At night, she became someone else. Hidden by her wigs, eye masks, and scandalous dresses she would not ordinarily dare to wear, she visited some of the most unlikely places with her lover, her protector, by her side. It had felt so different to laugh and converse with no expectations placed upon her as a duchess. They had explored Astley’s Amphitheater to her delight, and even where he had spent most of his years struggling with his family—the Seven Dials.
She had listened to the smooth timbre of his voice as he’d told her tales of stealing, fighting, and brokering deals to put food on his table, and how he had gained his wealth by trading one favor after the other before learning the art of investing on the London Stock Exchange. She had been appalled at how he had existed, but fierce admiration had also burned inside her for his strength and cunning intelligence that had made him wealthier than most titled lords.
Other nights, they strolled through the fashionable quarters, laughing and chatting, with her regaling him with dozens of tales of her Nicolas. His first walk, the first time he’d called her mamma, the first time he’d fallen and scraped his knee, and the first time he’d lost a tooth. Stories she’d never gotten to share with her duke, or with anyone else, she found herself revealing out to Rhys. He seemed so fascinated with every word that came from her mouth, several times she had to force herself to stop talking after a mortified chuckle to say she had been talking for hours.
Some nights instead of taking her home, he had discreetly whisked her to his townhouse. A flush ran along her body at the wickedness they had indulged in. Days later, the memory of his touch was still so vivid. There had been times he had loved her so fiercely, she could not find the energy to slip away and be escorted back to her own townhouse. It was those times, despite missing her son dreadfully, she was grateful Simon had taken her boy with him to Lincolnshire.
Rhys had taken her to a masquerade ball in Soho Square, where she’d mixed with politicians, actresses, and businessmen of the middle class and aristocracy. She’d been herself and had given her opinion freely on investment trends and her knowledge of the arts and theater. Then the dratted man had taken her to another house in Soho Square for a black-market art exhibition. She had been equally appalled and enervated but had refused to make an illegal purchase.
Rhys also commanded the kitchen as he did everything else. That had pleasantly shocked her, and she had watched him one night while sitting on a kitchen stool as he cooked a stew. Georgiana had awkwardly chopped carrots and potatoes, loving every minute of it. That night they hadn’t made love but had eaten the savory meal he’d so effortlessly prepared, played chess in the drawing room, and taken turns reading her “deplorable” gothic romance aloud while they lazed on the carpet by the fire. Those were the nights he stole every shred of reserve she had in her heart about their union.
The last time she had been in Rhys’s bed had been a week ago. A sweet, hot ache filled her at the memory. Every time they made love, it created a heavy craving for more. He hadn’t treated her like spun glass at all that night. He had been a bit untamed, so ungentlemanly in his passions as he flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her onto her knees, her hips arched into the air. He’d surged into her powerfully, filling her, stretching her, enslaving her to the pleasures that burned within her heart for him. He’d loved her long and hard, and she had reveled in every stroke of his possession.
“How will I find the strength to tell you good-bye?” she had whispered into the crook of his neck. Being with him was a terrible pleasure.
He had made no reply, and she had slumbered with impossible dreams in her thoughts. There had been no clandestine meeting since, but every day he had sent her some gift. They had always been signed with a R, and were so simple in their design but brought her immeasurable pleasure. The first had been a small comb fashioned from a seashell, then a single bloodred rose, a first edition of The Mysteries of Udolpho by Anne Radcliffe. Her heart had trembled with the realization he was wooing her. Her fascination with him only grew, and last night she had sobbed herself to sleep for she was falling madly, desperately in love with Rhys Tremayne.
If only she could suppress her need for him that kept her awake in the dark while everyone else slumbered. Affixing a smile to her face as her mother chattered away, Georgiana discreetly examined Rhys as he moved though the throng, clearly an anomaly in their midst. It wasn’t that he was dressed differently, though he did not favor the flamboyant colors many gentlemen wore. He was garbed once more in dark trousers and a coat with a silver-cloth waistcoat. Danger seemed inherent in his coiled elegance, and the polite world sensed it, several people instinctively giving him a wide berth.
Their hostess greeted Lydia, who seemed to make a concentrated effort to not use her fingers to sign. She nodded and smiled, watching Lady Sheffield’s lips and responding when needed. As if he felt Georgiana’s regard, Rhys’s head lifted, and his eyes met hers over several heads. She was appalled to feel her breasts growing heavy from that quick heated, probing stare. She turned away, fighting for equanimity. Since the start of their affair, this was the first time they had had cause to mingle within society. It was decidedly discomfiting. She felt naked and too vulnerable without her wig and eye mask. The scrutiny of the ton seemed sharper, or perhaps she was just more aware of how illicit she had been.
“Upon my word, Georgiana, you seemed flushed,” Lady Trombly remarked. “Are you well?”
Dear God in heavens.
“I’m quite fine. It is the heat. I’ve promised Lord Locksley a turn in the garden, and I shall soon prevail upon him for our stroll.”
Lady Trombly gave Georgiana a knowing smile, and she gritted her teeth in annoyance. She had overheard several people banding their names together. And what did she expect? While she was sneaking away in the nights to be wrapped in Rhys’s arms, in the day she was taking tea and going on picnics with the persistent marquess.
He was ardently pursuing her, and she was still declining more invitations than she was accepting. But the few outings they had already, resulted in society linking their names together.
With a sigh, she directed her attention to Lydia, assessing her reception. She was resplendent in a light-peach gown with tiny forget-me-not flowers lining her hem and puffed sleeves. Her dark ringlets were caught in an elegant cascade, and her eyes, so very much like her brother’s, glowed with trepidation. “Excuse me, Mother, there is someone I must greet.”
“Oh, is it Lady Preston? I’ve heard her husband bought her the most delightful filly at Tattersall last weekend. I should come with you.”
“No.”
Her mother frowned at her terseness.
“Who must you greet?”
“Miss Lydia Tremayne, Mr. Tremyane’s sister.”
A shocked inhalation sounded. “You go to her? Preposterous. The girl must wait to be introduced to you, and I certainly hope you’ll not be overly familiar. That will be giving a stamp of approval to a young woman who is undeserving.”
Georgiana stiffened. “Undeserving?”
“Surely you cannot be in doubt. Miss Tremayne’s background and connections are dubious.”
“Mother, I am sure Simon told you of the unmatched service Mr. Tremayne performed for us when he used his background and connections to find my son when no one else could.”
A flush worked itself up her mother’s neck. “Albeit, my dear—”
“You are the person being preposterous, Mother.” Georgiana walked away, knowing her mother would be infuriated at the insult.
She headed directly for Lydia, grateful Rhys’s attention had been diverted by Lord Mansfield. “Lydia, how wonderful to see you again,” Georgiana greeted, holding out her hands. Lydia’s smile widened in delight.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping into an elegant curtsy. “How marvelous you look.” Her eyes were wide with admiration and warmth.
Georgiana drew Lydia along and introduced her to several well-connected ladies who were friends, very much aware of the c
uriosity of the throng as the attention she paid Lydia was remarked upon. Georgiana made the rounds with her and gave Lydia encouraging smiles as she was secured for a few dances with respectable gentlemen.
Sometime later, Georgiana stood on the sidelines, observing as Lydia danced the quadrille with young Lord Fenwick. He was the son of an earl, and rumors abounded of their impoverished state. Everyone understood he was seeking a young heiress with breeding, but from Lord Fenwick’s besotted mien, Lydia’s dubious connections might prove irrelevant.
“They do look charming together,” her friend Daphne murmured beside Georgiana. “But then Miss Tremayne’s manners are so delightful, she would easily attract any gentleman.”
Georgiana laughed, quite pleased with the assessment. Rhys’s sister was so sweetly earnest and lovely, she would be much admired.
“I am curious as to the mark of approval you have given her,” Daphne said, giving Georgiana a considering glance.
“Dear Daphne, Miss Tremayne is simply a delightful young lady with cheerful manners, and I like her.”
“Pah, I’m almost certain it has to do with the man whispers say is her brother. That one lounging on the upper balcony and inspiring very unladylike thoughts in many tonight. He is a fine specimen.”