One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) (14 page)

“Well, of course we are. We’re jubilant. Ecstatic, even,” the marquis declared. “If we were any happier, we’d be damned delirious.”

“Good. My congratulations. So many marriages that began as yours did are not,” Nathaniel said. “What I was thinking was that if Georgette could see for herself that a made marriage can grow into a love match, then—”

“Then she’d be more amenable to the royal duke’s suit,” the marquis finished.

“Exactly.”

“Very well. I’ll call her in to my study tomorrow and apprise her of the felicitous state of her parents’ marriage and—”

“I’m afraid that won’t do. Lady Georgette is the sort who likes to figure things out for herself,” Nate said. “I suggest you allow her to see you wooing your wife.”

“Wooing?”

“For lack of a better word, yes. Wooing.”

Lord Yorkingham frowned in puzzlement. “How?”

“Send the marchioness some hothouse flowers. Compliment her at the supper table. Escort her someplace she’s been wanting to go, especially if it happens to be a place you’re not too keen on.” Nate ticked off the suggestions on his fingers. “Women appreciate that sort of gesture out of all knowing.”

The marquis dragged a hand over his face. “Oh, Lud, not the opera.”

“Perfect. That’s the ticket. Capital idea, my lord.”

Lord Yorkingham exhaled noisily. “I suppose it would do. Anything for my Georgie.”

“You mean anything for your marchioness,” Nathaniel amended. “If Georgette sees that you and your wife are happy together, she won’t ask for more from you.”

“I should hope not. I absolutely draw the line at the infernal ballet.”

Georgette breathed a sigh of relief once her mother finally stopped scolding her about her late-night escapades and left. She didn’t want to think about her duty to the family or the royal duke’s expectations. She didn’t want to think about the dead girl on Lackaday Lane. And she certainly didn’t want to think about a certain rake and his ideas on how to spend time in an enclosed carriage.

Or what Nate thought she ought to do later that night once moonlight shafted through her window and the whole house slept.

All she wanted was for Mercy to help her strip out of her clothes so she could collapse into bed and, please God, sink into a dreamless sleep.

Mercy, however, had other ideas.

“Oh, my lady, why did ye go and do that for?” Mercy complained once the door latch snicked behind Lady Yorkingham’s light step. When Georgette looked askance at her, Mercy went on. “Leavin’ that dolt Reuben in a whorehouse for the night! He’s what ye might call—oh, drat it, what was that word ye teached me? Oh, yes!—‘susceptible.’ He’s helpless in the face of a woman’s wiles. It’ll be lambs to the slaughter.”

Georgette began unbuttoning her own bodice. “The House of Sirens is no longer a whorehouse.”

“Call it what ye will. If a jar is filled with biscuits, it’s still a biscuit jar.”

“That’s not very charitable, coming from a former…biscuit.”

“I don’t fault the girls. They are what they are.” Mercy finally remembered her duties and began to help Georgette out of her ensemble. “But that fool Mr. Darling. He’s too gullible by half.”

“He’s only there for the residents’ protection until Lord Nathaniel can replace Mr. Bagley.” Georgette spared a few uncharitable thoughts for the former pugilist who couldn’t be bothered to do his job.

“They’ll have Reuben protectin’ them, all right. Right out of their pantalets.”

Georgette stepped out of hers and raised her arms so Mercy could slip her night shift on over her head. Her maid was none too delicate with the sheer linen and lace.

“Careful. You’ll rip the seams,” Georgette said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

Mercy made a rude snorting sound. “It makes no never mind to me where that oaf decides to dip his wick. If he thinks for one minute that it matters to me if he tups every slattern in Covent Garden, well…”

The rest of the sentiment descended into more profanity than Georgette could decipher, but she definitely understood what was behind her maid’s outburst. It
did
matter to Mercy if Reuben Darling took one of the Sirens to his bed. It mattered a great deal.

“If it’s any consolation, Mr. Darling was concerned about what you’d think of the plan,” Georgette said.

“He was?”

“He asked me to be sure to explain the situation to you. He was most particular about it.” Georgette crossed over to her bed and waited while Mercy turned down the bedclothes. “He most especially wanted you to know that his staying at the House of Sirens was
not
his idea.”

Mercy snorted again. “As if that great lummock ever had an idea.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” Georgette quoted under her breath. “Mr. Darling seems to care about you a great deal. And I suspect you care about him or you wouldn’t take on so over this. Why do you deny what you feel?”

Mercy’s tough expression softened a bit. “Milady, I been on my own since I was ten. I learned early on that the only one who really cared about me was me. And if I trusted someone besides myself, I was bound to be disappointed by ’em, and sooner rather than later.” Her mouth tightened into its usual determined set. “Reuben Darling may act like he’s wantin’ to look out for me, but when all’s said and done, he’s just a man. And men think with their little heads more often than their big ones.”

“That’s terribly cynical.” And terribly coarse, but Georgette had become accustomed to Mercy’s forays into the vulgar tongue. They were often amusing and always enlightening. This time, though, Georgette sensed Mercy’s pain simmering under the profanity.

“If cynical means I don’t let no one close enough to hurt me,” Mercy said, “then I guess that’s what I am.”

“Don’t you ever want to take a chance on trusting someone, to just follow your heart?”

“No. Best I keep me heart tucked away safe and sound.” Mercy frowned as she smoothed the covers around Georgette and dipped in the shallowest of curtsies. “If that’ll be all, milady.”

“Yes, Mercy, that’ll do,” Georgette said, feeling more than a little reprimanded by her own servant, but she supposed she had pried more than she ought. “Thank you.”

Her maid headed for the door, but stopped when her hand fell on the crystal knob. “Ye’ve always said I should speak my mind.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then, ye may think this is too forward of me by half, but ye know, milady, ye’re a fine one to talk about followin’ yer heart and not denyin’ what ye feel.” Mercy fisted her hands at her waist. “I see the look on your face whenever Lord Nathaniel is around. Ye light up like a thousand candles. But I notice ye’re not about to take yer own advice.”

Georgette swallowed hard. The way she felt about Nate was writ plainly on her face. Who else had seen? “You’re right, Mercy.”

Her maid beamed.

“That is too forward. By more than half.” Georgette leaned over and blew out the bedside candle. “Good night.”

***

If Nathaniel Colton was a betting man—and he was—he’d lay odds that Georgette would
not
slip out of her chamber and come to him by night. There was far too much risk involved for too little reward. If she was caught in his room, she could kiss the royal match good-bye.

Which was why he’d decided to make it her choice.

The threat to his family from Mr. Alcock hadn’t abated one whit, yet Nate couldn’t bring himself to ruin Georgette.

Now if she
chose
ruin, that would be another matter entirely. What man wouldn’t help a lady into disaster if she was set on it?

A
gentleman
, his conscience answered.

Good
thing
there
is
none
here
, the devil on his other shoulder quipped.

He rose from bed and wandered over to the window to look down on the marchioness’s garden. The clumps of bushes and statuary were awash in shades of gray and ghostly white. The silent fountain was silver-edged where moonlight danced on the cold granite.

What’s the worst that could happen?

If Georgette did come to him and they were discovered together, they’d be forced to marry in haste.

Nate decided that might not be so bad. Of course, her parents would be furious with him till the Last Trump sounded for destroying their royal hopes. It would upset Georgette, but that animosity might be tempered once they were presented with grandchildren.

His family would likely cut him off if there was a scandal. He wouldn’t blame them. They’d have to in order to protect Caro’s interests. Besides, he hadn’t relied on his allowance for years, letting the quarterly stipend draw interest at the Bank of London. There was enough there to see that he and Georgette had a comfortable, if not fashionable, start.

There’d be no dowry, for certain. But that didn’t trouble him. He’d managed to keep body and soul together and do it in style through occasional evenings at cards. He couldn’t even rightly call it gambling. The fools at White’s were easier to read than the
Times
.

Of course, there’d be little left after all the philanthropy Georgette was so keen on. Perhaps she’d learn to moderate her giving nature.

And
pigs
will
learn
to
fly.

He owned a little property in Kent with a storybook-sized cottage. It supported a thriving dairy herd, which was husbanded by a dependable fellow and his good wife who lived in the even smaller caretakers’ cottage. The couple kept bees and made their own cheese and sent scrupulously honest accounts to him each year.

Would Georgette enjoy rusticating in the country?

The idea held real appeal for him. He was tired of London society. Tired of politics. And unspeakably weary of whispers and jabs about his time in the military and the disaster of Maubeuge. Even if Alcock did come through with Nate’s promised exoneration, it wouldn’t change the fact that he and his friends had led their men into a stunning defeat. He was certain they’d been set up to fail, but even so, it didn’t change the failure. His men were still dead.

He shoved the French battle from his mind. To do otherwise was the path to madness. He turned his thoughts back to Georgette instead.

Surprisingly enough, even though he’d expected to live out his days in confirmed bachelorhood, the idea of marrying her did not curdle his gullet.

In fact, he was warming to it by the minute.

So
if
she came to him by night—which was such a remote possibility it was laughable, really—he couldn’t see much argument against taking her maidenhead in a joyous rut to end all rutting. No, it would definitely not be the worst thing that could happen.

Having her discover that he came to Yorkingham House with the goal of stealing her virtue in the first place won that dubious prize. That would be the worst.

That’s why when the door creaked behind him and the light scent of violets drifted under his nostrils, he was almost afraid to turn around.

She might read deceit on his features.

She cleared her throat and he was forced to admit he wasn’t imagining that she was there.

“Though you were keen on inviting me here, I confess I’m underwhelmed by my welcome,” she whispered.

She needn’t have bothered. No one else would hear her. Guests at Yorkingham House were accommodated in chambers located in a different wing and on a floor lower than the rooms used by the family. He turned to look at her.

Moonlight made it seem as if she stood in a pool of liquid silver. Her hair was unbound, her wrapper loosely cinched at her waist. Normally he would have let his gaze linger over her curves, but the expression on her face arrested him.

Her lips were softly parted, her eyes enormous. Gone was the staunch crusader for virtue. In its place was simply a woman, her vulnerability bare, her need for him plain.

Nathaniel walked toward her and reached for her hand. He ran his thumb over her knuckles and then traced along each of her fingers. Her skin was soft, the hand of a true lady.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.

“I didn’t think so either.”

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss between her second and third knuckle. “It will be all right. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her eyes met his in a trusting look. This was really going to happen. He was going to bed Georgette.

Was it really possible that she’d only burst back into his life a few days ago? If someone had told him they’d reach this point so quickly, he’d never have credited it.

Was it only lust? Or was there something much deeper between them, something inexplicable? Something he’d never be able to quantify and lay odds on.

He kissed her cheek, not wanting to spook her. Slow and steady, that was the ticket.

“Don’t you want to know why I came?” she asked.

He tipped her chin up and gave her a warm, wet kiss. “I think we both know why you came.”

Her lips twitched in a slight smile. “But you don’t know why I’m willing to take the risk.” She drew a deep breath.

“Because none of us are promised tomorrow?”

“There is that.” She tilted her head in admission that Vesta’s death was weighing on her. “But if I am granted a future, I know what it will be. In a few days, the match with the duke will be settled and I’ll be married before the end of the month, like as not.”

“Not if you’re no longer a virgin,” he said. Should he propose now or after the deed was done? It was a measure of how certain he was that it was the right thing to do that the thought didn’t surprise him. “Am I your way of avoiding a royal marriage?”

She shook her head. “Who but we two will know that I’m not untouched?”

He couldn’t keep from touching her at that, letting his hands drift over her breasts and find her waist.

“And I don’t think it will truly matter once the knot is publicly tied. His Highness may have a private fit, but his dignity won’t allow him to admit he’s been cuckolded.” She shivered when he drew her close. “Whatever else a royal marriage is about, it certainly won’t be about me. There’ll be no caring, no love. I can’t bear for the first time I lie with a man to be with a stranger.”

“So I’m only a notch up from a stranger. I think you’re damning me with faint praise, but I’ll take it.”

“No, you’re several notches up,” she said, untying the sash at the waist of his banyan and pushing the fabric off his shoulders. The silk pooled at his ankles and he stood before her naked as Adam. Her gaze dipped to his groin, then back to his face. If there’d been enough light to see it, he was sure she’d have blushed that glorious cherry color again. “When a girl decides to rid herself of her maidenhead, she could do much worse than you, Nathaniel Colton. Very much worse.”

He kissed her again. He’d convince her to give up any notions of being royal later. “Whatever comes in the morning, this night is about you.”