Prologue
April 1815
George Comerford wrapped his hand around the front of Caroline Spenser’s throat, the possessiveness of the gesture sending delicious heat through her body as he pushed her front against the library wall. “Now,” he murmured in her ear, one hand at the fall of his breeches. He fumbled a little as he freed himself, and Caroline hoisted her dress further out of the way. They had perhaps ten minutes before they risked being discovered, and, as always, that risk of discovery added an edge to her pleasure. Frantic, hot, beyond the point of no return.
This was how she preferred to conduct her liaisons: with breathless urgency. She had never been one to submit to a man making love to her—there was nothing of love in what she did. Gentleman had one thing and one thing alone to offer, and it was entirely unconnected to the heart.
The thing George Comerford had to offer pressed against the flesh of her buttocks, parting her cheeks and sliding between and through to enter her from behind. Already slick, she groaned as he pushed, and he cursed. The hand that wasn’t on her throat came to splay on her stomach, holding her in place against him, and she found she liked the possessiveness. This was the first time he had asserted his dominance in quite that way, and she was more than happy to yield to the commands of his body.
Two days ago, she had not so much as met George Comerford; when they left for London once more in twelve days, there was an unspoken agreement that whatever this was would come to an end. While she was there at Worthington Hall, however, she hoped they would continue to dothisas frequently as possible.
He hissed another curse in her ear and tightened his hold on her throat. She arched her back, tipping her head back until it rested on his shoulder, and gave herself over to him.
Chapter One
May 1815
“How is he?” George asked as he divested himself of his hat and gloves in the front hall. Forbes, the elderly butler his father had insisted on transplanting to Bath, inclined his head.
“The waters have been helping, sir.”
George bit back his grimace with difficulty. He had only tasted Bath’s famous waters once, and it had been enough to convince him that they could not be of any help. But if his father believed in them, then by all means he would let it continue. “Is he well enough to see me?” he asked.
“I shall inform him of your arrival, sir.”
“I’ll wait in the library.” Steps idle, he strolled into the house’s mediocre library. When he had been at Cambridge, he had thrown himself into his studies with unbecoming enthusiasm, and it had taken years for him to improve his reputation. Whenno one else was around, however, he allowed himself a moment to appreciate the grandeur that was literature. Not merely the fashionable quotes to produce to his fellows, but the sheer wonder that accompanied the collection of ideas. At thirteen, he had used to lie on the floor of his father’s study and read Shakespeare, marvelling at the use of language.
Now, however, as he dragged his fingers along the leather spines, his reflection on the noble art was interrupted by far less noble thoughts. In essence, ones of a certain lady whom he had pushed up against shelves similar to this. Her breasts against the books, her head half turned so he could see the hectic flush on her pretty cheeks, her skirts around her wide hips.
Forbes entered the room with a slight bow. “Your father is ready to see you, sir.”
Clearing his throat, George nodded and waved for the butler to lead the way. The townhouse was narrow and tall, and they climbed two sets of stairs before finally coming to his father’s room. It was by far the nicest in the house, but it was a fool’s choice to situate himself upstairs when his health had declined.
Forbes opened the door with a murmured “Mr Comerford here to see you, my lord”, and closed it behind George the moment he stepped in.
The room was darkened, burnt sage hanging in the air, and the curtains pulled close. In the armchair by the fire, sitting bolt upright despite his shaking hands, was his father.
George’s first instinct was to pity the man. Benjamin Comerford, Viscount Worthington, was a proud man, and had in his prime been known as an excellent hunter and bruising rider. Now he was a gaunt shadow of his former self, burning sage to keep the spirits away, though when healthy he would have derided the existence of such things.
Then his father fastened him with an icy glare that time had not diluted, and his pity melted into something hotter like anger. Resentment.
Hardly surprising: their relationship over the years had been strained at best.
“You should try opening a window,” he remarked as he strolled forwards, taking the seat opposite his father. “I find fresh air does wonders when one is feeling under the weather.”
His father’s bony hands tightened around his handkerchief, and George noticed that the white material was stained red.
“How goes your search?” the Viscount asked, voice scratchy and weak. “Have you found a suitable wife yet?”
“How delightful that we are not even to exchange pleasantries before getting into it.”
“I do not have time for pleasantries,” his father said. Once, when he was a boy, George recalled his father being almost good-tempered.
Ah, heady days. Long in the past now.
“I have not yet made my choice,” George said, crossing his legs. “Be assured when I do, I will let you know.”
“You’re confident of being received well?”
