Chapter Fifteen
His duchess wore red. A daringly bold gown with a lowered neckline that was provocative yet elegant, the wine-red a striking contrast against her pale, unblemished skin. The dress clung alluringly to her frame, hugging her voluptuous curves. She wore his rubies, and they nestled in the valley between her breasts as if they were her lovers. The duchess’s hair was swept up in an elegant knot with tendrils cascading in loose spirals down to kiss her shoulders. By God, she was magnificent. Georgiana wore no other adornment, except a pair of white satin gloves and matching red slippers.
She danced with the Marquess of Locksley. The few ladies lingering close by brought to his attention how rare and scandalous it was that the duchess had danced the quadrille, and now a waltz, with the marquess. Apparently, her actions were signaling her intention to respond favorably to Lord Locksley’s pursuit.
They were both refined, their pedigrees within the top echelon of the ton, the gossips considered the match acceptable. Rhys couldn’t help observing his duchess and her marquess, a cold knot forming in his gut.
“They are such a wonderful couple.”
“I’ve heard he offered to her and she is considering it.”
“What a worthy alliance that would be.”
They were indeed cut from the same fine, genteel cloth. The marquess was everything Rhys was not—honorable, the bluest of bloodlines, and refined. With great effort, he directed his attention from the dancing couple and found his sister in the crush. She was also dancing the waltz, and her partner was the honorable Simon Basil. Lydia now seemed relaxed and confident, and Rhys was pleased with her reception. Earlier, she had been quaking with nerves, but now she glowed. She was escorted from the dance floor toward the refreshment room. Her face was flushed, and his sister looked happy. She had long held the opinion her impairment would make her unmarriageable, even to a man from a lesser class. There was an easing inside his soul, and Rhys felt as if their dreams could be attained.
Looking for the woman who had made it possible, he spied Georgiana surrounded by several gentlemen. It was the damn red dress, her smile, the warmth he could sense radiating from her as she laughed and chatted with a few notable ladies. How absurd that he should be envious of those who heard her laughter. Georgiana was in her element, at this moment appearing so secure in her position and power. Many young women and ladies paid a kind of homage to her, as if she were the hostess of the gathering and not a guest. He ruthlessly tore his gaze from her, understanding enough of polite society’s rules that his continued regard would incite unwanted speculation.
Several lords with whom he had done business approached him and exchanged a greeting, their eyes alive with curiosity and some with slight fear. He knew many of their secrets, had traded to some of them information that had seen them marry into fortunes. They knew he had bankrupted businesses and closed out other investors. He could see the questions in their eyes as to what he was doing in their midst…and why?
“You have formed a tendre for Her Grace,” an amused voice murmured from behind him.
He tensed as Lord Mansfield sauntered forward to stand beside him. “Not many would notice,” Mansfield continued, “but I found it curious you would attend another ball. I have been watching you, and I couldn’t help noticing the satisfied way you stare at her sometimes. I must admit, I am beyond impressed. Since her duke’s death, many gentlemen have tried to be where you are now without any success.”
Rhys gave the earl a cool, impolite glance. “I do not believe I solicited your opinion.”
Lord Mansfield held up his hand as if surrendering. “A friendly warning, Tremayne—”
“We are not friends,” he said flatly.
“You wound me,” Mansfield said, his dark eyes holding a mocking glint. “I thought our connection had transcended a mere business relationship. Her Grace’s irresistible manners, graceful style, and deportment make the duchess a woman any man would be lucky to have. It is evident that honor will soon belong to Lord Locksley. You are wasting your efforts.”
Without proffering an answer, Rhys walked away, strolling from the upstairs bower to the lower floors. Georgiana glanced up and spied him heading toward her. The laugh strangled in her throat and her eyes widened in obvious distress. Two of the ladies she had been conversing with threw him a speculative glance before shifting their curious gazes to the duchess. Chilling indifference settled on her lovely face, rendering her aloof and haughty. Without any indication she was familiar with him, she turned away and greeted a few gentlemen who approached. He did not slow his steps but prowled past her, hating the tight feeling clutching at his chest.
His lips curved in self-disgust. What the hell had he expected? That because they had danced before, she would smile at him in welcome and perhaps even be open to dancing with him again? Was he foolish enough to consider that because he was allowed in her body, riding her almost nightly, she would happily acknowledge him as her lover to her set? Christ. He’d known that she only wanted a discreet liaison with him. It wasn’t that he wanted more. Liar. Inexplicably, he craved her at his side always. Rhys veered left, toward the open French doors, then walked down a few steps out into the surprisingly empty courtyard.
The thought of eventually relinquishing her to the arms of the marquess or any other man who wouldn’t take the time to know her, to understand the strength in her heart, to savor the sweetness of her lips, to stoke her passion instead of shaming her for it, left a bitter flavor of regret in his mouth. He was a damn fool to allow himself to crave a woman who wouldn’t condescend to marry him if he should dare to ask. Rhys faltered. Did he want a wife? No. But would he take Georgiana to be his wife if she would consent? Yes.
Cutting the need from his heart, he pulled a cheroot from the inner pocket of his jacket. He stayed in the gardens, hidden in the shadows, and watched his sister for the night, contented to linger there alone.
A few minutes after midnight, Lydia had pled a headache and Rhys had escorted her to their townhouse in Mayfair. Restlessness had pushed him to The Asylum, where he’d gambled and turned down several pieces of business for the night. Riordan had thrown him a few puzzled queries, for the connections he could have had from them held immense possibilities. There was a distraction about Rhys that he could only blame on the duchess. She had been an unexpected intrusion into his life, and he had to turn his thoughts to the ending of their affair. How long did they have left? Weeks? A few months? Or perhaps days?
Unable to focus on his card game, Rhys bowed out. He moved through the throng, intent on visiting his private quarters. He’d recently invested in a brewery and had not paid much attention to the investors’ meeting held yesterday. Perhaps it would be best if he ensconced himself in his office and pored over the operations to see how he could offer insight for its improvement. It made no sense to travel home—he did not want to encounter the expectant hope on his mother’s face in the morning, nor his sisters’ expectations. Not when he had this disturbing and uncommon bleakness rising inside.
A bright flash snagged his attention, and he faltered, his breath hissing through his teeth as a masked Georgiana strolled into The Asylum. Her wig tonight was golden, and her dress was black, with a provocatively lowered neckline. The delicate mask hid most of her features, but he would recognize that bold yet sensual stride anywhere. The tension that had knotted his gut since he’d departed Lady Sheffield’s midnight ball eased. He’d not thought his duchess would show tonight, not after the way she had ignored him for the night and danced with her marquess.
Despite her presence, the perplexing ache inside his chest did not ease.
“Your mysterious lady is back,” Riordan said, strolling to stand beside Rhys. “This is the fourth time she’s visited my club…and each time a different wig and a mask. Curious.”
“She is no one of import.” She is fast becoming the center of my existence.
Riordan chuckled. “I’ve never known you to be distracted by thoughts of a woman before. In fact, at times, I wondered if you were interested in them.”
Rhys frowned. “You thought I was a molly?”
“More like a bloody monk. There is more to life than manipulations and power play. For a while, I never realized you knew it.”
Rhys’s mouth curved slightly in a humorless smile. “I’ve had women over the years.” Quick, nameless liaisons that he had never understood lacked the deep satisfaction of holding a lover close afterward.
“And she is just another?”
“Hmm.”
“I happened to pass by your private quarters the last time she was here. I admit, I waited for a few beats. Your masked lady is a passionate woman, isn’t she? You tupped her roughly, I could tell, and from her pleas and sobs, I also surmised she loved every crude, filthy word you were whispering. I am intrigued. Perhaps when you are finished with her, I will—”
Rhys’s hand darted like a striking adder and grabbed his friend’s throat in a merciless grip. In Riordan’s eyes, Rhys spied a taunting watchfulness. “Do not test me regarding her,” he warned, uncaring of the throb of violence in his tone. “Friendship or no, if you step or speak wrongly in her direction, you will rue the day.”
Riordan’s muscles locked at the promise of violence in the threat. “She is precious?”
In the silence that ensued, Rhys struggled to mask his reaction. He relented, not wanting to prevaricate with his closest friend. “She is precious,” he admitted gruffly, easing his clasp.
“Do not pretend with me,” Riordan said softly. “I can see the need burning in your soul to claim this woman. She matters to you; thus, she matters to me. You’re my goddamned brother, Rhys, we’ve bled and scrabbled together. There is no need to lie to me.”
He slowly released Riordan’s throat, the need for violence sweeping away like ashes in the wind.
“I can sense she is a pedigree, and you are nothing but a mongrel. I’ve never seen you this…this obsessed by a woman.”
Rhys suddenly knew that he would be very lonely when Georgiana went out of his life. He liked everything about her. Love, you idiot, love. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling inexplicably unnerved. He’d never loved anyone outside his family before.
“You have no idea what you are doing, do you?” Riordan said, sounding a bit shocked.
“She has stolen my ability to think and sleep. All I think of is her and how to make this…whatever this need is brewing in my soul to see her beside me always.”
After rendering his friend speechless, he strolled down the hallway and down the stairs to where she hovered in the crowd. As if she felt his approach, her eyes unerringly found him through the ribald crush.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded as he reached her side.
Her throat worked on a swallow, but she remained mute. Her eyes were luminous, and hurt lurked in their turquoise depth.
“I…” She exhaled a shaky breath. “I needed to see you. Shall we go to your quarters?”
Biting back a curse, he tugged her to his side and pushed through the crowd. She kept his swift pace until he reached his private office on the upper floor. Fishing the keys from his pocket, he opened the door and ushered her inside.
“How did you arrive?” He’d always sent an unmarked carriage for her with a trusted driver and able-bodied footmen equipped to defend her life if such actions proved necessary.
She wetted her lips, a nervous reaction he was not used to seeing from her.
“I was very careful. My carriage was unmarked.”
Her gaze swept over him hungrily, and an icy anger started to burgeon inside him. Where was that need earlier? He prowled over to her until he caged her in front of the large oak desk. She gasped when her hips bumped into the edge, but she lifted her eyes to his. Unable to bear not seeing all of her, he gripped the eye mask and pulled it off.
“I was afraid,” she said suddenly, and he stilled.
“To speak to me, to even look in my direction?”
“Yes,” she said, her lips trembling slightly before she firmed them. “You are now a curiosity, and your unknown background is stirring everyone’s interest. There is rife speculation as to who you are and your connections, Rhys. I simply wanted to avoid scrutiny upon us together. There were reporters from the Morning Post and the Gazette. I…I was petrified they would see how much I craved your touch, and how helpless I am against your smiles.”
He hesitated, barely a heartbeat, then asked, “And that would have been so terrible?”
Her eyes widened. “I…please, let’s not do this. We both knew from the beginning this was an affair that should promise discretion and—”
Rhys captured the rest of her words with a punishing kiss. He was rough in his demands, and with a muffled moan, her lips parted, and he stormed inside. Without breaking their kiss, he swept her into his arms and in a few steps tumbled them onto the sofa. If she did not wish to speak of it, he would oblige, for he did not want to hear the words from her lips denying the attachment forming within their hearts. Instead, Rhys ravished her for the night, using his touch, his lips, sometimes tenderly, other times so fiercely he knew he shocked her with his intensity, hoping to enslave her to him as she had conquered his soul.