The Decadent Duke (11 page)

“She's a little saucebox. At the wedding I asked Huntly for an introduction to the lovely goddess he was keeping to himself. He told me she was his sister and strictly off-limits to me, and wasn't even out yet. Georgina gave me a teasing smile and promised:
When I do come out, I shall be delighted to make your acquaintance.
She was obviously attracted to me.”

John's imagination allowed him to hear her saucy words clearly. “She's extremely young,” he repeated.

“Young or not, she won't be off-limits once she comes out. A hundred guineas says I'll bed the little hellcat.”

“Damn you, Francis, I won't wager with you about bedding a virgin. Whatever gives you the remotest idea that you can accomplish such a shameful thing?”

“I managed to bed Louisa Gordon,” he said with a leer. “Next on the agenda is Lady Georgina. She's got a delicious pair of dolly-knockers, old man.”

Old man! That's what Georgina called me.
John got to his feet abruptly. “I think I'll call it a day. Good night, Francis.”

 
As John Russell disrobed, he was gripped by a cold anger. Because they had lost both their parents by the time John was three, the brothers had formed a special bond of unusual strength.

Francis led the promiscuous life of a bachelor, and John had never condemned him for the numerous mistresses he kept. Each one seemed to fulfill a different need in his brother, and John had always excused him for his sexual excesses.

When Francis returned from his grand tour, he'd traveled from Paris with Lord and Lady Maynard and lived in a ménage a trois with the couple for many years. The older woman had a notorious past, although she was well educated.

Nancy Maynard's appeal was more than physical. She taught him to appreciate literature and poetry, and as a result Francis can recite Ovid by heart.
The thought of his brother reciting Ovid to Georgina Gordon only fueled John's anger.

Naked, he paced across to the window and gazed with unseeing eyes into the dark night.
Why the devil does Francis's prurient interest in Georgina Gordon infuriate me? The young woman means absolutely nothing to me.
In spite of what he told himself, the fact remained that he was incensed over his brother's attempted wager to bed the lady.
I would be offended no matter who the female was, if she were young and innocent.
An inner voice nagged:
Are you sure, old man?

Illegitimate children are commonplace with the
beau monde
, from the Prince of Wales down to those of the lowest noble rank. It's almost considered fashionable, for Christ's sake. I have always turned a blind eye to my brother's peccadilloes. Why do I suddenly find it bloody reprehensible?

John knew the answer. Lady Georgina Gordon. The little beauty might be high-spirited and saucy in the extreme, but she was a young innocent girl who deserved to be protected from the debauchery of an older man who was a premier duke of the realm. There was nothing noble about his brother's intentions, and tomorrow he would tell him so.

A movement outside caught John's attention. A nerve ticked in his jaw as he watched Francis leave the house and follow a path that would take him to the cottage of Molly Hill. His vivid imagination pictured Francis, complete with riding crop, enjoying a lusty sexual gallop with his horse-faced harridan.
Tallyho!

 
That night, John's sleep was fitful to say the least, but finally after tossing and turning for hours, he drifted into a dream.
He was alone, riding through the forest on a warm summer day. He felt free and alive and amazingly tranquil. Then, suddenly, he heard a cry of distress and, thinking it was an animal caught in a trap, he began a search to track it down. The hunt took him deeper into the forest, where the trees grew closer together, making it difficult for his horse. He was relieved when a clearing opened up before him, but his relief was short-lived.

 
John woke up in a sweat. It was a few minutes before he realized he was not in the woods, but in bed at Woburn. He was relieved that the episode was not real. It was only a dream. And yet he pondered why on earth he had dreamed such a thing. The part where he had smashed Francis in the jaw for his attempted ravishment of Georgina Gordon was explained easily enough. He had gone to bed angry with his brother for his prurient interest in the girl. What baffled him was his own seduction of Georgina.

He put it down to the sexual drought he had endured for the past nine years. Perhaps unconsciously his physical needs had been transferred to his dream.
That still doesn't explain why Lady Georgina Gordon was the object of my desire. She is more child than woman. I'm fifteen years older than the girl.
John grimaced.
That's why she calls me old man.

Until nine years ago, John Russell had been a faithful husband. Since then, though he'd had an occasional slip, he had never taken a mistress. His friendship with Lady Sandwich had resulted in an intimate interlude upon rare occasions, but what he felt for widowed Lady Anne was affection and respect, rather than any deep-rooted passion.

Because of his own lapse of infidelity, he had never condemned his brother's multiple liaisons. Francis belonged to the inner circle of the Prince of Wales, and loose morals ran rampant in that crowd. Now, however, John felt disgust at his brother's lecherous interest in young unwed girls. When Francis revealed that he had bedded Lady Louisa Gordon, John had been thoroughly shocked. A picture of Louisa and Georgina Gordon flashed into his mind.
The Gordon daughters have been brought up in a most unconventional manner. Perhaps Jane Gordon has urged them to go to any lengths to trap wealthy, noble husbands. Perhaps the little honeypots have been taught that beauty and promiscuity are an irresistible combination.
The thought angered him further.

 
The following morning, after breakfast, John made a suggestion. “Why don't we have a game of tennis on that grand indoor court of yours, Francis? A game of doubles will be good practice for the boys.”

“I'm glad you suggested it, John. My namesake and I will take on you and William. What do you say, Francis?”

“That sounds jolly good, sir, if you have the patience to play with a rank amateur.”

“Your youthful vigor will make up for your lack of expertise.”

They all went along to the indoor tennis court, and Johnny offered to retrieve the balls. They tossed a coin for first serve, which Francis lost.

John smiled with anticipation and allowed his fierce anger full rein. With little help from his partner, he had Francis gasping for breath as he desperately tried to return the ball, and John trounced his brother badly. The battle was fought and won quickly; he beat Francis by sheer dint of will and fury.

“When the devil did you become so good at the game?” Francis demanded. “I'm glad we didn't have a wager on the outcome.”

“Since you like fun and games and enjoy wagers so much, let's have a hundred guineas on another match. It'll give you a sporting chance to redeem yourself.”

“Well, if I can take William for my partner this time.”

“Done!” John was chafing at the bit. Ordinarily, he was no match for Francis, but today he felt an insatiable need to beat the devil out of him. Even if it was only symbolic.

By the time the match was over, Francis had had the wind knocked out of him and was pressing his hand to a tender spot in his belly that had plagued him on and off since boyhood.

“Are you all right?” John asked with concern. “Bloody hernia popped out. I'd have trounced you soundly otherwise.”

It took the pleasure from John's victory. His brother could not bear to lose and always had a ready excuse. He felt most of his anger against Francis melt away. Most, but not all, he realized, and decided to tell him bluntly that his dishonorable intensions toward Lady Georgina were not only shameless, they were unacceptable.

Georgina stood patiently while the fashionable modiste fitted her for the court gown she would wear when she was presented to Queen Charlotte.

“It must be kept simple,” the Duchess of Gordon stressed.

“White is most flattering for Lady Georgina because of her lovely coloring,” Madame Chloe said truthfully.

“Yes, I quite agree. Some of the other debutantes, one in particular who shall remain nameless, will look gauche and washed out in a plain white gown.”

Before her mother divulged she was speaking about the Duchess of Devonshire's daughter, Georgina said, “I would prefer a little decoration . . . perhaps a lace edging around the sleeves and a white rose at the high waistline, beneath my breasts.”

“Ah yes,” her mother agreed, “a flower just coming into bloom.”

Georgina's eyes sparkled with mirth, but she managed to keep from laughing out loud.

“How soon can the gown be ready, Madame Chloe?”

“I have orders for so many court gowns,” the modiste said vaguely.

“But surely you will put the Gordons at the head of your list?”

“Mother, there is lots of time.”

“Indeed there is not. You are to have your portrait painted in the gown before you are presented to Queen Charlotte. This is one of the most important occasions of your entire life, Georgina. I have only one daughter left to launch into society. We have saved the best for last. We must plan down to the finest detail. You must start working on your guest list immediately.”

“Guest list?”

“For your coming-out ball, Georgina. Since it will be one of the most eagerly awaited debutante events of the winter season, we must make it a very grand affair.”

Georgina felt as if a trap were closing in on her and the need for escape rose up and made her short of breath. A plan ran through her head like quicksilver. “Perhaps you could have the gown ready by Friday, since Mother has already arranged for me to sit for my portrait next week.”

Jane gave her daughter an approving glance.

As soon as the portrait is done, I'll go to Scotland and visit Father. I'll beg him to return with me for my presentation at court. He likely won't bother to come if I don't cajole him.
The thought that her father had little interest in her drained away her confidence and was replaced by an overwhelming vulnerability. She closed her eyes and made a wish.
Now all I have to do is talk Mother into letting me go.

 
“The bracken has already started to turn color.” Georgina gazed from the coach window, drinking in the unparalleled beauty of the Scottish countryside.

Helen Taylor, the Scotswoman who had been her wet nurse when she was a baby, was her traveling companion. “Aye, the last half of August is still summer in London, but up here autumn is already painting the landscape and, come September, the nights will be verra chilly, ma lamb.”

“We won't be able to stay long. I gave Mother my word of honor that I would be back in London by the middle of September. That's the only reason she allowed me to come.”
That, and the fact that I promised to ask Father to pay for my coming-out ball.

The coach driver maneuvered through the narrow streets of Edinburgh, where they planned an overnight stay before continuing to the Highlands. When he pulled up before the fashionable town house in George Square, a familiar manservant hurried down the steps and opened the coach door.