The Greatest Lover Ever (11 page)

Oddly, he found that his hands shook when he tied his cravat. He tied it the same way every time but now he couldn’t seem to get it right.

For an instant, he held out his hand flat, palm down, and watched it tremble. Then he stripped off the crumpled neck-cloth and picked another from the pile.

“Country balls are not the same,” said Lydgate, unfolding his long, lean body from the chair and approaching Beckenham at the full-length looking glass. “Here, let me.”

Beckenham growled and shook him off. Annoyance lent him the necessary determination and he tied his cravat with his usual neat propriety, if not with flair.

Lydgate sighed. “You look as somber as an undertaker. At least use a jewel or something to liven it up a bit.”

Beckenham grunted. “Sorry, I left my tiara at home.” He picked up his black evening coat. “Help me with this, will you?”

Lydgate muscled him into the close-fitting coat. “Your tailoring is all it should be, at all events,” he muttered.

“Weston makes all my coats,” Beckenham said indifferently. He gave a slight smile. “I do listen to you on occasion, Cousin.”

“Listen to me now, then,” said Lydgate seriously.
“Don’t do it.”

Startled, Beckenham frowned. “What?”

“Don’t make another play for Georgie Black.”

Beckenham suppressed the oath that rose to his lips. He ought not to be surprised. “The Idle Intelligencer has not been so idle it seems.”

“So you don’t deny it.”

Beckenham shrugged. Why bother? They would all know soon enough when he became betrothed to Georgie Black once more.

It had occurred to him that the circumstance would create a sensation both in his family and among the Ton. But the more he’d considered the matter, the more he’d known it absolutely must happen.

That’s what he’d been waiting for all these years. Another chance.

This was no longer about the joining of bloodlines or estates. She must believe the latter at any event, for she had not inherited Cloverleigh. This was about …

He frowned. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was about. Only that he had to have her. He wouldn’t let her slip through his fingers again.

“You’re too late, Lydgate,” he said, straightening his ruffled cuffs. “I’ve asked Georgie Black to be my wife.”

The stunned expression in Lydgate’s blue eyes was swiftly replaced by suspicion. “She tricked you, didn’t she? She entrapped you at the party. Georgiana Black was the shady lady.”

“She did not entrap me. In fact, she has rejected my suit.” That last part had been abominably difficult to admit.

It certainly arrested Lydgate’s righteous anger. He shook his head. “She’s playing a deep game, mark my words.”

“My dear Lydgate, if she was so determined to have me, she wouldn’t have called off our betrothal all those years ago. She wouldn’t have rejected my proposal yesterday.”

But he had to convince her to accept him tonight.

He was well aware that his attitude had undergone a complete reversal in the space of that hour or so he’d spent in her company yesterday.

He’d gone from performing an unpleasant duty with the fervent hope—nay, the comfortable conviction—that she’d reject him, to burning with righteous fury when she’d refused to at least acknowledge what had happened between them.

He’d wanted to see some sign of how deeply that encounter had affected her. Surely it must have thrown her into chaos, as it had him. How could it not?

And then … He didn’t know when, but somehow that emotion had transformed into a steadfast desire to turn back the clock and right past mistakes. He
wanted
her to say yes. He wasn’t so perverse or so shallow that he wanted her only because she didn’t want him.

And she
did
want him. That trembling, husky voice still echoed in his head, begging him not to go.

He faced Lydgate. “You will not meddle in my affairs.”

Regret tinged Lydgate’s expression. “No, Becks. I see it is far too late for that.”

They arrived at the ball sometime before eleven o’clock. Beckenham ought to have left it later, perhaps, but he didn’t want to risk missing her. Ladies like Georgie always kept several engagements each night. She’d once remarked to him that unmarried ladies must feel like traveling salesmen, peddling their wares hither and yon.

He’d thought her pleasantly smug in her own status as his betrothed. He’d liked it.

If only he’d known.

The distance of this house from the town of Brighton itself meant that it would most likely be the final destination of guests this evening. Some would stay overnight; some would be driven back to town in the wee hours by their sleepy coachmen.

Xavier had easily secured Beckenham an invitation. Few hostesses would refuse admittance to an earl. Even fewer hostesses with marriageable daughters would turn away an unmarried earl.

He wouldn’t be an unmarried earl for much longer. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Chapter Seven

For the first time that evening, Georgie felt the tension about her neck and shoulders ease the tiniest bit.

She enjoyed dancing and tonight she’d chosen partners for their agility and grace. The waltz, so scandalous to the older generation, had surely been put on earth just for her. She thought of nothing but the dance.

And if every time a tall, dark-haired gentleman entered the ballroom her heart skipped merrily into her throat, that was mere folly. Beckenham never attended society balls. He wouldn’t break any of his cast-iron rules for her.

Drifting through the crowd at the conclusion of one of the sets, Georgie spied Lord Pearce. Quickly, she turned and headed in the opposite direction, trying not to appear as if she hurried. Drat her hair. He would spot her immediately.

True to her prediction, Pearce caught up with her in the card room ten minutes later and bowed over her hand. “My dear Miss Black. Were you avoiding me?”

“Why would I do that, sir?” She slipped her hand from his with more haste than politeness and moved away from him, ostensibly to watch the play.

He followed, of course. “I’d hoped for a word with you alone.”

“You won’t get it,” she said through her smiling teeth. “Good God, sir. Haven’t you done enough?”

His voice hardened. “My dear Miss Black. I haven’t started yet.”

Her stomach clenched with fear but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her distress. She lifted her chin and joined in the general murmur of approbation when Mr. Tilton won his hand at piquet.

“Don’t you wonder why I’m back in England?” he said. “My aunt, bless her, is about to cock up her toes. My obscenely rich, horribly high-in-the-instep aunt.”

“Indeed?” she said. “I would commiserate but I suspect you will be more likely to celebrate.”

“Oh, yes. For she intends to leave her entire fortune to me.”

She hissed out a breath but her tension wouldn’t ease. “I cannot conceive what interest you think I have in your fortunes.”

He raised his eyebrows in gentle disbelief.

After a pause, he said, “I’d always thought to return to see you comfortably wed with a gaggle of children around you. I am glad it is not so.”

She stared at him incredulously. He didn’t have the unmitigated arrogance to believe she’d waited for him, did he?

“You never did anything that smacked of the commonplace,” he added in a curiously husky tone. His gaze ran over her. “I thought you a pearl past price when you were eighteen. I’d never have guessed you’d grow even more ravishing with time.”

She was too accustomed to flattery to blush and bridle at this sentiment. How like a man to think all he need do was praise a woman’s appearance for her to melt at his feet.

“And yet, I fear I cannot return the compliment, Lord Pearce.
You
are quite dreadfully commonplace, you know.”

Unperturbed, he said, “Oh, not commonplace, surely. Obvious, perhaps. Your beauty is so dazzling, my dear, no red-blooded male could fail to remark upon it.”

Beckenham had not remarked upon it, she thought. And didn’t know whether to be resentful or grateful for the circumstance.

Now she came to think of it, not even when she’d stood with Beckenham in that quiet, fraught bedchamber had he made one allusion to her appearance. Granted, she’d worn a mask, but the Marquis of Steyne hadn’t been so reticent a few minutes earlier, had he?

Perhaps Beckenham didn’t admire her style of beauty. A lowering thought.

“So solemn,” said that hateful, mocking voice. From the corner of her eye she saw Pearce draw his snuffbox from his pocket. “Are you afraid of me?”

She sniffed. “You forget who bested whom in our last encounter, my lord.”

He turned the snuffbox in his fingers. “I would rather call the result of that last contest a draw. And unlike you and my lord Beckenham, I have one last card to play.”

The blood turned to ice water in her veins. How could she have overlooked that?

“Yes, I see you remember.”

The hard knot in her chest tightened. “You’d seek to ruin me.”

“Not if you give me what I desire, my dear.”

She forced herself to ask. “And what is that?”

He laughed softly. “Now, now. Such things ought not to be rushed. All in good time.”

He took a pinch of snuff and dusted his fingers. “I must compliment you on your charming sister, my dear.”

So he had known who Violet was at that awful party! Georgie wasn’t controlled enough to conceal her reaction. “Stay away from her,” she hissed. “If you hurt her, I will make you wish you were never born.”

“I was fortunate enough to meet Miss Violet at—” He tapped his lip thoughtfully. “Now, where was it again? Oh, yes, now I recall. It must have been in Promenade Grove. Or was it at Pavilion Parade, with that dragon of a maid of yours? A vast pity Miss Violet is not out yet. She will take the Ton by storm.”

“I refuse to discuss my sister with the likes of you, my lord.”

Georgie could barely move her lips. She felt as if she’d been sculpted from ice. She didn’t know whether to believe him ignorant of Violet’s presence at Steyne’s villa. Pearce was the sort of man who didn’t miss anything. The mere fact her sister’s name crossed his lips was an affront.

Had he met Violet often in Brighton without Georgie’s knowledge? That could well be the case. Even though Violet wasn’t out in society, she went for walks with her friends and took part in harmless entertainments like picnics and day excursions with other young ladies and gentlemen of her age. All under strict chaperonage, of course.

But she knew from experience how adept Pearce could be at eluding and confounding chaperones.

The suspicion that he meant to use Violet to hurt her grew.

He glanced around him at the card tables. “The play here is remarkably dull. Shall we return to the ballroom, my dear?”

Georgie’s mind seethed with possibilities. What did Pearce want from her? If she knew that, she might discover how he meant to go about achieving his ends. If he still desired to wed her, he would not publish the letter. If he wanted something else—revenge, perhaps—he need have no such scruples.

He held out his arm to her with smooth, confident expectation. She didn’t want to touch him but prudence forced her to comply. Laying her fingertips on his arm was like stroking a coiled viper.

Pearce looked down at her with a glint in his eyes. “Smile like you mean it, dear Georgiana.”

Gritting her teeth into the semblance of a smile, she replied, “May you rot in Hades, my lord.”

He laughed as if she’d made some irresistible witticism. “Oh, undoubtedly. But I believe I shall enjoy myself considerably before I meet my fiery fate.”

She had no doubt he’d enjoy himself by punishing her for what she’d done to him all those years ago. But if tonight’s conversation were anything to judge by, he intended to play with her first. He meant to take pleasure in a slow, drawn-out torture.

Had she been stupid to give him that kind of power? At the time, she’d seen no alternative. She’d made her decision with nary a thought for herself.

No, that wasn’t the case. She’d considered the consequences and decided she could bear any punishment Lord Pearce meted out.

Now she would reap what her eighteen-year-old self had sown. Older and wiser, she was no longer certain she could bear such a bitter harvest.

She could only guess what he intended, what her choices might be. Ruination, certainly. Marriage to Pearce. Or did he no longer care about wedding her, now that he was to inherit a fortune? Would he insist on taking her as his mistress instead?

Worse than any of those unpalatable alternatives, did he mean to court Violet? Georgie knew—none better!—how beguiling Pearce could be.

Perhaps, she thought, rather desperately, she might at least distract him from Violet. There was only one way she could think of to do that. She must let him get close to her again.

And just when Beckenham …
Beckenham
.

The thought of him stopped her heart. She could not allow him to be drawn into this mess a second time. History repeating itself with a vengeance.

Thank God she’d refused him outright during their drive yesterday morning. When he pursued her so doggedly all day, she’d wavered. If only he’d court her properly, she’d thought. No, not court her.
Woo
her like a lover instead of treating her like a tiresome obligation.

The hot spike of excitement she’d experienced when a panting Smith scurried into her bedchamber to tell her Beckenham was on his way in to see her bathe that evening had been deliciously intense. She liked flirting with Beckenham. She’d never been able to coax him into such risqué frivolity when they were betrothed.

Perhaps, she’d said to herself, if he’d only bend, just a little … If she could see a way to make him fall in love with her …

But now such wistful daydreams had been shattered by the hateful man beside her.

Her pride raged at being obliged to endure his company a second longer than she wished. Over the past year or so, she’d become accustomed to ordering her life largely as she pleased, with no man to stymie her. No Papa, no Lord Beckenham. Even her trustees were easily handled. She had only to bat her lashes and smile and they would do whatever she wanted—within reason.