“Thank you, Mr. Wheelock.”

He stared down his nose at her. “Do not make me regret my decision, Miss Bridgerton.”

“I would never,” Georgie vowed.

True to his word, once Thamesly rolled away with a disgruntled Freddie Oakes sitting next to him in the seat of the cart, Wheelock “noticed” that his mount was favoring his right foreleg.

Nicholas looked over from where he was checking his own mount’s saddle. “Are you certain? She seemed unhampered on the way over.”

“I thought I—” Wheelock pointed. “There. Did you see that?”

Georgie didn’t see a thing, and she was quite certain Nicholas didn’t either, but Wheelock gave them no opportunity to contribute further to the conversation. “I will have to walk her back,” he said. “We risk injury, otherwise. I don’t think she can take my weight.”

“No, of course not,” Nicholas murmured. But he looked slightly conflicted since the original plan was for all three of them to ride to Aubrey Hall to drop off Georgie. “I suppose we can all walk to Aubrey Hall, but …”

“We don’t have time,” Wheelock said with a shake of his head. “It’s already too close to sunrise. The servants will be rising soon.”

“I trust you,” Georgie said to Nicholas. It seemed like the right time to chime in. “And honestly, it’s not like we’ve never been alone together.”

His blue eyes met hers. “Are you sure?”

“Are you going to attack and ravish me?”

“Of course not!”

“Then I’m sure.”

“Jesus, Georgie,” Nicholas said under his breath.

“Don’t you scold me for language.” She let out a little huff. “After everything that’s happened tonight, surely I’m entitled.”

“Of this night,” Wheelock pronounced, “we shall never speak.”

“Thank you, Wheelock,” Nicholas said. “Truly.”

“It was my honor, sir. Now if you will excuse me, I must start back. It’s best if I’m at Crake before the household rouses.”

“Move as swiftly as is safe,” Nicholas directed.

“Oh, but Wheelock? Could you give me a leg up before you go?” Georgie asked.

Nicholas gave her a look. “I can help you.”

“We’ve only the one horse,” she explained. “I assume you’ll be in front. Won’t it be easier if you mount first?”

He muttered something she could not quite make out, but he must have agreed with her because he swung himself up onto his horse.

“It must be nice to be so tall,” Georgie grumbled. As if men didn’t already have the advantage in, well, everything, they didn’t need blocks just to get into a saddle.

Or the hands of a helpful butler. Poor Wheelock seemed somewhat chagrined to be performing such a menial task, but as in all things, he had no difficulty hoisting her up into the saddle.

“Can he do everything?” Georgie asked with no sarcasm whatsoever.

Nicholas chuckled. “As far as I can tell.”

It was at that moment that Georgie realized just how risqué a position she’d put herself into. She could not recall the last time she’d ridden astride, and it was positively scandalous how far she had to hike up her nightshift to be able to spread her legs widely enough.

“Let me just adjust my dressing gown,” she mumbled. It was split in the front, and so she was able to tuck it around her legs. Somewhat.

“Are you comfortable?” Nicholas asked.

“Yes,” she lied.

Because she wasn’t comfortable at all. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, the distance between them disappeared entirely, and when he spoke, she felt his voice. It pulsed through his body, humming against her skin before it sank into her bones. Her breasts were pressed against his back, and as she bobbed up and down in the saddle along with the movement of the horse, they began to feel sensitive in a way that was entirely new to her. Her nipples grew hard, like they did in the cold, but the similarity ended there. Instead of discomfort, she felt a tingling sensation, one that shot through her like sparks, stealing her breath.

Stealing her sanity.

Was this arousal? She’d seen the looks her brother and Violet shared when they thought no one was looking. Whatever it was that passed between them, it was different from love. It was flirty, and it was hot, and Georgie had never quite understood it.

Now she, too, was gripped by something unfamiliar. And strange, because this was Nicholas, and even though she had decided to accept his marriage proposal, she hadn’t thought she’d feel this urge to hold him closer, this need to feel his body pressed hard against hers.

She felt hungry. At her center, at that part of her body she was not supposed to talk about.

Not hungry. Ravenous.

Dear God.

“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked, sending a brief glance at her over his shoulder.

“Yes,” she somehow managed to say. “Of course. Why?”

“You made a noise.”

Thank God they were on horseback, with sound muffled by the wind and the beating of the hooves. Because she had an awful suspicion that when the horse had shifted from a trot to a canter, she’d actually moaned.

“Just a yawn,” she improvised. But she was glad for his question. And for her embarrassment. She’d needed something to snap her out of her sultry haze.

“It’s not much farther,” Nicholas said.

She nodded against him, enjoying the warmth and the closeness, his clean masculine scent, and the slightly scratchy wool of his coat.

Nicholas had been magnificent this evening. There was something thrilling about a man who was capable, who could do things and fix things. She’d been mesmerized by his hands, by his flat, square nails, and the quiet confidence of his movements.

She could be happy with him. She was sure of it. Maybe it wouldn’t be the great love story she’d seen her brother and sister find, but she would be happy. More than happy, even.

What lay between happiness and love?

If all went well, she’d marry this man and find out.

They reached the edge of Aubrey Hall’s south lawn, and Nicholas brought the horse to a stop, keeping them veiled in a small copse of trees. “We shouldn’t ride any closer,” he said. “It will make too much noise.” He dismounted, then reached up to help her down, his large hands spanning her hips.

Her feet touched the ground, and he let go, exactly as he should.

But she wished he hadn’t.

She liked being near him. She liked his quiet strength, his sense of purpose. And when his hands had been on her hips, even just to help her down from the saddle, she’d liked the way it had made her feel like she was his.

“How do you propose to enter the house?” he asked, demonstrating that his mind wasn’t on such fanciful thoughts. In fact, he looked terribly stiff and formal, clasping his hands in front of him in that way gentlemen were taught to do whenever they stood still.

Georgie felt a stab of disappointment. It served her right, though, she supposed, for having said no when he’d asked her to marry him.

“Thamesly and I left one of the doors ajar,” she answered. “In the silver salon. It’s far from the servants’ quarters.”