They stared at each other in silence. Finally, he spoke. “One day,” he said.
“One day,” she agreed.
“And send Rafferty to me.”
“He won’t bring you a bottle.”
“He damned well will, but we have a wager, and I don’t like to lose. He can help me bathe.”
Martina hid her smile. “Yes, sir,” she said with a demure curtsey, and backed out the door.
Chapter Seventeen
Rafferty was a man who knew his own mind—he’d never been troubled by doubts or second thoughts. He did what he had to do, with no regrets, and that had served him most of his life.
But as he strode down the chilly autumn streets of London, he was infuriatingly aware of a rare case of doubt. One thing was certain—he’d scared Georgie off him last night and her childish crush would be just that, crushed. He wouldn’t have to worry about her sneaking into his bedroom or planting kisses on him or watching him out of those soul-searching blue eyes. She was cured.
He wasn’t. The very thought of Andrew Salton paying court to her roused an absolute rage in his gut. He’d tossed the man’s card and put his floral tribute with Norah’s, lost in the mass of bouquets. It was only fitting—the violets he’d chosen were far too delicate for a harum-scarum creature like Georgie, as tone deaf a choice as the sweet pink roses.
He had yet to find a suitable substitute as husband material. Every possibility was either too old or too young, too stupid or too self-consciously clever, too poor or too rich. She needed someone kind and thoughtful, an ordinary man. Just not Andrew Salton. There was something definitely wrong about the man.
There was an absolute parade of eligible young men in the Manning household, all drawn by the Beauty, but they wouldn’t do either, though Rafferty couldn’t quite pin down why, he only knew that in all of London there was no one worthy of Georgie.
Certainly not a reprobate like him. Not that he was even tempted. That kiss had been instructional, nothing more. It didn’t matter that it wreaked havoc with his peace of mind. Peace of mind was overrated.
As if worrying about Georgie wasn’t enough, Martina was another problem. She was spending an inordinate amount of time with the young master Neddy, and even if he was newly sober, he was not for the likes of Martina. Rafferty hated to see her heart broken again, as it had been so many times, but his gentle word of warning had garnered him nothing but a laughing and totally false denial. He needed to get out of here, away from Georgie and all the temptation she offered, and he needed to take Martina with him. Not back to that fancified brothel, if he could help it, but somewhere she could bloom.
It was a cool day, without the drizzling rain that had been so omnipresent, and he strode down the street at his usual pace, not the butler’s furtive steps, when he realized he wasn’t alone. Someone was following him.
He paused, looking in a shop window, searching the reflection for Billy Stiles, but there was no toothy bastard that he could find among the throngs of people moving down the sidewalk. Cursing under his breath, he walked on, ducking down the first alley he came to.
Georgie came into view, and he surveyed her for a moment. She was looking beautiful in one of her new dresses. She was peering through the crowds, looking for him, and he reached out and yanked her into the alley, pushing her, not ungently, up against the brick wall.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, unable to keep the fury from his voice.
She blinked up at him, looking not the slightest bit cowed. “I was following you, of course. Since I knew you wouldn’t let me come if I asked.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You just seem to find excuses instead of taking me out,” she said, and he cursed inwardly.
“Why are you here?” he clarified, trying to grab a bit of errant patience.
“I wanted to be with you,” she said simply.
“Christ,” he muttered.
She blinked at his curse. “If you’d let me talk to you, then I wouldn’t have to sneak out and follow you.”
“I suppose no one knows you’re gone?”
A smug smile lit her face. “Of course not. They think I’m lying down with the headache.”
“And what if you didn’t catch up with me? What if Billy Stiles got to you first?”
Her smile faded somewhat. “I forgot about him. He wouldn’t really want to hurt me, would he? I mean, what good am I to him?”
“He’d cut your throat as soon as look at you. The man runs a gang of killers for hire, and he’s set his sights on you.”
