Chapter Six
The duchess’s lips were full and soft, and they’d trembled so lightly against his. Her taste, mysterious and sweet, a beckoning lure to madness. Hers was a mouth to savor. He’d never believed hunger could swallow him up and leave him trembling with the need to ravish and plunder.
With long strides, Rhys left the library and the townhouse. Once outside, he took a deep breath of chilled night air into his lungs. He needed the long walk home to clear his head and regain his perspective. Because everything had been indelibly shifted the instant he’d tasted her.
“Lydia, Joanna, Grace,” he whispered in the cold night air.
How in God’s name had the encounter with her in the library devolved to an almost seduction? He’d wanted to meet with her, to calculatingly assess if she had any need he could fulfill in order to draw her into a web of his making. Instead… Hell, he would ruminate on their encounter for the rest of his natural life, and he would never understand what the hell had happened.
A clank in the dark had Rhys pushing all thoughts of the perplexing duchess from his thoughts. Though he was in the upper West End, he needed to be vigilant always. Moving with stealth through the night, and with an awareness of every darkened corner, he made his way home within several minutes. He let himself in and prowled toward his study. Rhys entered and crossed the room to the small table near the fireplace, picked up the crystal decanter, and splashed brandy into a glass. He downed the contents in one long swallow, then refilled his glass.
The unsettled feeling still lingered, the ache in his gut growing worse. What he needed to do was visit the gambling club and take a woman for the night. It had been months since he’d bedded a woman, more because of his busy lifestyle than lack of want. That’s what he would do, head down to The Asylum, procure one of the working girls, and tup her for the night to purge the duchess from his thoughts.
Yet the visions that crowded his thoughts were of her, seated deep on his cock, riding him, her head thrown back, her breasts arched perfectly to his mouth. The images came out of nowhere, searing and intense. Rhys’s hand tightened violently around the brandy glass.
How can two people of such wildly different backgrounds and circumstances have a very discreet night of pleasure?
God damn it.
Why did he even want her? She was not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, nor was she the most provocative. But he had never felt this depth of desire to bed any of them, much less hold a conversation.
It’s her eyes.
They held mysteries and secrets he wanted to unlock. Devil take it. He was being fanciful, and he was not that sort. He thrust his free hand into his pocket, staring into the flickering fireplace. Rhys was never the type of man to shy away from what he wanted. He’d built his empire of secrets, his shipping, and other businesses through a ruthless desire to ardently pursue what he hungered for. It was an ingrained code he had nourished over the years and the reason he attributed to the success he had gained. And he wanted the bewitching and haughty beauty.
But why would she want a man like him in her life…and in her bed?
Perhaps I will respond. I make no promises.
He doubted she would succumb to the burning desire between them. With a frown, he recalled their time tonight. He had not been the only one who had lost control in the library. The duchess’s response to him had been unmistakable. She desired him…a criminal at the best of times, a man who had sunk to deep levels of depravity for the benefit of his family. He had been raised on the edge of dark and dangerous things. Their social divide was so wide, there was no reason for her to want him, but her reactions had been so honest and pure. There was no other explanation unless the duchess was just a passionate woman who had such a response for all her lovers.
Then he remembered her impossible tightness, as if she hadn’t had a man in years. She had struggled to accommodate his fingers as he’d worked to prepare her, as he’d had all intention of placing her atop the desk, plunging his cock deep, and then riding her like she was his mistress and not a genteel lady.
It was going to be a long night. The duchess was too riveting, too compelling for him to try and assuage his longing for her with another woman. He would simply have to suffer the tormented memories of her passion until he had the woman herself.
The door creaked opened, but he did not glance around. From the lavender scent wafting closer, he knew it was his mother.
“What are you plotting here in the dark alone?”
That was putting it mildly. His mind was seven steps ahead, wondering how to make the duchess his lover for more than one night, too. An impossible desire he wanted to take to bed with him, and perhaps he would then dream of her.
“Well?” his mother demanded at his silence.
“I’m merely thinking of business.” He did have work to attend to. A war was being waged in Greece, and he had been contacted to broker an armed deal for more weaponry.
“You seem troubled.”
A smile tugged at his lips. His mother always did that very strange thing mothers seemed to do—pick up on their children’s disquiet without a word being proffered. “The better question, Mother, is why are you awake?”
“I grew tired of knitting, nor could I sleep.” With a sigh, she moved to sit on the sofa, at the far end. “Then the girls exhausted me with their chatter of this prestigious ball you had gone off to. My curiosity also keeps me from my warm bed. You seemed very perturbed. I’m here if you need a listening ear.”
“I’ve met someone, and I am at a loss as to why thoughts of her haunt me.”
His mother’s breath caught audibly. “That is wonderful, Rhys.”
“Not particularly.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said warmly. “You are an eligible catch, and I am not saying so because you are my son.”
He contained his chuckle. Eligible? With his notoriety and links to the criminal world? Only his mother would believe so.
“Who is it? I thought Miss Helena seemed to be of particular interest.”
Miss Helena? Ah…his lawyer’s daughter. Now that his mother mentioned it, the man’s daughter had been particularly attentive for the past few weeks. He’d recently met Mr. Sharpton when Rhys had retained the man to craft a will that would see his wealth divided equally between his sisters after his mother’s portion had been secured. One of his instructions to his lawyer had been to ensure that even if his sisters married, their wealth would remain their own. Their dowries were generous, thirty thousand pounds each, making them heiresses, but he would protect the rest of their wealth from possible fortune hunters.
“I do believe it’s time for you to take a wife and have a nursery of your own,” his mother continued happily.
A nursery of his own? His heart was at times so blackened by his deeds of the past, he hardly spared any thoughts for the future. Rhys had never really thought about settling down, finding a wife, or filling his house with children. For some reason, he’d simply left those peculiar desires to his sisters. It wasn’t that he had an objection to marriage, Rhys had simply never met a woman who inspired him to want more. “No.”
“Why ever not? Surely there are times you are lonely.”
A man couldn’t tell his mother he tupped women when he felt the need for companionship. “Mother—”
“I’m not talking about a woman you go to assuage those needs,” she said primly. “I am talking about a friend, a companion, someone to have and to hold, someone to love, to support you through the dark times, and to celebrate with you through the good times,” she ended bluntly.
Sometimes he forgot his mother had been there with him and his sisters as they scrabbled and fought for a better life from the gutter. His mother was the daughter of an impoverished viscount who had all about sold her to Mr. John Tremayne, an Irish cloth merchant, who had been a mean drunkard who had beaten his wife fiercely. She had fled with Rhys when he’d only been ten years old, Lydia had been three, and his mother had been pregnant with the twins. The dark memories of those days, and how they had suffered, stirred within him. He ruthlessly suppressed them.
“This woman will never be for me. I am uncertain as to why I even mentioned her to you.”
“Why is she not for you?” she questioned with clear affront.
The sensation of restlessness grew stronger. “She is a duchess, a dowager duchess,” he said, finally shifting to face her.
An acute silence fell in the study.
She slanted him a quick, searching glance. “A real duchess?”
“There are other kinds?”
She scowled. “Are you going to court her?”
An unamused bark of laughter escaped him. “I see you are going to ignore the fact she is a duchess.”
“Your grandfather is a viscount,” his mother said softly. “You do have some ties to the nobility. I…I could reach out to my brother, the current viscount Westcott—”
“No,” Rhys said flatly. His mother had once turned to her brother and begged for his help, and that pompous blackguard had refused to aid his sister, insisting she return to her abusive husband. “We have never lived a noble life.”
“Isn’t that what you have been working for the girls to achieve? Life amongst the aristocracy?”
His sisters had been bred for a much higher position in the social hierarchy than the one in which they existed. In fact, his mother had been engaged to an earl before the greed of her father allowed him to sell her into hell.
“Why not seek a similar connection for yourself?”
“You should know, Mother, of all people, that an unwanted connection to a viscount would not make me suitable for a duchess. I…I’ve done things,” he said gruffly. “I have no aspirations regarding her.” Except wanting her quite desperately in his bed. “Forget I said anything, thinking of her was…an aberration. She is simply a means to an end for the girls.”
Liar. He’d never had an attachment before. He’d also been single-minded in his desire to make a better life for his family. There had never been a moment in time before when he had wished for a permanent lover or a wife. The notion simply had not appealed to him. He’d allowed nothing to distract him from his purpose. It was damn stupid of him to allow a distraction in the form of a woman whose shadow he could hardly stand in. She had effectively disrupted his ordered and driven existence. Instead of feeling frustration at the idea, he was intrigued.
“The duchess is simply another pawn in the game we all play.”
He lied, unless she succumbed to the heat between them and became his lover. Then she would be something more to him, certainly more than a willing body with which to slake his lust. Rhys frowned. Had he ever laughed with a woman, bantered with one, even had dinner with a lady other than his sisters? Hell. His mother looked unconvinced. And he said nothing further, for he wasn’t so convinced, either, and any protestation falling from his lips would be a lie.
…
Georgiana had fled London to Kent as if the devil had been nipping at her heels. And perhaps he had been, in the guise of Mr. Rhys Tremayne. She’d had to escape. Georgiana was thoroughly vexed with herself. Nothing she did would take the flush from her cheeks. She wasn’t a blushing virgin to be so flustered three days after her encounter with that dratted man in the library. Worse, every night she rehashed the encounter in her dreams. She would awaken sweaty, wet and aching, her fingers twisting the sheets in a tight grip. It was appalling that she would lust after a man so unsuitable in such a manner. But something had to be done, and she wanted to dive off that cliff of insanity, and with him, too. So far, no invitation had been delivered inviting her to an illicit meeting at a secret location. One she was now positive she would accept.
“Mamma, he caught it,” her son, Nicolas, crowed as their wolfhound puppies, Calliope and Barnaby, ran over to them. Barnaby had a stick in his mouth, and he dropped it, tail thumping and wagging.
With a chortle, her darling boy tipped back his head and laughed, a joyous and full sound that was so uniquely his. She didn’t recall ever being so uninhibited with her laugh as a child. Even in that, she had observed proprieties.
He grabbed the stick and tossed it even farther, to the dogs’ delight. Barnaby and Calliope bounded away, but instead of following, Nicolas turned and flung himself at Georgiana, sprawling against her, his head resting in her lap. She stroked his hair before bending to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Did you receive my letters when you were in town, Mamma?”
“I did, and I was certain I responded to all of them. It is quite strange for you to be in doubt, hmm?” she said, tickling his underarm.
His peal of laughter melted her insides.
They had been outside for an hour already, taking advantage of the pleasant weather. They sat beneath an apple tree by the Southside gardens.
The butler rounded the corner. “Lord Fairfax has come to call, your ladyship. He is breaking his fast.”
It was barely nine in the morning. For Simon to have arrived so early, he would have needed to have traveled for a few hours from town. Only the scandal of her dancing with Mr. Tremayne would have her brother descending on her without the good manners of sending a note. Or perhaps it was something else. It had, after all, been three days, and dear Daphne had sent Georgiana no scandal-sheet clippings.
“Ask Mrs. Huxley to prepare Lord Fairfax’s room. I’ll be there shortly.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
“Are we to read, Mamma?” Her son asked hopefully.
“Yes, we are.” Taking a long walk after breaking their fast was a part of her and Nicolas’s routine. Then she would read a story to him, and they would play for a short while before he would be collected by his nursemaid. He would then be in the schoolroom with his tutor until luncheon. She cherished their times together and missed him dreadfully whenever she traveled to town.
A happy sigh slipped from him when she opened the small leather volume and started the story of Rumpelstiltskin, one of his favorites. Soon they were singing the song he danced his triumph to when he thought the queen had not learned his name. Several minutes later, Nicolas was collected by his new nursemaid, Miss Amelia Williams, the niece of the local vicar.
“Mamma, will you please inform Uncle Simon I must see him? We could have luncheon together.”
A pang went through her heart. How Nicolas craved his uncle’s presence. She knew she would soon have to remarry, even if only to provide her son with a more stable role model and the influence of a gentleman. Her brother’s visits were too erratic. “I will have him spend the night, even if I have to chain him in a room.”
Nicolas chortled, then slipped his hand into Miss Williams’s and left with her. Georgiana strolled across the lawn, smiling when she saw that Mr. Brantley, her son’s tutor, was taking their lessons outdoors today. She arrived at the house, and after inquiring about Simon’s location, headed toward the rose parlor. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the door handle firmly, straightened her shoulders, and walked purposefully into the room. Simon was lounging by the windows overlooking the eastern lawns of the estate, a cup of tea in his hand.
She closed the door gently, and he spun and scanned Georgiana, no doubt looking for signs of her being debauched.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“You said Nicolas misses me.”
“Hmm, and is that your only reason? I recall you saw him a couple weeks past.”
Amusement lit in Simon’s eyes. “I confess to also being interfering. Mr. Tremayne seemed very taken with you.”
“The ball was three days ago, Simon. Must we really have this conversation?”
“I was very shocked to see you gliding about the room with the man. I could not imagine you behaving in a manner that is not proper.”
Her entire life she had been so decorous and ladylike. Her sense of duty and obligation to her family had never wavered. She’d molded herself into a wife Hardcastle and her family were proud of. Her son, once grown, would be proud of her legacy and reputation. She had never done anything to besmirch their family’s reputation. Except she did not believe discreetly reaching for a slice of happiness for herself was betraying her family. “It was only a few days ago you suggested I take a lover.”
A flush ran along his cheekbone. “I meant a gentleman. Surely you did not believe I meant a man who had once been a dockside worker.”
“If that is true, then Mr. Tremayne is a man to be admired, not looked down upon. I do not believe it’s anyone’s business who I…I…” Blast it. She could not speak of a lover so lightly to her brother. “I only danced with Mr. Tremayne and had a rousing conversation. He makes me feel different…more, I cannot find the word to express the feelings.”
“Duty and honor come before such maudlin emotions,” Simon snapped. “Everything you do has the potential to affect this family, particularly Eleanor’s chances of securing a good match and our standing in society.”
“I see, and how badly did my dance with Mr. Tremayne’s affect your, Mother’s, and Elle’s reputation?”
His expression turned surprisingly wry. “I remained in town to see if there were any rumors after the fact.”
“And I am certain there were none.”
“You wouldn’t be the first lady to be attracted to those of the lower class, but kindly remember the consequences,” her brother said flatly.
Georgiana knew he referred to a few scandals of the last season, where the affected ladies had been thoroughly shamed by society. The Countess Lauriston had been hurt by society’s mockery of her affair with Mr. Robert Johnson, a businessman who owned a string of butcher shops in England. A skimmington had been publicly staged—a woman dressed as the countess, a lowly dressed man who represented Mr. Johnson, with several pigs trailing behind them down Barker Street. Though it had been executed by people of the lower class, all knew it had been done at the manipulation of the aristocracy.
“You worry for naught, I have had no further dealings with Mr. Tremayne. Now, will you spend the night? I think Nicolas wishes to impress you with his newly acquired acrobatic skills.”
Simon sighed, clearly reluctant to cease his line of discourse. He raked his fingers through his hair, mussing the dark strands. The bluest of eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I’d planned to visit for a couple days. I am taking a jaunt into the village.”
She paused in the act of pouring a cup of tea. “To visit Sir Robert Penwittle, perhaps, and his daughter?”
Her brother scowled, and she grinned. “I, too, can be interfering. Did you think it escaped my notice you find some silly excuse to ensure your path crosses with Sir Robert’s daughter whenever you visit?”
He gave her a black scowl before polishing off the rest of his tea in a long swallow.
“The squire and I have business. That is all there is to it. I’ll be back in time for luncheon.” He prowled over and brushed a kiss against her cheek then departed.
Georgiana wasted no time hurrying to the library. She was considering a hefty investment into steam canals, and she needed to review the information her banker had sent and see to her mountain of correspondence.
A couple hours later, a knock sounded on the door of the library. She replaced the packet of invitations she was wading through. “Yes?”
The door opened. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” Miss Williams said, hovering in the doorway of the library.
“Yes?”
“It’s His Grace…I have not been able to locate him for the last thirty minutes or so.”
With a frown, Georgiana glanced at the pocket watch placed across her desk. It was almost time for luncheon. She had broken her fast with her son earlier, and then they had spent an hour together as their wont, strolling across the lawns of the estate with their dogs. Then he had been delivered to the schoolroom for his lessons.
“Perhaps he is hiding in the pantry again,” she said with a smile, pushing from the desk. Quickly organizing the sheaf of papers into a tidy pile, she pushed the financial reports into the folder. She needed to have a stern talk with her son about tormenting his tutors and nursemaid. Nicolas would oftentimes slip from the schoolroom as quick and silent as a wraith and elude his lessons for hours. He enjoyed playing outdoors, climbing, and running more than the schoolroom. Only at her calls would he reveal his hiding place, all the while chortling as if they played a grand game.
Exactly an hour later, according to the timepiece, her son was still nowhere to be found. She strolled through the echoing empty entrance hall at an unhurried pace, her mind pulled in several frightful directions.
“Please abandon all duties and help me find my son. Nicolas has never remained hidden for so long before, and I am concerned,” Georgiana said to the dozens of servants gathered in the prodigious hallway. “We need to search every room, the lawns and gazebos, the conservatory, and all the gardens.”
A series of agreements filled the air, and then the footmen, maids, and even the butler dispersed. She felt slightly better knowing more than one hundred servants were searching for him.
She turned to the nursemaid who hovered with perceptible uneasiness.
“Please inform me again, where was the last place you saw my son?”
“The little duke was feeling a bit restless during his lessons, so I took him for a stroll. We were in the eastern gardens, and I rested only for a minute on the stone bench. When I called for him, there was no answer. I started searching, believing he was playing a game of hide-and-seek,” Williams said, her voice wobbling and her eyes filling with tears. “It’s been a little over two hours, Your Grace.”
A cold foreboding permeated her entire body, and Georgiana was suddenly consumed with a sense of overwhelming urgency. She hurried to the library and scribbled a note to her brother. Then she took it to a footman and ordered for her letter to be delivered with all haste.
She donned her bonnet and slipped her feet into more comfortable walking shoes, calling for Calliope and Barnaby, and started to search for her son. If he were truly hiding still, he would not be able to resist the yelps and howls of his dogs.
As she was about to exit the manor, Gibbs hurried toward her, panting from his frantic pace. “Your Grace, Rogers, the head gardener, reported he had seen an unfamiliar man lurking near the gazebo by the lake. Rogers had simply thought him a new hire and had not queried his presence at Meadowbrook Park.”
Georgiana knew a sudden, bone-chilling fear. “Summon the magistrates at once, and I must speak with Rogers.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said and scurried away.
Quelling the shiver of apprehension that scythed through her heart, she ran down the steps, the massive dogs at her heels, a protective comfort. Another hour rushed by, and Georgiana stood by the lake, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. The wind gusted, tangling her skirt around her legs, and she placed a hand atop her bonnet to keep it in place. The sense of anxious dread grew stronger. Something dreadful had happened to her son.