“You need to forget last night,” he said in a low, soothing voice. “It was a terrible mistake—forget it ever happened. I was a bastard to touch you, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, but it’s over. It’ll never happen again, and you can go on to a happy life with some nice young man who’ll adore you as you deserve to be adored.”
He felt her stiffen in his arms for a moment, and then relax as she pulled free of his embrace. He didn’t want to let her go, but he knew it was the best thing.Tears were streaked down her pale cheeks, but she raised her head and smiled a bright, false smile. “I’ve already forgotten,” she said, moving to the chair and sinking back down again, seemingly in control of herself once more. “I’m sorry I tossed the tray. I would have liked tea and toast.”
He couldn’t believe her. She was entirely calm, in control, smiling at him with her usual smile—no, it wasn’t her usual smile. That was loving, besotted, adoring. This smile was merely polite.
But he believed her. “Then we won’t speak of this again?” he said tentatively.
“There’s no need to. Good night, Rafferty.”
It was a goddamned dismissal, worthy of his grandmother the dowager duchess, and some unruly part of him rebelled at her perfect manners. He didn’t want her calm and in control. He wanted...he wanted...
He had no choice. Channeling his grandmother’s august sangfroid, he backed from the room without another word.
She watched him go, waiting for those wrenching tears to return, but something had dried them. A terrible mistake. He never should have touched her. He would regret it for the rest of his life.
She must have been truly awful in bed. There was a knack to it, she’d figured that much, but she’d known and done nothing but lie there. No wonder he was disgusted with her.
He’d made her feel such things, such glorious, terrifying things, and he must have hated it. Hated her. Because otherwise he would have taken her back to bed tonight, and let her feel all those wild and petrifying emotions again. She’d sat in her chair waiting for him to come to her, and instead, he’d been full of excuses and self-recrimination. He was lost to her, she knew it when he’d held her in his arms like she was a broken doll, and he wasn’t coming back.
She could survive. What choice did she have? He was going to leave—she knew now that he’d entered their household only to find some hidden cache of money. It had nothing to do with her. It had nothing to do with the clothes and the shoes he’d found for her, nothing to do with her feckless family. He’d been using them all, and now he was done.
He might even be gone the next morning when she woke up. She wouldn’t be surprised if she was alone in the house, waiting for her family’s return. Even Martina would disappear somewhere, and they’d be back where they were. And it was all because she’d made such a botch of things.
The French novels were woefully short on detail when it came to the mechanics of making love, but she knew that men didn’t pay women to just lie there. There had to be more to it, but the very thought made her tremble in anticipation. If doing nothing had led to such a cataclysmic reaction, then what would happen if she...if she did what he did? Touched him, kissed him, licked him. Put her mouth on him?
She could go to bed and weep. She could bewail her mistakes and accept her fate—married to a man she didn’t love who couldn’t begin to make her feel the things Rafferty did.
Or she could find out more. She wasn’t a coward, and she wasn’t one to accept defeat so easily. So she’d lost the battle. There was still a war to be won, and she intended to do it. She suspected she couldn’t ask Bertha for details, but Martina had been uncommonly frank. Surely she would tell her what she needed to know?
She would have to bide her time, and hope and pray that Rafferty stayed where he was. That horrid man Styles didn’t strike her as the kind of man who gave up easily. Rafferty wouldn’t leave them, leave her, if there was still danger. For now, all she could do was sleep. And plan.
If he punched another wall he would break his fist, Rafferty thought as he stared at the wood paneling that covered the dining room. He was sorely tempted anyway. Upstairs lay a girl...no, a woman...that he wanted so much he ached with it, a woman he absolutely must not touch again. He’d been a bastard and a half for touching her the first time, and he wasn’t about to do it again. She wasn’t for the likes of him, and he wasn’t the kind of man who had room for a woman in his life. He’d always comforted himself with the thought that she’d forget all about him once she was married, but a woman never forgot her first lover. And he wondered how he could fight Billy Stiles with a broken hand.
Catholic priests had the right of it—didn’t they whip themselves as an act of contrition? He needed someone to take a horsewhip to him. At least that would get her off his mind.
She looked so small and sad up there in the room, staring at the fire, and he couldn’t tell whether she was still horrified by the things he’d done to her or wanting more. He’d bet on horrified. She’d been a total innocent, and he’d given in to impossible temptation. And he was still tempted.
Beyond tempted. The house was empty. She was upstairs, alone. She thought she loved him. If he were totally without conscience, he’d be up there right now, taking her to bed.
But he wouldn’t. He...cared about her. The only thing he could do for her now was leave her strictly alone.
He punched the wall.
Chapter Twenty-Five
If her parents thought there’d been anything irregular about leaving Georgie home alone to Rafferty’s tender ministrations, they didn’t show it. By the time they returned, the maids were in residence, Bertha had returned, and Georgie had risen from her specious sickbed, bright and cheerful enough to convince anyone of an uneventful sojourn.
She would have congratulated herself on her impeccable play-acting, but Rafferty seemed to be oblivious to her gallant efforts. He moved through the house smoothly, treating her with polite deference when she’d asked about his bandaged hand, and made no mention of leaving. She’d had to make do with that.
She wasn’t able to do anything with Rafferty—she was now firmly Miss Georgiana to him—and even though she longed to throw herself into his arms she behaved with perfect propriety. So he wanted to pretend the night hadn’t happened? She wished him luck—she had no intention of letting it go. She wanted more. His touch was oddly insistent—if she closed her eyes, she could feel him, his hand on her breasts, his mouth on hers, his body pressing hers down into the mattress. She could feel him inside her. He’d been hers, and then gone, and she wanted more.
Martina came bustling into her room, a morning tray in her capable hands. “How are you feeling this morning, Miss Georgiana? We missed you in Kent.”
Georgie tried to look bright-eyed and cheerful. “I’m feeling fine. It was just a temporary indisposition.”
Martina set the tray down and pulled the curtains, letting in the gloomy autumn light. “I can just imagine...” she was saying as she turned, and then the words dried up for a moment, as she stared at her. Then she seemed to pull herself together. “I can just imagine you had a nice time without your family breathing down your neck,” she said in a studiedly casual voice. “Did Rafferty look after you?”
“Oh, he wasn’t here much. Jane and Betsey took care of me, not that I needed taking care of. I really can manage on my own.”
