The Rake (26 page)

"I want to ask you a direct question."

"Please do."

"Are you going to ask me to marry you, Tristan?"

"No, I'm not."

She nodded, not looking the least bit surprised.
"Why not?"

"I had at one time considered a marriage with you," he said slowly, trying to spare her feelings and realizing that he was doing it because of Georgiana's damned annoying little lessons, "but after coming to know you, I think I would make you a miserable husband."

"Shouldn't I be the one to make that decision?"

"No, not really.
I'm twelve years older than you are, and my experience is far greater. I—"

"I think you should ask me anyway," she interrupted, her prim hands folding into fists.

Tristan shook his head. "In six months, when you're happily married to any of a hundred other gentlemen who would be exceedingly pleased to have you as a wife, you will thank me."

A footman scratched on the open door and
entered,
a tea tray in his hands. Amelia's smile reappeared as if by magic, and Tristan wondered that he'd ever thought her guileless and innocent. As soon as the servant left, the smile disappeared again.

"I understand why you think I might be happy elsewhere, but I really do have my heart set on becoming the
Viscountess
Dare. It has a very nice sound to it, don't you think? Dare is a 260-year-old title, and a very well respected one."

"You've done your research."

She nodded. "I have, on all my beaux. And after careful study, I have selected you."

Now he was beginning to wonder whether she was unbalanced. Tristan glanced at the teapot. It probably had arsenic in it. "Amelia, I value your admiration and your friendship, but you and I will not be married. I'm sorry if you misunderstood my attentions. That was very shoddy of me. And now, I think I should leave you to more pleasant contemplations." Tristan stood.

Her voice rose, "I have your letter."

He continued toward the door. "Unfortunately, Amelia, in my long and lamentable past, I have written letters to quite a few young ladies. On rare occasion, even poetry has crossed my pen."

"Not a letter you wrote to me.
A letter written to you."

Tristan stopped. "And which letter might that be?"

"Well, it's not precisely a letter.
More of a note, though it is signed.
It's rather crumpled, as well, I'm
af
—"

"What does it say?" he interrupted, pure fury running through him. She couldn't have
that
note. Not that one.

"I think you know what it says," she answered in a calm tone. "I have the little gifts she left you, as well. You may not have wanted
me
sharing your bed, but I know who
was
there, Tristan
. And here you had everyone thinking you two were enemies."

A hundred responses flashed through his mind, most of which would have landed him in
Newgate
Prison, charged with murder. "I suggest you return to me anything you might have stolen from my home, Amelia," he said very quietly.

"Don't you wish to know what I want in exchange for the return of Lady Georgiana's very personal items?"

"You go too far," he hissed, taking a step toward her. He could accept
Newgate
Prison, if it saved Georgiana any more pain.

"I will be happy to return them to you," she said in the same calm tone, though her eyes darted toward the doorway, "to dispose of in any manner you wish."

"Then do so at once."

"Not until the day we are married, Lord Dare. I assure you, I will keep them safe in my chest of drawers until that day."

By God, she was a devious little bitch. He needed a plan, and time enough to come up with one. "And what assurance do I have that you'll do as you say?"

Her smile returned.
"The assurance that I want to be Lady Dare."
She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Shall we tell my parents the happy news?"

Out of his limited patience, Tristan grabbed her arm and drew her up hard against him. "Do not presume too much, Amelia. I will cooperate to a point. But if you ruin her, I'll ruin you. Is that clear?"

For the first time she looked less than serene. "We will be married," she said, pulling her arm free, "and the betrothal will be announced. You may choose the timing, but we both know that you'll need my money before the end of summer. I will give you three days, Lord Dare, to propose to me in a proper and flattering manner."

Tristan turned on his heel and left. As he rode back to
Carroway
House, one thought kept roiling through his mind: Georgiana needed to know about this, yet he wouldn't be able to stand seeing the pain in her eyes again.

He would make this right. He had to, for both of them.

Sitting for half an hour with slices of cucumber over her eyes finally left Georgiana feeling that she could reemerge from her bedchamber without frightening small children. Her heart felt lighter as well, though Tristan's intentions and her own response to what he might ask of her gave her an aching head and a craving for a large glass of spirits.

Since she'd returned to Hawthorne House she'd attempted to take up her usual tasks to assist her aunt, but she'd been woefully haphazard about it. That would have to stop. This late in the afternoon, the dowager duchess would be sorting through her correspondence and party invitations.

Georgiana found her aunt in the sitting room as she expected, but Frederica wasn't doing her correspondence. Neither was she alone.

"Lord Westbrook," she said, curtsying. "What a pleasant surprise."

The marquis stood. "Lady Georgiana. Her Grace told me that you weren't feeling quite the thing. I'm glad to see you've recovered."

"Yes, I had a bit of a headache. What brings you here, this afternoon?"

"Actually, I came to see you, my lady." Stepping forward, he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

Nodding, she ran her appointment book through her head, but she didn't recall making any plans with the marquis for this afternoon. "May I offer you some tea, then?
Or a glass of claret?"

"Claret would be splendid."

Her aunt stood. "I'll see to it. Excuse me, my lord."

Georgiana frowned in suspicion, wiping the expression away with a smile as she met Westbrook's gaze. Aunt Frederica acted like a mother bear when Tristan was anywhere in the vicinity, yet she volunteered to depart with Westbrook's arrival.

"Her Grace is very generous, to share you with me," the marquis said, smiling.

He still gripped her fingers. This was beginning to feel familiar, though she couldn't place Westbrook in the same category as most of her other suitors. John didn't need her money; and in a sense that made his presence much more problematic.
Unless she was misreading his intentions, which was entirely possible.
The havoc Dare created within her seemed proof enough that most of the time she had no idea what she was doing.

"Why did you want to see me, John?" she asked.

"Because I'm unable to resist doing so."
He squeezed her hand,
then
released her, an uncharacteristic sheepish look crossing his handsome features. "I'm not certain how to say this without sounding like a ...
nodcock
, but I
do
need to say it."

"Do so, then, by all means."

"Yes. Georgiana, as you know, I am a single gentleman with a considerable fortune. I don't say that to brag, but only because it's the truth."

"A well-known truth, my lord."

"Even so.
Because of my circumstances, I have been given my choice of young ladies to marry. I have met them all, and studied their character, prospects, and appearance. What I am here to say is, I am ... desperately in love with you, Georgiana, and I ask you to be my wife."

She waited for a flutter of her pulse, a speed in the beat of her heart. All she felt, though, was doubt that Westbrook had ever been desperate about anything in his life—much less her.

"John, I—"

"I know you may not feel the same way about me, but I am willing to wait." He grimaced. "I also know that Dare has been forcing his presence on you the past few weeks, and that with his influence you may be ... uncertain of the course your future should take."

"I don't understand."

"I am trying to speak as a gentleman regarding another gentleman, but for your sake I'll be blunt. I have become suspicious that Dare is still obsessed over the wager he made six years ago regarding your virtue, and that he may be attempting still to lead you astray."

Oh, dear.
If Westbrook only knew the truth about how far astray she'd gone, he would be appalled. He would also withdraw his proposal in an instant. "Do you have any proof of this?"

"I am relying on my intuition and my personal knowledge of Dare. He is a known blackguard and a rake. In addition, his properties are nearly bankrupt, which leads me to further doubt his motives regarding your person."

"You mean you believe he intends to ruin me and then marry me for my money," she said.

"That is my fear."

If she'd been left with one thing over the past six years, it was a severe dislike of rumors, especially those that concerned herself or Tristan. "Are you promoting your own cause, John, or sabotaging Lord Dare's?"

"I am only concerned for your well-being, and I know your judgment may not be entirely sound where Dare is concerned. Logically, you know I am the better choice."

Her head knew he was correct, even if her heart said otherwise. "John, you said you would wait. Will you give me a few days to consider my answer?"

"Yes, of course." The marquis approached her again. "May I request a kiss, to signify that my intentions are serious?"

Shaking off the annoying idea that she was somehow being untrue to Tristan, she nodded. Other than his statements that he wanted more than just her body, Dare had never made any sort of direct declaration to her. She owed it to herself to have all the facts necessary to make an informed decision.

With a slight smile Westbrook placed a hand on either side of her face, leaned down, and touched his lips to hers. The kiss was brief, civilized, and very polite, a chaste kiss as befitted the chaste young lady she was supposed to be.

"May I call on you tomorrow, Georgiana?"

She blinked. "You may."

"Then I shall take my leave. Good afternoon, my lady."

"Good afternoon."

Minutes after he departed, Aunt Frederica swept into the room. "Well?"

"Very subtle, Aunt Frederica."

"Never mind that.
Did he propose to you?"

"Yes, he did."

"And?"

"And I told him I would think about it."

The dowager duchess sank into a chair.
"Oh, Georgiana."

"Well, what did you expect? I don't love him."

"What does that signify? You don't follow the advice of your lungs or your kidneys, do you?"

"What—"

"Then don't listen to your heart so much. Dare is
not
someone a proper lady with magnificent prospects marries."

Georgiana put her hands on her hips. "Did you put Westbrook up to this?"

"Of course not."

"Good. If there's one thing I don't need, it's one of the few people whose counsel I rely on turning into a matchmaker."

"I only want you to be happy. You know that."

With a sigh, Georgiana relented. She certainly didn't want to be at odds with her formidable aunt, of all people. "I know that. Come help me choose a gown to wear to Grey and Emma's dinner."

The evening felt like one of the magical ones Georgiana remembered from when Tristan had first begun his pursuit of her, when she'd been a naive debutante fresh out of finishing school. Those dinners had been at Aunt Frederica's rather than Grey's, and not all of the
Carroway
brothers were usually in town at the same time, but it still felt familiar.

She and her aunt were the first guests to arrive at
Brakenridge
House, and went upstairs to find Emma attempting to teach Grey how to play the harp. From the high color in Emma's cheeks that hadn't really been what they were doing, but given her own recent behavior, she wasn't about to comment on it. At least Grey and Emma were married.

Grey released his wife and the harp and strolled over to kiss Frederica, and then her. "Now tell me," he said, taking her hands and guiding her away from the other ladies, "do I allow Tristan into the house this evening or not?"

His gaze was both curious and concerned, and she couldn't help smiling at him. "At the moment, we are friends," she said. "Whether that will last through dessert or not, I have no idea."

Her cousin tucked her arm around his and escorted her to the garden window. "Did you hear he was banned from White's?"

"Yes, he told me."

"And he told you why?"

Georgiana nodded. "Don't feel as though you have to protect me from him,
Greydon
. Your friendship shouldn't suffer because of me. And I assure you, I am quite capable of taking care of myself."

"You aren't as jaded as you pretend, my dear. Nor am I as obtuse as you and my mother like to think." The duke sent a warm glance at his wife, who sat chatting with Frederica. "Ask Emma. I figured her out."

"Yes, and nearly ruined fifty schoolgirls in the process."

" 'Nearly'
being the operative word,
Georgie
. Don't change the subject."

"All I can tell you is that if I need help, I will ask."

"You'd better. Never forget that I'm larger and meaner than you are."

"I couldn't possibly forget. I still have nightmares of leeches attached to my nose."

The duke laughed, the sound rolling warm and rich from his chest. She couldn't help grinning in return, and squeezed his arm. "I'm glad you're happy," she said. "You deserve it."

His smile faded. "Are you happy?"

She shrugged. "At this moment I'm mostly confused."

"Confused isn't all bad, cousin. You're too used to thinking you know the answer to everything, anyway."

"I don't know about
th
—"

With the timing of a playwright, Tristan strolled into the room,
Milly
on his arm and the rest of the
Carroways
trailing behind him. Even Robert had come, she noted with some surprise. True, their two families had known one another for years, and they would be the only guests tonight, but it still warmed her heart to see him.

As Tristan approached her, though, the warmth skittered into something hotter. "Hello," she said.

"Hello."

He took her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles, and straightened again. His eyes met hers, and along with the tingling arousal she always felt in his presence, something colder touched the edges of her heart. "What's wrong?"

"We need to talk sometime this evening." Emma and Bradshaw approached, and he released her hand. "Not now, though."

That was enough to set her mind flying in all directions. Knowing Tristan, anything might have happened.

Someone had pieced together the wagering sheet, and the mess had begun all over again, or someone had realized that more than personal affront had caused Lord Dare's angry reaction to the wager, and by morning she would be completely ruined. Or he'd learned of Westbrook's proposal, and had killed the marquis.

All through dinner and their subsequent games of Commerce and charades, she worried. Tristan seemed his usual charming, witty self, and even drew reluctant laughter from Aunt Frederica. This was too hard. Being in love wasn't supposed to be so difficult. Of course, that was probably only true when the two people in question were completely unspotted and had never hurt, argued with, or deceived one another. Georgiana sighed. Westbrook had offered her that, and she had the feeling it would be deathly boring.

She was seated on the floor helping Edward sketch Bradshaw's ship, which he'd decided to call the
Storm Cloud,
when a hand touched her shoulder. Even though she'd been expecting it all evening, she jumped.

"Excuse me, Runt," Tristan drawled, "but I need to speak with
Georgie
for a moment."

"But we're drawing Bradshaw's new ship," Edward protested.

"Did I lose my old ship?" Bradshaw asked
,
leaning over to view the picture as Tristan helped Georgiana to her feet.

"This is the one for you to captain," his youngest brother explained.

"Then might I suggest more lifeboats?" Shaw returned, sending a glance at Tristan as he slid down to take Georgiana's place on the floor.