He looked down into her guileless blue eyes. “Have you forgotten last night? You need a gentleman who’ll treat you with respect, not maul you.”
“You didn’t maul me,” she said calmly enough. “You kissed me. I thought that was the way you usually kissed.” She smiled up at him. “I liked it.”
He stifled his groan. “That’s not the way the gentry kiss,” he said, knowing it was a lie.
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not in love with a member of the gentry.”
He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to drag her into the nearest alleyway and give her another lesson in the art of kissing, show her how to kiss him back, show her?—
“The right man will come along,” he said, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Anyway, it’s none of my business. Whom you marry is your father’s decision. I’ll be long gone by then.” It had to be. There were only a few places left to look—the empty attic with the deserted servants’ quarters, the gloomy confines of the coal cellar. Hell, he’d even scour the roof if need be, but he had to hurry things up.
“What?” Her head shot up.
“My time in your household is coming to an end. I appreciate the opportunity you’ve given me, but I have my own life to get back to. My own problems to deal with.”
“You’re leaving?” Her voice was so low he had trouble hearing her, but he nodded.
“Once I get Stiles sorted, there won’t be any use for me. Then you won’t have to deal with my picking and choosing who you should marry. Just not Salton.” He wished he could see her expression, but she was staring down at the street, her face hidden by her bonnet. “There’ll be other men. It’s not like you’re in love with him.”
“No,” she said. “I’m in love with you.” Without another word, she started in the direction of Corinth Place, and he had no choice but to follow after her, cursing himself as they went.
They met Martina on the corner of the square, racing in their direction., her shawl blowing in the wind. “Miss Georgie!” she cried out. “Thank God Rafferty found you! Don’t you know it’s dangerous to go out on your own?”
“I wanted some fresh air, and there was no one around to accompany me,” she said, but her voice was curiously listless.
Martina looked at him, a speaking expression in her dark eyes, and he knew they were going to have to have a talk about the situation, something he dreaded. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about Georgie, and certainly not to someone who was deluded enough to think he had feelings for her.
“Take her back home,” he said. “I’ll be back in another hour or so.”
He waited for Georgie to protest, but she said nothing, and the anger that was never far away from him nowadays surged back. His lively Georgie...no, not his Georgie...was looking diminished.
He’d made a botch of everything, and it was time to end it. End Stiles, and his bully boys would concentrate on other things—they had no quarrel with him. Find the damned cache, though it seemed as if he’d looked everywhere. He’d done what he could to bring the Mannings back to solvency, but in the end they weren’t his responsibility, just an errant whim on his part. They would do fine without him, and if they didn’t, so be it. They could sink or swim for all he cared.
“Lock her in her room,” he said gruffly, not allowing himself to look at her too closely. “Tie her up if you have to. Just make sure she doesn’t leave the house on her own again.”
“Yes, master,” Martina said in a cheeky voice, threading her arm through Georgie’s. “Let’s go home, lovey.”
And Georgie turned her back on him without another word.
It was a short walk back to the house, but for Georgie it seemed endless as Martina kept up a line of soothing chatter. Georgie only half listened. She felt curiously sluggish, as if she were fighting her way through jellied consommé, and there was nothing she wanted to say or do but throw herself on her bed and weep.
Rafferty was leaving. She knew it wasn’t an empty threat—indeed, she’d been afraid this day would come since the moment he first set foot in the house. He wasn’t made to be a butler, even though he certainly was a splendid one. No, he was something far grander, like...like a pirate, or a highwayman, or something. And he didn’t want her.
Rafferty’s kiss...she still wasn’t quite sure what she thought of it. She needed him to kiss her again so she could ponder it. Her reaction had been more physical than intellectual. It was the kiss of a man who wanted a woman, she was sure of that much. So why was he leaving?
“We’d best go in through the kitchen,” Martina said. “No one else knows you went out.”
She roused herself. “How did you?”
“Because Rafferty had ordered me to keep an eye on you while Stiles is still about,” she said frankly, heading down the stone steps.
“But why? I don’t understand why Mr. Stiles would want to hurt me. He was being pleasant enough at tea.” She remembered his unctuous manner and controlled her little shiver of dislike. There’d been something in his flat black eyes, a malice that chilled her to the bone.
“He knows you’re Rafferty’s weakness.”
Georgie lifted her head, a thread of hope spearing the darkness. “I am?”
Martina looked annoyed, though Georgie knew it was with herself. “You are,” she said reluctantly.
