“Don’t be silly,” she said with her own sly grin. “You have far more experience in these matters than I do. Surely you have built up a...tolerance.”
He glared, taking a step forward. “Familiarity does not necessarily equate to tolerance. You are trying me, Wife.”
“Well, I hope so,” she retorted, changing legs and repeating the motions, “or I’m wasting all the suggestions Charlie had for me.”
That stopped him in his tracks. “Charlie? What did she tell you? And how does she know?”
“She reads. Incessantly. And undoubtedly not the sermons most mothers would want her to read. She is particularly interested in researching the married life. So she is prepared if she ever gets around to it.”
“Remind me to warn the men of London.”
She chuckled until he stepped around the bed and gently pushed her hands away from where she was rolling down her stocking. Without taking his gaze from hers, he took over the task, his fingers just callused enough to incite another cascade of chills.
Maybe she could just enjoy herself, she thought briefly. Make tonight special so she could remember when she was lying in that lonely bed next week. Maybe it would be enough to cast caution to the wind, just for tonight. Just for the joy of seeing his eyes grow dark and his nostrils flare. Just for the chance to tempt him to the edge of his control.
So she pulled her skirt up even higher. Slowly. Leaning just a bit forward so he couldn’t miss the swell of her breasts or the scent of her soap. So he could almost see what lay just under the hem of her dress as she held it against her thigh.
“Are you sure you want to waste your time with that stocking?” she asked, smiling with that flush of power she was becoming so attached to.
He stepped right up to her to brush her hands aside. Then, reaching his one arm around her back to hold her against him, he reached beneath her hiked hem and sought out the very spot that had begun to ache. She arched against him, opening to his fingers, welcoming his touch. Savoring those calluses that betrayed a life of purpose and risk.
And, there. His eyes grew almost black, and his nostrils flared. His hand trembled just a bit, and his breathing grew harsh. She did that to him.
She leaned a little more into him so she could catch the spice of his scent. So she could begin to tremble herself. And when she saw his smile, an acknowledgement of how close to madness she was driving him, just by opening herself to his touch, she knew the power of being a woman. She savored it like the scent of his skin, like the rasp of those fingers that were tormenting her beyond bearing. She heard herself groan and decided to stifle such a needy sound by reaching up and opening her mouth to his. She met his tongue with her own, fencing with him, tasting the wine that lingered on his breath. She leaned in just a little more and reached over to stroke the bulge that betrayed his impatience.
She was humming now, relishing the symphony of arousal, hungry for his bare skin. He must have heard that in her, because with a rakish grin, he simply swept her into his arms and carried her over to bed. And within moments they were skin-to-skin, the feel of him delicious from the soft curl of his hair to the abrupt ridge of the scars he had carried home. And before he had the chance to satisfy her, she took hold of him and took control. She delighted in running her hands up and down his shaft, measuring, tracing, swirling her fingers over the head so that he jerked in her hand, so that his breathing became gasps. So his body arched to give her better access, and she took it. Took him in her mouth and feasted, not only on his shaft, butthe coarse groans, the quick tremors that built, the sweat that salted his skin. She brought him to release and smiled as he cried out and seized in her arms, his seed again anointing her belly.
“Now,” he growled, changing places. “It’s my turn.”
And it was.
They didn’t sleep for hours, until exhausted, wrapped around each other, they pulled up the covers and finally rested, sated and sweaty and smiling. And for that moment, life was perfect, and Georgie couldn’t have asked for more.
15
She should have known better. She had actually believed things were looking up. The next morning proved that she had just walked from one circus into another.
It didn’t get worse right away. She sat down at a lovely early breakfast with the girls, Grey, and Bark, who parked himself right in between the little girls, where the most food landed when falling off plates. Mrs. Peters, the unusually thin blonde cook, had a way with bakery items, as Georgie knew all too well, and Grey was happy to serve both tea and coffee, which Georgie had grown to like on her brief forays to the Continent. The conversation was desultory and comfortable, and Grey only checked his watch twice to make sure they would have time for the estate agent and solicitor.
“He is bringing the papers that will give you supervisory power along with him while I’m gone,” Grey said, stirring his tea.
Georgie nodded over the list she was making of her most immediate tasks. “That sounds perfect.”
And then she met the estate agent.
“How long has he been in his position?” she quietly asked Chalmers, as Grey met Mr. Hartman, the estate agent, and Mr.Deevers, the solicitor. “Mr. Hartman, I mean.” The estate agent, who wasn’t even looking at her.
Chalmers did look over at her, evidently surprised by her question. “About six months, my lady.”
She nodded. “I see.”
Mr. Deevers was no surprise. He looked much like most solicitors she had interacted with. Businesslike, tidy, greying, with a smile that conveyed caution. Georgie immediately liked him. He reminded her of her Uncle Samson. Mr. Hartman, though….
Georgie trusted her instincts. They had seen her through some difficult times, fractious relatives, and powerful acquaintances. And right now, they were lifting the hair off the back of her neck.
She couldn’t quite put a name to it. Maybe it was the fact that when Grey introduced them, Mr. Hartman offered a smile that was pure condescension. Maybe it was the fact that he just looked too slick, his attire just a bit too finely crafted for an estate agent, or that his boots were definitely Hoby. Suddenly she had an overpowering urge to see the estate books.
“You just leave everything to me, my lady,” he said with that too-smooth smile. “We’ll get along fine.”
