“Why?” He came around the back of the chair toward her.
“Because our chaperone is asleep.”
“You need a chaperone? I thought you weren’t afraid of me any longer.”
“I was never afraid of you, Dare.”
Tristan folded his arms across his chest. “Good. Then we can chat.”
“I don’t want to chat,” she protested, backing toward the door. “I want to go to bed.”
“I am sorry, you know.”
She slowed her retreat, her heart pounding. “Sorry about what?”
“About misleading you. There were things I wasn’t—”
“I don’t want to hear it. You’re six years too late, Tristan.”
“You wouldn’t have listened six years ago. And I was very stupid. So now I wanted to at least apologize. You don’t have to accept it; I really don’t expect you to.”
“Good.”
Georgiana turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. She’d barely gone two steps, though, when his hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her back around.
“What—”
He leaned down and touched his lips to hers, and then he was gone. Georgiana leaned back against the wall, then sank bonelessly to the floor, trying to rally her breath. Brief though the touch had been, she could still feel the warmth of his mouth on hers.
For some reason, she’d thought she would feel pain, physical pain, if he ever touched her like that again. But the kiss had felt…pleasant. Very pleasant. And she hadn’t been kissed in a very long time.
Slowly, she pushed back upright and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. Somehow she hadn’t realized that her scheme would have such an effect on her. Thank goodness she knew better than to trust her heart over her head. Especially where Tristan Carroway was concerned.
Even so, she locked her bedchamber door before she crawled into bed. A minute later, she rose again and pushed one of the heavy overstuffed chairs against the door. “Much better,” she muttered, and climbed back under the covers.
In the library, Edwina waited until everything quieted upstairs. Once she felt assured that Georgiana had gone safely to bed, she sat up straight and resumed reading.
Milly might have reservations about matching Tristan with Georgie, but she had none. They all enjoyed Georgiana’s company, and she was warm, witty, and kind—much better than those simpering young things Tristan felt obligated to pursue.
Edwina gave in to a smile. Whatever had happened between the two of them all those years ago, they seemed to be resolving it, thank goodness. If Milly could manage to stay in her wheeled chair for another few days, they might very well succeed in making a match that pleased everyone.
Chapter 7
The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us.
—King Lear, Act V, Scene iii
Despite his reputation, Tristan always enjoyed attending the sessions of the House of Lords. It was somewhat reassuring to see that, careless as he’d been in his private life before he’d inherited the title, in public and politics he stood up well against some of the abject idiots helping determine the course of the country.
This morning, though, as he took his seat between the Duke of Wycliffe and the rarely present Marquis of St. Aubyn, he couldn’t even concentrate enough to remember which country they were voting to raise tariffs against. He hoped it wasn’t America, since he was attempting to sell them his wool. He raised his hand and said “aye” when Wycliffe nudged him in the ribs, but other than that his thoughts were on Georgiana.
He’d thought before of simply walking up to her and kissing her, but better sense had always prevailed. Last night, though, the memory of her taste, of her sweet, soft mouth, had been overwhelming. And so he’d kissed her, for the first time in six years. Even more surprising, she had let him do it.
“How goes your pursuit of Miss Johns?” Wycliffe murmured, sitting back as the Tories began arguing over trade alliances, and St. Aubyn began sketching the blustering old Duke of Huntford in his wife’s favorite evening gown.
“I keep hoping she’ll suddenly turn interesting,” he said, sighing. She hadn’t seemed so bland when he’d first met her. Now, though, every female seemed…lifeless. Except for one. Perhaps that was the problem; he needed to stop comparing poor Amelia to Georgiana. Naturally the naive, polite chit would pale in comparison.
