He wanted to make her forget every cruel word her family had ever flung at her, every cutting whisper from the gossiping hens of the ton.
He wanted to watch her come apart under his hands, over and over, until she knew—knew—she was wanted.
Cherished.
His.
He should have said more tonight—should have told her he was falling in love with her, that he couldn’t seem to stop himself. But he’d held back, afraid it would be too much, too soon. Nothing about their courtship had been traditional, and Georgie was nothing if not clever—and cautious. If he bared his heart too quickly, she’d almost certainly doubt his sincerity. And the last thing he wanted was to send her retreating behind those walls again. Not now. Not after all the ground he’d fought to gain.
He exhaled a shaky breath and stared up at the ceiling.
He’d been serious when he’d told her that the last thing he wanted was to pressure her.
That wasn’t who he was.
Yes, they were attracted to each other—greatly so, if the ache in his chest (and lower) was any indication—but he wasn’t some rutting animal who couldn’t keep himself in check.
There were things still between them.
Unspoken things.
Emotional things.
Things that mattered more than his own damnable desire.
He wouldn’t take her to bed until she wanted to be his wife in every way—not just on paper.
And God help him if he’d just condemned himself to a life of celibacy waiting for her to decide.
He turned onto his side, glaring at the shadows on the far wall, the quiet ticking of the clock mocking him.
Every nerve in his body was strung tight, every muscle taut and restless.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of something—anything—else.
But all he saw was her.
The curve of her breast under her bodice, the softness of her thighs parting beneath his hand, the way her hips had rocked helplessly into his touch.
He let out a guttural curse and shoved the sheet down, his hand sliding lower of its own accord.
He didn’t even bother to fight it anymore.
He took himself in hand, his mind full of her, the heat of her skin, the way she’d gasped his name, the stunned pleasure in her wide brown eyes as she’d fallen apart.
It was her name he bit back as release finally came, leaving him shuddering alone in the quiet room, the only sound his ragged breathing and the steady tick of the clock counting down the long night.
Chapter Thirty-One
A sennight later
The bell above the door of Madame Duval’s shop tinkled merrily as Georgie stepped inside, the soft scent of starch and expensive fabric immediately enveloping her.
Madame Duval’s was more than a dressmaker’s, it was an experience. The polished wood floors gleamed, sunlight streaming through tall windows and glinted off the delicate crystal buttons and ribbons that lined the walls in neat boxes. Bolts of silk and satin spilled across display tables in jewel tones and soft pastels, while dress forms stood like silent sentinels, draped in the latest Parisian fashions.
Bea trailed just behind her, immaculate in a light-green pelisse trimmed in sable, her blond head held high, looking as though she owned the place.
Georgie herself wore a dove-gray walking dress with a soft rose sash that Madame had insisted flattered her coloring perfectly. Still, she felt slightly self-conscious in her new finery, as though at any moment someone might realize she didn’t truly belong in a place like this.
