Chapter Nine
A few hours after Georgiana had arrived on Rhys Tremayne’s doorstep, she held her precious boy, sobbing, her relief so deep she was shaking. She had only been back at Meadowbrook Park for about thirty minutes before the housekeeper’s shout had Georgiana rushing down the stairs rather recklessly, to spy Rhys standing with her son in his arms. She hurriedly lifted Nicolas and carried him to his room, ignoring Simon, who reached for him. The weight of her son as she climbed the stairs did not matter. He was in her arms, alive. She reached the chamber, and a maid rushed ahead to open the door. She spilled into the room and laid him gently on his bed. The doctor rushed over.
“May I, Your Grace?”
She nodded mutely, unable to speak past the tears clogging her throat. A hand touched her shoulder gently, and she peered up at her brother. The relief in his eyes mirrored her own, and she offered him a wobbly smile.
“I’ll head downstairs and deal with Tremayne,” Simon said gruffly. “I hate to ask this now, but what did you promise him?”
She squeezed his fingers and looked back at her son. Her brother seemed to understand, and he waited by her side while the doctor removed her son’s dirtied clothes and stripped him. Her Nicolas was then tenderly examined.
“Why isn’t he awaking?” she demanded hoarsely.
“It seems he was given laudanum, Your Grace. The gentleman who brought him told your housekeeper.”
A cry slipped from her, and she hurried over, clambering atop the mattress, to place her son’s head in her lap. She stroked his forehead, before pressing a kiss to his brows.
“He will be well, Your Grace,” Dr. Monroe said kindly. “His heart is steady and strong, and he is only sleeping. He will be disoriented when he wakes and may suffer from a mild headache and be very thirsty, but my experience tells me he will be asleep for at least another few hours.”
She wanted to keep on touching him, assuring herself that he was here.
The doctor spent several more minutes with him before he went down to the dining room for supper. Dr. Monroe would be her guest for the night so he would be available to check upon Nicolas when necessary. With his nursemaid’s assistance, Nicolas was washed and dressed comfortably in his sleeping apparel and settled into the center of his bed. His chest rose strong and sure as he slept soundly. A fierce rush of love clutched her as she watched her child slumber. “Ensure several candles remain lit,” she ordered.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Someone will sit with him at all times, except for when I am here with him. I do not want him to awaken and be frightened.” Georgiana knew the doctor had said a few hours, but she was taking no chances.
About an hour after her son’s return, she faced her brother. “I will see Mr. Tremayne now.”
“Not alone. There is blood on his shirt,” Simon growled, and she knew nothing she said would dissuade him.
Several minutes later they entered the library. Rhys stood near her desk, bracing his hand on the windowsill. From the light cast by the fireplace, she caught a glimpse of his harsh, unyielding expression.
“How is your son?” he asked without turning.
She walked slowly across the carpet to stand behind the chair in front of her desk. “Sleeping. He didn’t wake, but Dr. Monroe believes he is safe.”
“We are in your debt, Tremayne,” her brother said guardedly from where he leaned casually against the door.
At that pronouncement, Rhys faced them. He took Simon’s measure, and without speaking, Rhys leveled his gaze on her. Silently, he communicated that if there was a debt, it was between her and him.
“The men who took him?” she asked, needing to know what happened to those vermin and who they were.
“Dead.”
“I…I beg your pardon?”
Simon had stood to full attention.
“You heard me, duchess.”
She felt a cold, prickling sensation on her skin. She couldn’t seem to find her voice. “How?” the hoarse question ripped from her.
“Painfully.”
“Was…” Her throat worked on a swallow. “Was his uncle a party to this act of cowardice?”
Rhys’s eyes shadowed. “Yes.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth, but her cry of horror spilled forth.
A snarl of rage slipped from Simon, and he prowled over. “Where is the bloody bastard?”
Rhys considered them both, a dangerous gleam in his icy stare. “You won’t hear from him again.”
“Your threats won’t keep him away, Rhys. Lord James is in debt for thousands of pounds. He will keep trying to take my son away so he can steal what is his.”
“As I said, he won’t be bothering you and your son again.”
A shadow crossed Rhys’s face, and Georgiana faltered. Her heart raced at the sudden knowledge that bloomed within her. Surely, she was mistaken. “I…what do you mean?”
“His body will be found and footpads will be blamed.” Rhys was, frankly, terrifying in this moment.
She stumbled back, staring at him helplessly. Somehow, she had thought Lord James would have been handed over to the authorities and then they would face the pain of a public trial as a family. Now…her mind scrambled to accept what he had done. “How did you know he was involved?”
“Lord James sent word to the underworld seeking an assassin to do what he could not. Slit your son’s throat. I arrived at his townhouse in Mayfair under the pretext I was there to do the job. He had your son bound and gagged. Lord James handed me the knife that I was to use.”
The rage that burned through her blood felt cold and vicious. If he weren’t already dead, she would have done the deed herself.
Peering into his flat gaze, she instinctively understood the man standing in front of her had saved her son for her, had killed for her. She blinked warily. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He canted his head left, his hands thrust deep into his trousers. “I bid you good-bye, duchess.”
“I will escort you out, Tremayne,” Simon said stiffly, clearly picking up on the undercurrent of tension arcing between them.
No, she cried silently. Inexplicably, she did not want Rhys to leave. She flushed and glanced at her brother. “I will speak with Mr. Tremayne in private.”
Her brother stiffened.
“I was not asking your permission,” she said firmly before he could protest.
He faced her, and she wasn’t sure what he saw in her gaze, but his eyes narrowed.
“Is this your choice?” Simon queried gruffly.
She understood he wasn’t just talking about now, but the man overall. “It is.”
He closed his eyes briefly before they snapped open. “I will leave you to your meeting. I will call upon Mother to inform her of the happy outcome.” He nodded toward Rhys, and then her brother exited.
She turned to Rhys to see him watching her with an expression she could not decipher.
“I will leave,” he said.
“No…stay. I…I need to go be with my son for a bit. I just want to lie beside him and hold him, but I want to talk to you after.” She took a bracing breath. “Will you stay…as my guest for the night?”
Something raw and powerful flared in his eyes before he hooded his gaze.
Say yes…
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Please stay…promise me you’ll not leave until we have spoken.”
“You have my word, my lady.”
She offered him a small smile, then turned and walked away, knowing he would be waiting.
…
Almost two hours after he had delivered Georgiana’s son to her, Rhys was still unable to sleep. The brutal way he had pushed himself and the way he had manipulated his connections had been worth the relief in her eyes. She clearly loved her son with painful depth, enough to place herself in Rhys’s debt. He clenched his jaws until they ached. He was a damn idiot. He had wanted her beholden to him…and now that she would clearly be, he didn’t want it.
Joanna, Lydia, and Grace.
He said their names silently, hoping they would ground him against making any foolish decisions.
Thank you. Please stay…promise me you’ll not leave until we have spoken. He braced his elbow against the glass of the window overlooking one of the most opulent estates he’d ever seen, wondering what the hell he was still doing there. He had been fed, given a room with such luxurious decor he had almost been speechless. His bloodied clothes had been taken away to be cleaned and pressed, and a banyan had been provided. A bath had been delivered, and he had been attended by hovering servants whom he had tersely ordered away. Why was he still waiting? Despite the fact she had asked, he should have bloody well left so she could be with her son. With a scowl, he turned from the window and faltered.
The duchess entered, and the breath punched from his chest. She had bathed and was only clothed in a silk banyan, though it was wrapped tightly around her body, from neck to toe. But the fact she was barefoot had his mouth drying. “Your Grace…”
“Don’t,” she said hoarsely, and he could tell she had been crying again. “I do not know how to thank you…but thank you.”
He nodded. “I…damn it, you don’t…you do not need to be in here, dressed like this. I don’t require payment for finding your son,” he said gruffly.
He was a goddamned fool.
“Do not insult me,” she said softly. “You did me an unmatched service, and I will repay you. What do you want?”
You. He reined in the urgent demands of his body, knowing such a thing wasn’t possible, even if it was for one night. “Your Grace—”
“Tell me, Mr. Tremayne, what is in my power that I can grant you? Please do not quibble.”
After a slight hesitation, he replied, “My sisters.”
Her eyes widened. “You have sisters?” she demanded with such incredulity, a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.
“I do. Three.”
“I see.”
“I would see my eldest, Lydia, wed to a lord. I require your help in sponsoring her into society. You have the power to see her connections and slight imperfections overlooked, and her beauty and dowry will take care of the rest. Though your guidance in the type of gentleman she could hope to secure would be welcomed.”
She canted her head left and considered him for a few seconds. “Done.”
He jolted, her easy capitulation quite unexpected.
A smile edged her sensual lips. “I can see that you are surprised. As I said earlier, your aid in finding my son unharmed is unmatched. There is nothing in my life that is more important than my little boy. Though your request is ambitious, and I cannot guarantee the outcome, I will gladly sponsor your sister and be a guiding force in securing her a gentleman this season.”
“Thank you.”
Her lids lowered, shielding her gaze from him for precious seconds. Her tongue darted and wetted her bottom lip, an achingly nervous gesture. Her lips were lusher than any he had ever seen. He wanted to bite, nibble, and kiss them, wanted to see the swollen fullness and know he had caused it. She did it again, and he frowned. Why the hell was she nervous? Before he could ask, she turned from him and went to the door. He bit back the instinctive need to ask her to stay.
A breath hissed from between his clenched teeth when instead of leaving his chambers, she closed and locked the door with a decisive snick.
Her banyan slid with agonizing slowness down the long line of her back and over the perfect twin moons of her buttocks. Her actions were slow and deliberate as she loosened the pins from her hair and allowed her wonderful mass of black hair to tumble to her mid back in all its silken glory. She was exquisite, beautiful, her skin like satin. She was dramatically and lushly curved with a body made for carnal pleasures.
She faced him. A delicate pink blush spread across her cheeks then flushed her entire body. “I want you.”
He narrowed his gaze.
“This is not payment,” she said huskily, accurately reading his thoughts. “This is me…desiring you, needing to be held, wanting to feel pleasure that will wipe away all the lingering terror that still beats in my heart.”
She strolled closer, an unbearable temptation, one he had no hope of resisting. Her hips swayed, and she looked sleek and stunning and sensual as sin itself. Then she was before him, stretching up on her toes slightly to cup his jaw. Her touch was like a soft brush of satin.
A faint blush spread across her cheeks. “Do you want me?” she asked tremulously.
He should wait, give her time to move past the anxiousness searing from her. Except he wanted her. Now. Tonight. “More than my next breath.”
Her eyes widened, then her wide, generous mouth curved in sensual invitation.
He wanted her. Dear God, he wanted her. The desires flourishing inside felt like a revelation. How had he lived for so long without experiencing hunger like this? Before the logical part of his mind could take over, he took her in his arms, banding his arms around her, and pulled her up to meet his lips. Her taste spilled into his mouth like the sweetest, richest of wine. Good God, how was a man supposed to think?
“This is dangerous,” he said in between the kisses he spread to her lips. He had never been with a woman like Georgiana. One so refined, sexually uncertain, and inexperienced, but so beguiling.
“No…this is perfect,” she purred. “I am desperate to be wicked with you, Rhys.”
Desire, raw, powerful, and uncompromising swept through him. “How wicked, duchess?”
Her eyes darkened. “As wicked as you can get.”
A rough sound of appreciation escaped him and his cock throbbed. “I wonder how the first deep thrust inside you will be. Wet?” He snaked a hand between them and cupped her quite possessively. “Tight? Better than anything I’ve ever felt in my life?”
He touched her face, a light caress, then bent to kiss her soft mouth. A pulse was beating visibly at her throat. Rhys’s hands drifted down to cup the pert mounds of her breasts and kneaded the swollen tips of her nipples between his fingers. It had never been so sweetly pleasurable to touch another’s flesh before. She was going to be his. He flicked his tongue against the bare skin of her throat. Her entire body flushed, and she moaned. Christ, he hadn’t felt this eager since his first time with a woman. All his warnings to himself telling him to slow down burned away like ashes in the wind.