As ifshewasn’t aware of the hazards a woman faced with being forced to marry. Ginny jerked her sleeve up past her wrist, exposing several circular burn scars. She shoved her arm in front of her mother, making certain her mother understood exactly what a woman endured at the mercy of an “advantageous” match. “This is what marriage is when one has no other option, Mother.” She pushed the hair back from her forehead. The scar there was still deep. Her hair would never grow back in that particular spot. “Shall I show you more?”
Though her mother’s eyes filled with tears, Ginny had had enough. Sadly, she was not prone to forgiveness so easily. On shaking legs, she strode from the room and up the stairs.
Thirty-One
T
he Faulks’ ballroom was grand, not only in size, but in adornment and people. Lots of people. The room was so full of people, Ginny felt as if she was suffocating. Fica trees obscured alcoves, sconces lined the walls, and silk dresses and satin waistcoats reflected every conceivable color. Brock had not made an appearance, and Ginny was near to succumbing to the very real fear that he’d given up on her.
She had spent the last hour fending off that dandy Shufflebottom. She hadn’t had as much luck in dealing with his cohort, George Welton, and had been forced into a country dance with him. The young baron was four or five years her junior and acted as if he still belonged at Eton. Shufflebottom and Welton seemed joined at the hip.
“Children are not meant to be seen or heard, Virginia. It’s unnatural,” her mother told her, picking up their conversation from this morning.
“The marquis seems to like me well enough,” she said without heat, wishing Lorelei were there, or better yet, that Ginny was not.
Her mother scanned the area about them, then lowered her voice in a scathing wrath. “What he is teaching those children is unseemly. Completely unsuitable. If anyone had the slightest notion, you wouldn’t be allowed out of the house for the scandal.”
Ginny didn’t respond. It wasn’t as if her mother would hear her words anyway.
“I’ve heard tell that the Duke of Oxford is in the market for a wife as well.” The baroness’s eyes glittered with excitement as she warmed to her subject. “Just think, if you were to marry Maudsley, you wouldn’t have to change your name or title. Once you have a son or two, your future would be set.”
Amazed, utterly astounded, Ginny turned to her mother, unable to keep her mouth from falling open. “You have nerve—”
“Why, you and the children would never even have to move residences.”
Ginny shuddered at the idea of living the rest of her life in that house.
Her mother’s fan snapped open, and she leaned in. “Close your mouth, dear. Maudsley is heading directly for us. You’ll dance with him, of course. I have it from exceptionally good sources that Lady Alymer’s mother has set her sights on the earl for her daughter. That simplycannotbe abided.”
Before Ginny could muster a reply that would resemble anything less than a shriek, the earl reached them and bowed.
“Baroness. Lady Maudsley.” His eyes roved over Ginny’s lace-trimmed bodice and the bared shoulders of her bronze-gold sheened dress before moving up to meet her eyes. “I wondered if I might have the privilege of this dance. I do believe they are about to play the first waltz of the evening.” He grabbed her left hand, squeezing, which left her swallowing a gasp and flinching at the sharp twist in her wrist.
“Sorry, old man. This dance belongs to me.” Brock’s deep resonance sent a shiver of awareness over Ginny’s skin. He gently took her hand from Maudsley, carefully placing it on his arm, and swept her away. “Are you all right?” he asked her.
“Yes.” Her own voice came out a breathless whisper. “It caught me by surprise is all.” She gathered her wits about her, then wrinkled her nose. “Where have you been the last two days?”
He glanced down at her, grinning. “Dare I conclude you’ve missed me, then?”
Yes.“Irene and Celia have been asking,” she said on a sniff. Despite his silence, she didn’t take offense. Instead, she reveled in his confidence in navigating the floor among a hoard of dancers. “What a crush.”
“It is, isn’t it?” He didn’t slow. He advanced their steps to the French doors and out onto the terrace. The rain had stopped, leaving a fresh crispness in the air.
Ginny took what seemed to be the first deep breath she’d been allotted since leaving Kimpton’s country house two days ago.
Brock’s large hands cupped her bare shoulders, warming her. She looked up at him and found herself dazzled by the hunger she read within the depths of his gaze. “John?” His focus on her lips had her stomach swirling in dangerous dips. She rested her hands atop his. Her tongue eased out and moistened her lips. With a heartfelt groan, he slanted his mouth over hers and ravished her of any sense she might still have possessed.
Her arms wound behind his neck, and he deepened the kiss. Took her stroke for stroke, binding her to him. All she could do was reciprocate in kind. If he would possess her, she would possess him. She sank into his hold, molding her body to his.
He pulled away, leaving her moaning in his wake. “Say it again.”
She was stunned at her lack of caring of decency. “What?”
His lips hovered above hers. “My name. Say my name again.”
“John,” she whispered. He dove in for another taste, and she plastered herself to his chest, reveling in his firm, sure lips.
His mouth broke from hers and trailed her jaw, the crook of her neck, her earlobe. “Ginny, put me out of my misery. Marry me.”
