“No,” he said gently. “Become its mistress, and mine.”
She could hide the truth no longer. She could simply disappear, never tell him, but that wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she said carefully. “I haven’t had a blameless life.”
“Who has? Give me one reason why you don’t want to live me.”
“It wouldn’t be good for you.”
“Now you’re acting like Rafferty, and we just sent Georgie off to make him see reason. Allow me to be the judge of what’s good for me.”
“I lived in a brothel!” she said abruptly.
He simply nodded. “I know you’ve had a hard life. All the more reason to make it easy. Come with me.”
“I can’t!” she said, tears filling her eyes. They were in the middle of London, outside of the house on Corinth Place, and she was going to have to tell him. And what would he do? At best, he’d simply walk away from her in disgust. At worst...
He caught her, his hands on her upper arms, holding her gently. “Tell me why, my dear. I thought we understood each other tolerably well—what’s troubling you?”
“I’m not what you think I am,” she said brokenly, afraid to look into his dear, kind face.
“Then tell me. What’s this deep dark secret?”
She pulled free and turned her back on him, taking a deep breath. “I’m not really a woman,” she said. “I’m a man.”
She heard him make a strange noise, and she wondered if he was going to be ill in horror at the thought. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said, starting to turn. “I understand if you’re disgusted, if you hate me, if you...are you laughing?”
He wiped his streaming eyes. “My dear, what kind of idiot do you think I am? I’ve known since the day I stopped drinking. Now will you stop this shilly-shallying and kiss me?”
“In public? For all to see?” she demanded, shocked.
“In public. For all to see,” he echoed, and pulled her into his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rafferty was sprawled in a chair by the fire in the great kitchen, a glass of brandy in his hand. He’d been drinking too much for the last few weeks, and it was not improving his dark mood. He should be a happy man—all his troubles were over. Billy Stiles was dead and his men weren’t interested in revenge. He’d walked away from his temporary madness of working as a butler, and he’d left Georgie behind to fall in love with someone suitable. He’d even been insane enough to give up Belding’s cache to the impoverished Mannings. Not that he’d needed it, but could one ever be too rich?
He was back at the sprawling farm that had been his home away from London for the last five years, the place of peace and tranquility. He’d had enough of London to last a lifetime, and it would take a great deal to lure him back there.
Maybe he’d go back when Georgie got married, just to see that she looked happy and in love. Enough to close that chapter in his life.
Because he still wanted her. He’d been so sure that once he’d gotten away from her, he’d forget all about her, but she lingered in his dreams, in his waking moments, when he least expected her she came and whispered in his ear, and only the brandy would silence her. And the brandy didn’t help his none-too-charming temper.
The door opened and Jenkins came in, carrying an armful of firewood. “You’ll be needing to get a boy for this kind of work,” he intoned. “It’s beneath my dignity as your valet.”
“I thought you were my butler,” Rafferty drawled.
“Not much call for a butler in a farmhouse.”
‘Not much call for a valet for a farmer.”
“Are you dismissing me, Rafferty?” Jenkins demanded haughtily.
“Not if you bring in more wood. It’s going to be a cold night.”
Jenkins sighed, dumping the wood by the fireplace. “You’ve been in a right foul mood since you got here,” he pointed out. “Don’t you think you ought to do something about it?”
“About what?”
“About the lady. You’ve been like a moonling, wandering around the place like a bear with a sore paw. Why don’t you go back for her?”
