Worst of all, his lips remembered the touch of hers. The warmth and infinite, yielding softness. Soft yet with underlying firmness. He yearned for the taste of her again, the feel of her tongue against his lips. Sitting next to her now, he fought to maintain his concentration while her very presence scattered his thoughts and inflamed his desire. He shifted, crossing his legs to hide the heat straining beneath his trousers.
“I would like my friend Hermione Archer to visit this week for tea,” Georgia chimed suddenly.
“Must you?” Keaton said before he could stop himself.
“You object?”
“I do not like sharing my house with others,” he murmured churlishly.
“Then offering to marry me was a curious decision,” she answered, and he could hear that adorable smile in her voice.
“One that wasnecessary, not desired,” he groused.
He was acutely aware of her presence next to him on the seat. It would have been preferable for her to have seated herself opposite him, but she had chosen otherwise. Now he could feel her thigh pressed against his in the confined space.
Why are such conveyances made to be so damned small inside, anyway? I shall commission a coach maker to build one for me that provides enough room for two passengers not to be seated upon each other's laps.
He knew the source of his irritation, and it had nothing to do with Georgia, at least not directly. She had expressed the desire to experience a London tea-house, never having done so before. Keaton's reaction had been that neither had he, nor did he wish to begin. But then he thought of the reason for their marriage. To be seen publicly as man and wife and thereby nullify the gossip.
“I assume she is a respectable person?” Keaton broached.
“Of course, most respectable and from an eminently respectable family,” Georgia replied.
“Then perhaps we arrange a soiree here in town while we are here, and invite her. Then you may see your friend, and we will have another opportunity to show ourselves off as a married couple.”
“That suits me,” she shrugged.
“I will leave the particulars to you then. Set the date for tomorrow evening.”
Keaton's mind went to his meeting with Aloysius Thorne the previous day. He had received the investigator in a somewhatworked-up state, mind still full of the encounter with Georgia, the kiss he had attempted to initiate and clumsily failed at that.
What was I thinking? I must be stronger than this, or I will be taken advantage of and made a laughingstock by this woman and her insidious family!
“How did your meeting go?” she asked.
“My meeting? Why do you wish to know?” he replied, suspicious.
“I am merely making conversation. I do not know how far the White Conduit House is, but it will seem a very long way if we are sitting in silence.”
“My meeting was my own business,” he shut down.
“Have you given any thought to my request concerning my brother?” she asked then.
“I have, and mentioned it to my man at my meeting with him yesterday. Mr. Thorne will wish to give you an interview to ascertain the details.”
“Thorne?” Georgia asked.
“Yes, Aloysius is his name. Aloysius Thorne. Why?”
The driver called out their location, approaching the famed tea-house known as White Conduit House. Keaton could smell fresh mown grass and hear the soft sway of trees. From the direction of the sun on his face, he deduced that they had traveled north, the sun shining on them through the window at the rear of the carriage.
On the outskirts of London, somewhere in the north, judging by the obvious presence of grass and trees. Islington? Pentonville, perhaps?
“I had written to Mr Thorne myself, asking for his help. It... it came to nothing in the end,” Georgia said, falteringly.
Keaton frowned.
“I do not wish his time wasted. If he has already undertaken an investigation and found nothing—”
