressive purple turban that complemented the gown she wore. Smack in the middle of the turban perched a brooch containing the largest diamond Georgie had ever seen.

The old lady caught her staring and leaned toward her. “Paste, m’dear! But don’t tell anyone. I’m pockets-to-let, and hoping Harriet has enough gumption to snare this earl before the entire family sinks under debt.”

Georgie blinked at being made the recipient of this startling information. “It is a very fine copy,” she murmured. “One would never know.”

“Aye.” The lines around Lady Salisbury’s lips deepened as she pursed them. “But it’s not as if all of London don’t know the state we’re in, baubles notwithstanding. The Abbey is falling in a heap. Poor Salisbury is at his wits’ end.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Georgie. The notion that one lady in particular truly needed this marriage depressed her.

She sought for a more cheerful subject. “Lady Harriet is pretty.”

“She’s passable,” said the dowager. “As clever as she can stare. If the gel can be brought to keep her nose out of a book long enough to set her cap at Beckenham, I shall have done my duty. Her mama is worse than useless,” she said, indicating a gaunt female who sat alone sipping her tea and looking as if she’d rather be elsewhere. “
Bluestocking.
Good God, what use is book-learning, pray, when your house is falling down around your ears?”

Well, she could not let Lady Harriet have Beckenham, but perhaps she might persuade Lady Arden to make her a match. Georgie was still lending her ear to the dowager’s woes when the gentlemen joined them.

Viscount Lydgate, Beckenham’s cousin, made a beeline for them. “Good evening, Lady Salisbury. And Georgie Black. Well, well, this is a sight for sore eyes. How do you do?”

She rose and curtsied. With a flashing smile, he bowed elegantly over her hand and led her to an alcove set a little apart from the company.

She felt a hard, dark gaze upon them as they settled themselves. Did Lydgate mean to flirt with her? His manner was certainly flirtatious. She received this signal with a sinking feeling. She supposed she ought to set up a flirt here to deflect attention from her former engagement to Beckenham. Now, presented with the perfect opportunity, her heart wasn’t in the business.

She’d been mistaken, however. Lydgate did not wish to flirt with her. Once out of earshot, a note of steel entered his voice. “I am surprised to see you.”

“No more than I am to be here, believe me,” she replied. “You don’t think I came because I wanted to watch him choose a wife, do you?”

He searched her face. “Perhaps you came to ruin his chances.”

She felt a spurt of anger. “Whatever you might think of me, I would never injure my sister. It is for her that I agreed to come when her mother would not. I couldn’t let her undertake such a journey alone.”

He didn’t look satisfied.

Impatiently, she said, “I don’t know what you think I might do, anyway.”

“Your mere presence is enough. I saw him watching you at dinner.”

Her heart beat faster. “You are imagining it. You are mistaken.”

“On the contrary. I happen to have extremely keen powers of observation. And I know Becks very well.” Lydgate looked deeply into her eyes and gave his killer smile, as if he were paying her an extravagant compliment instead of accusing her. He raised her hand to his lips and murmured, “Do not disappoint me, Georgie. He deserves to be happy.”

After what you put him through.

The unspoken words hung on the air. She flushed and would have responded, but he made her an elaborate bow and walked away.

She sank down on the window seat and turned her head to stare out. A mere sliver of tangerine sun peeked from between thick gray clouds. Twilight mellowed the undulating landscape, turned the lake a mysterious violet.

She loved this countryside. She’d been brought up to believe she’d own a piece of it for herself one day, but that dream had died with the dissolution of her engagement.

Still, it was home, the repository of too many joyous memories of youth to discount. Some of those memories included Beckenham.

“A fine prospect is it not?” said a deep voice behind her. She turned and her breath hitched at the sight of Beckenham towering above her. Heat spread through her body like wildfire.

“Yes,” was all she managed to say.

His sober regard traveled slowly over her body. “I trust you had a tolerable journey.”

“Yes. Tolerable. Thank you,” she murmured. What was wrong with her? Georgie Black, tongue-tied before a man? Her friends would laugh themselves sick if they could see her.

Belatedly, she asked, “And you? I hear you have been traveling these past months.”

He shrugged. “House parties here and there.” He would not discuss his marriage plans with her. Perfectly reasonable, under the circumstances.

She swallowed hard, acutely aware of his nearness, of the way the other guests slid them furtive glances under cover of their own conversations. Her reaction to him made his attentions almost too excruciating to bear. He did not touch her or regard her with any particular warmth, yet the memory of his passionate exploration of her body at Steyne’s villa hummed low inside her.

She found herself staring at his hands.

“Would you care to take a stroll with me on the terrace?” he asked her.

Astonished at the very idea, she jerked her attention to his face.

Oh, he was very much in command of himself, wasn’t he? As if he’d never stroked her in intimate ways, kissed her wildly. As if he had not renewed his proposals to her in Brighton, taken her into his arms with something like tenderness at the Marstons’ ball.

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks and mentally slapped herself for allowing those thoughts to take possession of her mind. With a faint grate in her voice, she said, “I don’t think that would be wise, do you?”

His grim mouth quirked upward. “I expect I can control myself for a few moments while we enjoy the fresh air.” He held out his arm to her.

She shook her head with a quick glance toward the rest of the company. “Please, Beckenham. You must not single me out like this. You must pretend I am not here.” She gave a smile that she hoped didn’t show the hurt. “For I’m not, you know. Not for the reason they are. I am a chaperone.”

“A mere chaperone?
You,
Georgie?” But he let his arm fall by his side.

Didn’t he think her respectable enough for the task?

Her temper had always been volatile; he’d lit the fuse. With a glittering smile, she shrugged. “I am sure I’ll find my own entertainment while I’m here. There are enough gentlemen to go around, after all. Particularly as all the young ladies are setting their caps at you.”