Regency Debutantes (29 page)

Georgiana understood the bitterness all too well.

‘It wasn’t as if I bedded her, excuse my blunt turn of phrase,’ he uttered aside. ‘But my father’s a man to whom duty and honour are everything. He would have none of it. Called me a coward and worse. Said I was a disgrace to the family name and that he’d ensure that I received not one penny in inheritance if I didn’t marry the girl. Well, I refused his instruction.’

Georgiana knew that feeling too, but kept quiet.

‘I removed myself from Collingborne and joined His Majesty’s Navy. The old man cut off my allowance and cursed me to the ends of the earth. We didn’t speak for years.’

Georgiana’s hand moved to cup his cheek. ‘Oh, Nathaniel,’ she uttered.

‘That’s not the worst of it. The rift between us caused my mother immense distress. She loved us both and was caught in the middle. She couldn’t disobey him, but neither could she fully desert me. I still have all of her letters. Three years ago she became ill, a wasting disease that sapped her strength and eventually her life. With the little time she had left she tried to mend the breach between us. But I was chasing Villeneuve in a frenzy of skirmishes throughout that summer and by the time I received word it was too late. My mother died thinking that she’d failed in her bid, that I’d ignored her letters. My father blamed me for her death. Said that I’d driven her to it with my scurrilous actions. Since then he can barely stand to look at me, let alone exchange a word.’

It was a heavy and unfair burden that he carried. Through the bitterness of his words and the sadness of his story Georgiana at last gleaned an understanding of what it was that drove Nathaniel so hard. Little wonder that he sought to rise through the ranks, to make something of himself in the navy. He possessed a steadfast determination to prove that he was not the unworthy cause his father clearly thought him. Nine years of a father’s hatred was a lot for any man to bear. That, and an unreasonable guilt for his mother’s death.

Her eyes bound to his. ‘Then why do we travel to Collingborne? We could just stay here and celebrate Christmas.’ She quelled the sudden image of the hatchet-faced Mrs Posset. The price was a small one to pay for her husband’s peace of mind.

‘No.’ He shook his head in one clear defiant gesture. ‘You’re my wife, Georgiana, and I want my family to acknowledge you. I needn’t tell you that my father won’t approve of you, disapproving so adamantly as he does of me. But I’m not ashamed of you, and I don’t mean to hide out with you here as if I am.’ His lips were firm in their resolve, his jaw line rigid. It was not a confrontation from which Nathaniel meant to back down.

She pressed small soft kisses to the fullness of his mouth, watched the tension melt away. ‘Then we’ll go to Collingborne,’ she whispered lightly between kisses. And when his hand strayed to caress the low hollow of her back, and his eyes darkened to a dusky simmer, she knew that the image of his father was fading from his mind. With slow deliberate boldness she leaned against his shoulders, pushing him down against the crisply laundered sheet. He showed no resistance, following where she would lead. She rolled so that the full length of her body lay on top of him, a bed of firm muscle and long limbs. Even as she lay there, calm and still, she felt his interest stir against her. A small wicked smile curved upon her mouth. Before this night was out, Nathaniel Hawke would have no further thought of his father, of that she was quite determined.

Without further warning she rose to a kneeling position, straddling his thighs in a most indecent fashion. If Mrs Posset thought her a strumpet…Her smile deepened at the disapproval her current posture would have caused the housekeeper. Teasing her fingers through the coarse dark hair across the breadth of his chest, she balanced a tip against each darkened nipple. He was watching her through eyes filled with dark and dangerous passion. An intensity of expression, a spring coiled tight and strong. Her hands slid lower to explore the defined ripples down his stomach and abdomen.
He tensed beneath her and reached for her, murmuring her name with something akin to a growl. But before he could touch her she caught his hands, pressed them down to the soft rumple of the pillow above his head. When he would have moved she shook her head and stayed him with a kiss to the tautness of his stomach. He groaned and moved beneath her, eyes closed against temptation. She waited until his gaze found hers once more, then with a languorous grace peeled the nightgown from her body. It dripped slowly to the floor in a white frothy pool. She saw his eyes widen, watched her name shape upon his mouth. Slowly, surely, she moved to lower herself against the burning hardness of his masculinity. Nathaniel did not think of the earl then, or later that same night when they lay entwined together in sated contentment.

A white dusting of frost glittered in the bright morning sunshine, casting a magical feel to the landscape. The ice-clad streets and smoke-billowing houses of Portsmouth had been left far behind as Walter Praxton urged his mount on at a relaxed pace. The winter chill nipped, rouging his cheeks a ruddy red. Next to the golden curls flowing down from beneath his hat he had taken on the appearance of a beautiful cherubim, his clear light blue eyes adding the final touch to the splendid angelic visage. It was an image that had gained Mr Praxton almost everything he had ever desired in life. Almost. For the one thing that he wanted most in the world did not seem to notice the charm that had the other ladies in a flutter. Indeed, three ladies had actually been known to swoon, such was the young man’s impact on members of the fairer sex. Alas, Georgiana Raithwaite was not one of them.

Undoubtedly her appreciation of the finer things in life had been somewhat tarnished by her experiences at Mrs Tillyard’s
Academy. Or so Mr Praxton concluded, for what other reason could there be for her adamant refusal of him? If he had not known better, he would have sworn that the girl bore a downright dislike for his person, when he had presented himself to her in nothing other than a charming and generous light. No, the wretched Mrs Tillyard could only be to blame.

He watched the progress of the plain black travelling coach in the distance. Therein was housed the woman who haunted his dreams, alongside her husband. He could scarcely bring himself to utter the word, such was his contempt for the man. But not for much longer. For Walter Praxton had not lain idle. Indeed, he had not slept much of the previous night under the weight of his industrious scheming. He had lost her once, but the matter would soon be rectified. He just had to bide his time. Gloved fingers pulled the brim of the hat lower over his eyes to shield the glare of the sun. And such was his focus that he no longer noticed the cold stiffness in his knees or the numbness in his fingers and toes.

Georgiana felt the warm press of Nathaniel’s thigh next to hers and tried to pretend that she did not feel a sear of excitement quiver through her. Immediately opposite, in the small quarters of the hired coach, Mrs Howard sat, back straight, immaculately clothed, her eyes closed. Even while dozing, Mrs Howard managed to exude an air of serene sophistication. Georgiana, who was anything but relaxed, wondered if anything ever succeeded in rattling the modiste. Not for the first time did she covet just a little of that lady’s decorum. Seated beside the elegant figure was Nathaniel’s valet, Mr Fraser, who, with rather less delicacy, was lounging quite happily in the corner, making a sound like the workings of one of the great wood saws Georgiana had observed aboard the
Pallas.

Nathaniel’s eyebrow raised and he cast a jaundiced eye towards his valet. ‘It’s thanks to Mr Fraser here that I’ve learned to sleep soundly through the liveliest of gun practices at sea. One becomes inured to the sound of his snoring after a while. When we first knew one another, I made him sleep at the other end of the ship!’

Georgiana laughed. ‘Poor Mr Fraser. But it is a snore to outdo all others. How Mrs Howard can sleep with such a racket sounding I’ll never know. I think I begin to understand why there isn’t a Mrs Fraser.’ She pulled Nathaniel’s boat cloak more firmly around her and rubbed her fingers together. ‘Indeed, I suddenly realise how fortunate I am that you do not snore nearly so loud.’

‘Madam, I rebut your suggestion that I snore at all,’ he said solemnly, only the quirk of the muscle in his cheek giving lie to the austerity in his voice.

‘Nathaniel Hawke, you could rival the noise of an eighteen-pounder long gun on a bad night!’ she exclaimed saucily.

He moved to capture her hands. ‘Minx! Quite obviously I’m not tiring you out enough in bed if you imagine you hear such things in the night!’ As his fingers closed around hers, he frowned. ‘But you’re freezing!’ He rubbed her hands within his own, adding warmth with his breath. ‘Come here, you’ll be warmer on my knee, sweetheart.’

Before she could say otherwise, a pair of strong arms had pulled her deftly on to him, and her mouth had been robbed of one lusty kiss. ‘Nathaniel!’ she uttered in a furious whisper, her cheeks suddenly a picture of pretty pinkness. ‘We’re not alone, it’s broad daylight and we’re halfway across the countryside in a travelling coach!’ The horrified scandal in her expression drew the devil in him.

‘So?’ he asked. His dark eyes opened wide and innocent,
even as a wicked grin plucked at his sensual firm lips. ‘I know a method for warming you most thoroughly, lady wife.’ Long, lean fingers meandered over her arm in a tantalising fashion, drawing a gasp from Georgiana.

Mr Fraser chose that precise moment to stir within his sleep, mumbling in a blatant Scottish lilt, ‘You can’t be leaving wearing
that
neckcloth!’ It was clear that Captain Hawke’s rather relaxed attitude to his attire was the substance of Mr Fraser’s nightmares.

Georgiana and Nathaniel exchanged conspiratorial glances, suppressed a chuckle, and reverted to a more respectable seating arrangement. And just in time as Mrs Howard shortly awoke feeling much refreshed from her short nap.

It was early afternoon when Mr Praxton stood within the woodland surrounding the grounds of Collingborne House. The trees were dark and barren, their gnarled and twisted shapes softened by the deep green gloss of the interspersed holly bushes and their abundance of rich red berries. Black birds and mistle thrushes scurried in the surrounding shrubbery, pecking at the remains of autumnal wind-fallen apples. High in an oak tree a robin sounded its familiar call. But Walter Praxton was blind and deaf to the beauty that surrounded him, his eyes and ears trained only on the scene occurring some distance away on the steps of the great country mansion.

C
ollingborne House was more splendid than anything Georgiana had ever seen before, but its air of grand opulence could not hide the aura of sadness. With its red-coloured stone and white-bordered windows, the house was a bright jewel within the winter-darkened landscape. On arrival they had been ushered into a sun-filled drawing room while, beneath their polite façade, the servants ran around in a frenzy, informing the earl of his unexpected visitors and readying the bedrooms. It was not long before a familiar voice sounded from the doorway.

‘Georgiana!’ Mirabelle Farleigh, complete with baby in arms, paused by the door before rushing forward in a heady cloud of lavender-perfumed scent. ‘What are you doing here? And Nathaniel? This is a surprise!’ She eyed Mrs Howard with undisguised curiosity but in the most friendly of manners. Reaching forward, she clasped one of Georgiana’s hands that was peeping out from beneath the swathes of Nathaniel’s great boat cloak. ‘My word, but you’re cold, dear thing. Come and warm yourselves at the fire.’ She gestured towards the yellow flames blazing within the grate. ‘Don’t be shy,’ she added,
her eyes seeking those of Mrs Howard. Baby Richard gurgled his own welcome and pointed one tiny finger at Georgiana.

‘Mirabelle,’ said Nathaniel, ‘allow me to introduce Georgiana—’ he paused ‘—my wife, and her companion, Mrs Howard.’

For the first time since Lady Farleigh had entered the room silence reigned supreme. Even baby Richard stopped slavering against his mother’s arm. The petite flaxen-haired woman stumbled back to sit hastily on the sofa. Periwinkle-blue eyes stared like two large pennies and the perfectly formed mouth gaped round as if expressing a continuous ‘O'. ‘W…wife?’ she managed to stutter. And then the best of her breeding declared that Mrs Howard was most welcome at Collingborne and that she, herself, could not have wished for a more amiable sister. Reaching up to embrace Georgiana, she declared it was the best Christmas present she could have asked for. ‘Oh just think how delighted Henry will be! And Freddie! This is truly going to be a Christmas to remember!’

Nathaniel smiled wryly, convinced that the word
delight
would probably not describe his brothers’ feelings when they learned that Georgiana was his wife. But Mirabelle was right about one thing—this certainly would not be a Christmas to forget. And just at that point a scuttle of little feet outside the door announced the small sturdy frame of Charlie.

‘Unc Nath!’ he yelled from the doorway and scampered across the drawing room to tangle himself around his uncle’s long legs.

Laughing aloud, Nathaniel scooped the boy up high and kissed his chubby pink cheek. ‘And this is your Aunt Georgiana come to visit you for Christmas.’ Holding Charlie in his arms, he turned to face Georgiana, seeing the soft gentleness in his wife’s face as she looked at the child.

Charlie feigned shyness for a minute, then touched a small sticky hand to Georgiana’s arm. ‘Ant George,’ he said with the utmost politeness and smiled.

Dark eyes met grey blue, and crinkled. ‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ Nathaniel said, and passed a protective arm around Georgiana’s waist.

‘You sly dog!’ Freddie proclaimed with his usual abandon. His long legs were stretched out before him as he lounged back in the winged chair. ‘Telling me that Miss Raithwaite was highly unsuitable for marriage, then snapping her up for yourself.’

Henry stood by the library window, staring out at the frost-kissed lawns, a surly expression upon his face. ‘Her father owns coaching inns in Andover, Winchester and Newbury. Hardly a lineage to boast of. I didn’t think you’d stoop so low to spite Father. ‘