Stiles grinned at him, his teeth shining in the lamplight. “Of course they will. Trust me.”
That was the very last thing Rafferty was going to do.
After two sleepless hours, Georgie came to a very simple conclusion. She was going to have to seduce James Rafferty.
Not that she knew much, if anything, about seduction. Her only acquaintance was in the pages of racy French novels, and it was always the man who did the seducing. Unfortunately, it was clear she couldn’t count on Rafferty to do his part. He was determined to protect her, and she was going to have to find some way to overcome his scruples. She was here in his bed, all wrapped up and cozy, and she was tired of waiting.
She had a perfectly natural hesitation about the act, of course. The way Bertha had described it sounded messy and embarrassing, but Bertha had assured her that men were crazy for it, and after a while, women even liked it too. She had her doubts, but she suspected what women really liked was the cuddling afterward, not the actual deed itself. And she’d go through all manner of distasteful things to feel herself wrapped in Rafferty’s arms, have him kiss her again, gently. She wanted him to kiss her roughly even more—there had been something irresistible about the way he’d pushed her up against the door and claimed her mouth. Maybe those kinds of kisses were the reason women agreed to the whole mess—she knew she would.
But she had to make him want to kiss her. Want to lay her down on the bed and do the things Bertha had described in a matter of fact voice. She was a grown-up woman now—she could survive the act of copulation as so many others did. And it would be Rafferty touching her, Rafferty lying on top of her, Rafferty...
She’d found a basin of water and managed a makeshift bath, and then she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked ghostly pale in her plain white chemise, devoid of any of the laces or embroidery that decorated Norah’s underclothing. It wasn’t fair—she was going to go to bed with someone before her beauteous older sister did. She was the one who needed bridal underwear.
Her plan was simple. If Rafferty could be persuaded to debauch her, then he’d simply have to marry her. She’d be ruined for anyone else, thankfully so, and Rafferty would have no choice. It didn’t matter that he said he didn’t care for her—that was clearly a lie. He wouldn’t kiss her, he wouldn’t be providing her with pretty things, he wouldn’t fight so hard to keep away from her if she didn’t matter.
She was young but not that naïve—most butlers would take what was offered quite happily. Rafferty’s diffidence only meant that he cared about her.
She turned from the mirror, a disconsolate frown on her face. It was inescapable—she was no great beauty like her sister, but for some reason Rafferty seemed to prefer her, when all her life she’d been simply the younger sister, easy to forget. Even Andrew Salton had been lying to her.
But when Rafferty looked at her, he saw her, really saw her. And she’d go through anything to keep it that way.
She was starving—stuck up in her room, she hadn’t eaten anything but the stale toast from her untouched breakfast. If she was going to seduce Rafferty, she needed some sustenance; it wasn’t going to be easy. Grabbing her candle, she made her way through the rooms until she found the small kitchen in the back. Did Rafferty cook for himself? She had made some progress with Bertha’s tutelage, but she was going to have to learn more if she was going to take proper care of him.
She was good at toast, and there was half a loaf of bread in the scullery, but the big stove was banked down, making it a more dangerous task than usual. She burnt her hand, but success was finally hers, though making a pot of tea proved beyond her capabilities. She took her jam-smeared toast back into the salon, curling up on the window seat near the banked fireplace. The place was getting colder, and she shivered slightly as she tucked into the bread. And then she saw the brandy bottle.
If she were about to go through an ordeal, a little brandy might be just the thing to lessen her fears. She wasn’t really frightened—Rafferty would take care of her. But Dutch courage was never a bad idea.
Except when she had three glasses. By that time she was deliciously warm, having stirred the coals with a fire poker that reminded her of the night she’d found him in her father’s office, looking for the mysterious treasure he talked about, one that probably didn’t exist. She had just started singing to herself when she heard the key in the lock, and she knew her time had come.
He looked tired, and bad-tempered. “I told you to go to bed,” he said abruptly, locking the door and divesting himself of his warm coat.
“I was waiting for you.”
His reaction wasn’t promising. “I’m here now. Go back to bed.”
“Where were you?”
“None of your damned business.”
This was looking more difficult, and she wanted to snap back at him, but she controlled her irritation. “Was anyone at the house?”
“Your old friend Stiles was. It’s a bloody good thing he didn’t find you there—he’s not known for his gentlemanly behavior.”
“You’re not doing too good a job yourself at the moment,” she said sulkily. “He’s your fault, not mine.”
“True enough. He’ll be gone by morning and I’ll take you back.”
“I want to stay here. This place belongs to you, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t look surprised. “It does.”
“How does a beggar afford rooms in this part of town?” she demanded.
“I told you, I’m a liar and a thief. Everything I’ve told you has been a lie.”
“You keep telling me you don’t care about me,” she pointed out. “Is that a lie?”
“Go to bed, Georgie.”
