Chapter Seventeen
Georgina smiled and nodded, accepting the well-wishes of Peggy and Cook and Mr. Danvers, then watched in frozen silence as the butler shuffled the two women off the balcony, into the receiving room, and out the open double doors to vanish from sight.
The words she and Teddy had uttered in the fake ceremony rang in her head.
As did those of Mr. Danvers as he closed the pretend ceremony. “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. I pronounce that they be man and wife, together.”
Now, standing beside her on the breezy balcony made magical by the candles and flowers he’d seen to, Teddy slipped an arm around her shoulders.
He was solid and warm and oh, Lord, how she loved him.
She closed her eyes briefly and shivered, whether from cold, or nerves, or dread, or sheer pleasure at having him near, like this, she couldn’t say.
Of course, he noticed. He ran his hand up and down her arm and murmured, “Cold, darling? We could have done this inside, of course, but I thought—hoped—you’d prefer this venue.”
She gazed up at him, drinking in the sight of him bathed in the stuttering candlelight. “It was perfect,” she whispered, unable to think of anything more apt to say.
A smile flickered at his mouth, and she couldn’t be sure, but she thought his eyes tracked to her mouth. “Come.” He urged her inside and the comparative warmth seemed to melt her very bones.
On a table centered near the hearth, one candelabra burned bright. He led her toward that light, where a dripping silver bucket inside of which appeared to be an open bottle of champagne sat.
He had thought of everything.
Tears burned the backs of her eyes. This was all for her. The candles, the flowers, the champagne.
The wedding ceremony.
All because she’d lied and said they were married, lied and said she’d asked for an annulment, lied and said she didn’t feel married because he didn’t remember their elopement.
She’d loved Teddy Arlington, seemingly from the first moment she laid eyes on him, and even so, she’d never dreamed he could be so…
everything. Everything she could possibly want.
And now they’d spoken vows. What had she done? But what else could she have done? Humiliated him in front of the servants? Maybe even hurt him? No.
“Shall I pour?” she asked, brushing his hands aside when he reached for the bottle.
“If you like,” he drawled.
She took her time filling two champagne flutes while keeping her eyes on her task.
She’d known Teddy was charming and handsome and clever.
She’d known he was adept at pretty much everything he tried his hand at, be it dancing or athletics or art or logic.
She’d known how he made her feel by his mere presence—full of butterflies, fully alive, and filled to the brim with almost too much love.
But she hadn’t known he could be so caring and thoughtful, that he would listen to her, really listen to her, and then bend over backwards to see her wishes come to fruition.
She’d loved him as long as she could remember.
But now, after having him here, all to herself and almost hers, after experiencing his attention, focused solely on her, she loved him to the point of pain.
He felt like hers, but he wasn’t, and until now, had never given one indication he wanted to be.
Until now.
He accepted the champagne flute she held out to him and waited as she picked up hers. Then he spoke in a voice above a whisper. “To us.”
“To us,” she echoed.
Teddy gazed at her over the rim. His caramel eyes glowed with promise and unmasked desire.
He wanted her. She wanted him. And now, he’d somehow leapt every hurdle she’d put before him to keep him at arm’s length.
What was it Drake had said? He’s not for you, pet. At least, not yet.
Not yet, he’d said. But he hadn’t said never.
“Let’s take these upstairs, shall we?”
Georgina had reached the moment of truth.
After all her good intentions, all her clever machinations, all her plans to keep him from accidentally compromising her, now came down to a simple yes, or no.
But hadn’t she actually passed that point when she recited the vows?
Maybe this moment had been inevitable from the moment she stole him from Bell Haven.
“Yes.”
Without another word, he took her hand, and started for the doors.
Teddy followed Georgina as they moved slowly up the stairs, watching as her hips gently swayed with each step. For a moment there, he could have sworn she meant to conjure yet another excuse as to why he must abide in his guest chamber, while she continued to inhabit hers, alone.
When she hadn’t, he nearly howled with relief.
They reached the landing, and Teddy gave Georgina a playful push toward her bedchamber—hers, and after tonight, his, as well.
She made not a word of protest. Quite the opposite, in fact, judging by the slow, siren’s smile she sent him over her shoulder as they crossed to her door.
It was all he could do not to grab her, spin her ’round, and press her to the wall, his body melding with hers as he feasted on those succulent lips.
By the time they entered her bedchamber, his insides were as tight as an archer’s bowstring, ready to fire. He drew a long, calming breath to rein himself in lest he humiliate himself by finishing before they’d even begun.
He glanced around, taking in the space illuminated by a scant number of candles which had been left burning. His wife’s domain, into which he’d never ventured. In a flash he saw she’d left her indelible mark.
Feminine, like the rest of the villa, it had cream-and-silver papered walls, patterned with a combination of stripes and delicate scrolls.
The bed, as he’d suspected, was large, four-post, and fashioned of a golden walnut rather than the typical masculine, dark-cherry wood.
Her bedcovers looked to be blue silk threaded with silver-and-white embroidery.
They appeared plush and inviting, like the woman herself.
She’d collected some artwork, he noted, which he’d want to inspect—later. A nude, reminiscent of Titian, and a soft, flirty rococo. A sketch, too. Yes, definitely worth investigating.
Perhaps, tomorrow, when he moved his things into their chamber.
Not now.
In the room’s center, Georgina seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain where she ought to lead him.
He had that worked out.
“Over here, if you please,” he murmured, his voice low, as he made his way to the basin and pitcher, which he’d requested be filled with warm water and her signature rose oil.
“All right.”
He picked up the pitcher and poured its contents into the painted basin.
“Oh,” she said, eyes widening as if uncertain what he intended, though she joined him before the vanity, nonetheless.
“Turn around, if you please,” he instructed, his voice husky even to his own ears.
She obeyed, and the sound of her shuddering, indrawn breath sent a shaft of molten heat through him. His cock, already rigid, pulsed.
Swallowing hard over a throat gone suddenly dry, he reached for the tiny pearl buttons that fastened her silk gown running along the center of her back.
One by one, he undid them. Little by little, the folds of her gown parted.
Second by second, tremors coursed through her, transmitting to his fingers.
He brushed a capped sleeve off one shoulder, then the next, and, with a whisper of fabric, her gown pooled at her feet.
Hands shaking with the need to touch her, everywhere, he grasped one of the linen towels laid out beside the basin, soaking and ringing it out in the fragrant water.
Then he ran the dampened towel over her nape, and bared upper back, finally reaching around her to gently swab her exposed bodice.
In doing so, he pulled her body ever so slightly into his, and nearly groaned.
Unable to resist the urge he bent his head and nibbled the delicate place under her jaw, working his way to her tender earlobe, which he nuzzled, then nipped.
At her soft gasp, he did groan. God, how he wanted this woman.
Wanted to sink his hard shaft into her heat.
But not yet. He hadn’t gone through the torture of constant unfulfilled desire to rush things at this juncture.
He would force himself to wait—and bring her to the place of desperate yearning where he lived of late—even if it killed him.
He set the towel aside and with two flicks of his wrist, loosed the petticoat she wore and sent it tumbling to the floor. Then he started on her stays.
The dry mouth he suffered suddenly began to water as he imagined what he wanted to taste first once he had her naked.
He unlaced the tight corset with painstaking patience, his fingertips sliding over the terribly soft, pristine skin of her upper back as the stays parted to reveal the thin chemise beneath.
Soon the rigid stays joined the other discards.
Only the ultra-thin chemise, her stockings, and slippers remained.
He grasped the skirts and shimmied the fabric upward. “Raise your arms,” he choked drinking in the sight of her.
With another shuddering breath, she obliged.
God, the shape of her. A tiny waist his hands could surely span, gently rounded hips and, blood of the saints, a high, round, bottom that had his cock straining against the packet in his pantaloons.
Once again, hands shaking with violent need, he picked up the linen towel and soaked it, only this time, rather than wringing the rose scented water out, he allowed droplets to sluice over her body.
A shudder of passion rolled through her, and her head lolled back to rest against his chest. Good. He needed her as desperate for him as he was for her.
And he was desperate.
He drew the towel down her back, then bent his head to her ear. “Does that feel good, sweetheart?”
She nodded rapidly, panting, and coaxed a wicked chuckle from him.