“They are. My brothers are escorting them.”
Georgiana had refused to meet his eyes since he’d arrived, but he couldn’t help gazing at her. She wore dark blue, with a shimmering silver shawl draped across her shoulders and silver-and-blue clips in her golden hair.
When he’d helped her into the coach, just taking her hand had made his mouth go dry. He wanted to run his fingers over her skin again, wanted to feel her hands on him and feel her writhing beneath him.
“Georgiana,” her aunt said, making him jump, “tell me about your picnic with Lord Westbrook.”
“I really don’t think Lord Dare wishes to hear—”
“Probably not, but I do. Tell me.”
Tristan didn’t need to be reminded that she had other suitors. He’d been tempted to trail her on her luncheon, just to make certain she wasn’t lying about it or enjoying herself too much. If he hadn’t had to track down St. Aubyn for his box, he would have done it.
“It was very nice. He brought roast duck.”
“And what did you discuss?”
“Nothing important. The weather, the entertainments of the Season.”
“Has he offered for you yet?”
This time her gaze met Tristan’s, then slid away again. “You know he hasn’t. Please stop interrogating me.”
“I’m only anxious for your happiness.”
“That doesn’t sound like what—”
Tristan’s jaw clenched. “You expect him to offer for you?”
“Oh, look, we’re here.”
The coach turned into Vauxhall Gardens, joining the crush of vehicles already there. His groom pulled open the door and flipped down the steps, and Tristan stepped down to help the ladies out. The duchess came first, still eyeing him as though he had contracted the plague.
“Why are we here with you?” she asked.
“Aunt Frederica,” Georgiana warned from within the coach.
Tristan met the duchess’s eyes. “Because I’m courting your niece,” he answered. “And because I’m very charming and intriguing, and you couldn’t resist my invitation.”
To his surprise, she let out a short laugh. “Perhaps that’s what it was.”
“Georgiana,” he said, as the duchess made her way to the path, “are you coming down, or should I join you in there?”
Her hand extended from the coach, and he gripped her fingers. Even through their gloves, he could feel the pulse of lightning between them. She stepped down beside him, but he kept hold of her hand. “Do you let Westbrook kiss you?” he murmured.
“That is none of your affair. Let go.”
He released her reluctantly. “I want to taste you again,” he continued in the same low tone, offering his arm.
“That’s not going to happen.” She turned her face away, which exposed the graceful curve of her neck to his gaze.
Tristan went hard. Thankful for his caped greatcoat, he leaned closer to her. “Does Westbrook make you tremble?” he whispered. It took all of his self-control to keep from kissing her ear.
“Stop it. At once. One more word in that vein and I will kick you so hard you’ll be able to join the boys’ choir at Westminster.”
“Say my name.”
She sighed. “Fine. Tristan.”
