Except he was finding it harder and harder to think of her as a child after last night. She’d laid in his arms, warm and pliant, she’d welcomed him into her body, she’d held him as he found his release. She’d been shyly adventurous, doing what he’d told her, and she’d looked him with such adoration that it made him want to hit somebody. Where the hell was Billy Stiles when he needed him?
She’d gone straight to her room, and he hadn’t seen any sign of her all day. It was no surprise—he’d been too busy driving Jane and Betsey to attack the appalling mess Stiles’s henchmen had left behind to even think of her more than once or twice. A minute. The less he saw of her the better—he was having trouble keeping his distance, and he took out his own self-loathing on the girls, who accepted it naturally enough.
He did loathe himself. He should never have touched her, never have given in to overwhelming temptation. But her mouth had been so sweet against his, her eyes so full of longing, and for some unknown reason he’d wanted her too badly to stop himself. If he’d even stopped at the first time...
Even that hadn’t been enough. He still wanted her, if he were honest. And she’d never let him touch her again—he’d seen to that quite effectively. She hated him, as he deserved to be hated, and that knowledge should have satisfied him.
Christ, he needed to get away from her. He hadn’t seen Billy since early this morning, when they’d finished with the house. Maybe he was ready to give up his quest, and Georgie would be safe enough to leave behind.
And she could marry some young whelp who didn’t appreciate her and have babies and be happy and he wouldn’t ever have to think about her again.
He slammed his fist against the walnut paneling and then swore.
“You all right, Rafferty?” Jane asked.
“Fine,” he barked back. “Can either of you cook?”
“’Course we can. Eggs and toast and the like.”
“Then one of you make dinner for Miss Georgiana. See if she needs anything.”
“Don’t you usually look after her?” Janie asked.
“I’m too busy,” he snapped. He’d broken the skin on his hand—he was going to have to bandage it. At least he hadn’t broken any bones against the iron-hard wood.
But half an hour later, Jane informed him that Miss Georgiana didn’t want any food, and she was, in fact, just sitting in a chair in her bedroom, staring at the fire, and he swore.
“Go home,” he told the two girls. “We can finish this up tomorrow.”
Neither one was about to put up any objection, and by nine o’clock, the house was deserted. He went to the kitchen, sliced fresh bread and covered it with jam, made a pot of tea, and headed up to Georgie’s bedroom. If she was sulking, so much the better—he just needed to make sure she had enough to eat and that she truly hated him, and his work for the day would be done.
He didn’t bother knocking at her door, simply pushed it open and strode in carrying the tray. Jane was right—Georgie was sitting in a chair staring into the fire, no expression on her face.
“If you’ve finished sulking, it’s time to eat something,” he said, not the most promising beginning of a conversation.
She turned her head to look at him with awful majesty. “Go away.”
“I’m the butler. It’s my job to look after you,” he said stubbornly.
“You did that last night,” she said bitterly.
That stopped him for a brief moment. And his own uncertain temper rose. “I did what you asked me to do.”
Her face was stony. “Always the perfect butler. Go away, then.”
“Not until you eat something.” He brought the tray over to her and before he realized what she’d intended she flipped it out of his hands, the tea pot flying.
“You’re behaving like a child,” he said.
“You always tell me I’m a child,” she snapped. Damn, she was furious! Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. “I’ll behave like one if I feel like it.”
He decided to try a different tactic. “Listen to me, Georgie. I’m sorry about last night—I should never have touched you....”
“Don’t you dare apologize!” She sprang up from her chair and he took a hasty step back. “I...I...” And then to his horror, she burst into tears, sinking back into the chair again, and all his cool determination vanished.
“Georgie,” he said, and like an absolute fool, he pulled her up and into his arms, wrapping himself around her.
He could feel her momentary struggle, and then she sank against him, crying like some heartbroken child, and he wanted to beat whomever had made her so unhappy. But that was himself.
