The streets of London were quiet now, the gas lamps casting long, soft shadows over the cobblestones as he helped her down from the carriage.
She swayed slightly when her feet touched the ground, and without thinking, he swept her into his arms.
“Jason—” she started.
“Don’t argue,” he said gently. “I’m putting you to bed. You’re clearly exhausted.”
For once, she didn’t argue. He smiled at that.
Instead, her head dropped against his shoulder, her hair tickling his jaw as he carried her up the staircase.
The maids had already prepared a room—not his own but one of the guest chambers—and Jason pushed the door open with his shoulder, then strode over and set her carefully on the edge of the bed.
She blinked up at him, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.
He crouched in front of her, his hands resting lightly on her knees.
“You’re safe now,” he said quietly.
Her lashes fluttered.
“I don’t…” she began, but trailed off, her eyes falling shut.
He didn’t press her.
Instead, he rose, pulled the blankets up over her, and smoothed them into place.
Then—unable to help himself—he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple.
She murmured something unintelligible, already half-asleep.
Jason straightened slowly, letting his eyes linger on her one last time—the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the delicate curve of her cheek, the faint crease still etched between her brows even in sleep.
And as he stood there, he thought—not for the first time tonight—that it was, without question, the best twenty-five thousand pounds he’d ever spend.
Chapter Twenty
Georgie woke to the scent of beeswax and fresh lemon.
At first she lay perfectly still, her eyes closed, waiting for the familiar chill of her small bedchamber at her father’s house, the usual thin coverlet and threadbare curtains that didn’t quite keep out the morning sun.
But there was no chill.
Instead, the sheets beneath her were soft—luxuriously soft—and warm, smelling faintly of soap and something far more expensive than anything she’d ever owned.
Her lashes fluttered open, and the sight that met her eyes made her breath catch in her throat.
She was not at home.
She was in a bed—a massive bed—draped in pale blue damask with delicate gold embroidery. Above her, the ceiling was painted with cherubs and clouds, and on either side of the bed hung rich, thick draperies of a blue so deep it could only have come from the finest dye.
The room itself was enormous—easily three times the size of her entire bedchamber at home—with tall windows framed by gleaming white shutters and heavy brocade curtains.
An exquisite Aubusson rug stretched across the polished wood floor.
The walls were lined with paintings, landscapes, hunting scenes, and one that appeared to be some kind of Italian seaport bathed in sunset light.
On the mantel stood a row of sterling silver candlesticks, polished to a gleam, and the fireplace was flanked by two armchairs upholstered in velvet.
