Chapter 20 #4
“And how do you like London,” Rory asked quietly.
Rather uncharacteristically, he had nothing else to say.
He was feeling as uncertain as a schoolboy and he wanted to tug on his cravat to loosen it, but he had already done that.
Georgina was one of the most beautiful women he had ever beheld, yet she seemed to be oblivious to his charm, and his wit as well.
And now he had learned how intelligent she was.
They had the gulf of their disparate political views to bridge, however, he admired her immensely for having profound political views.
She was standing at the terrace doors, stargazing, but she gave him a sidelong glance. Compared to the coquettes he was accustomed to, she seemed terribly remote. “I adore London,” she said. She did not smile. He thought she might be nervous, but he could not be sure.
He had noticed her classic profile before—in another lifetime, she could have been a fair-haired Egyptian queen.
In spite of her family’s lack of means and position, she had always carried herself with regal bearing.
He knew he must lighten the moment, but for once, his charm and wit failed him.
So he said, “And why are you so taken with this town?”
She folded her arms beneath her chest. She was a tall, slender woman, and the gesture elevated her modest bosom. As her gown was hardly daring, he should not be intrigued, but he was. “There is never a dull moment,” she said, finally looking at him.
He stared back. It was a moment before he regained any wit at all, and he did not immediately recognize the possibility that she referred to their debate.
He was thinking about the probability that her legs were very long, and that was causing distinctly ungentlemanly images to invade his mind.
“Because of seditious lackwits like myself?”
She flushed. “That was truly terrible of me to say! I am sorry. I got carried away, Mr. McBane. Sedition is a high crime and the war is hardly over, even if Napoléon is on the run. Men may still be hanged for their seditious opinions.”
“And would you care?” he heard himself ask, oh so casually.
She stared at the night. “I hardly wish for your demise, Mr. McBane.”
“I am utterly relieved.” His pulse was racing.
She actually smiled, then quickly hid it.
He had caused her to smile! Now he truly felt like a schoolboy, because he was inordinately pleased.
“So what is it about London that enthralls you?” He expected her to reply as any young lady would—that she liked the balls and supper parties, that there were so many fine young ladies and gentlemen in town, and that everything was so very exciting.
“The very best part of London?” Eagerness had crept into her tone.
He nodded, really wanting to know.
“The bookstores,” she said, and two pink spots marred her cheeks.
“The bookstores,” he repeated. Oddly, he was almost elated—he should have known that such an intelligent and opinionated woman would prefer books to fashion, and bookstores to ballrooms.
“Yes, I am intrigued with the bookstores.” Her chin lifted. “I can see that you are shocked. So now you know the truth—I am a very unfashionable woman. I have strong political views, I dislike supper parties and I can think of no better pastime than reading Plato or Socrates.”
He stared. And he couldn’t help wondering if this woman had ever been kissed. But of course she had, by that odious man she had once been engaged to. He still could not understand that. “Why does your every word feel like a challenge?”
Her eyes widened. “I am hardly challenging you!” she said in some alarm. “You are staring at me. I see that I have shocked you.”
And he felt certain that was what she wanted from him. He could not help but begin to smile. “Oh, I am truly shocked. A young lady who enjoys philosophy and politics—how very shocking you are.”
She flushed, turning away abruptly and starting to go. “Now you laugh at me? You asked me a question and I answered truthfully! I am sorry I am not a coquette like the other ladies of the ton. Oh! There is Lizzie! Surely you have not forgotten her?”
He took one long stride, somewhat angry now.
She was the most exasperating woman he had ever met.
Seizing her from behind, he whirled her back around.
“What does that mean?” he demanded, aware that his temper must be retrieved before he behaved in the most dastardly manner.
And from the corner of his eye, he realized that they were standing beneath the mistletoe.
His anger evaporated. He started to smile, very, very pleased.
But her eyes flashed and he started, for he saw moisture there. “It means that your charm is lost on me,” she cried. “I know your kind! Now, unhand me, sir!”
He barely heard her. Instead, he saw her flashing topaz eyes, her full, pursed lips, her small, intriguing bosom.
Instead, he succumbed to lust. In that instant, he moved.
She might not like him all that much, but he wanted her and he had for some time.
And he knew when a woman wanted him. He could see it in her eyes—he could feel it.
He pulled her into his arms and against his chest. She cried out in protest and instinctively he tightened his hold. He refused to give her a single opportunity to speak, and he saw that she was stunned by what he intended.
He covered her mouth with his.
And something overwhelmed him then—shock, followed by recognition. He had never met a woman like this before.
Her hands pressed against him to push him away.
He didn’t notice. Stunned by a vast comprehension, he consumed her mouth until she gave and opened.
He entered there, at first with real caution, and then with driving need.
She was beautiful, brilliant and damnably opinionated. She was perfect, perfect, for him.
And Georgina melted. He knew the moment she surrendered, and with real triumph, he deepened the kiss. She began to kiss him back with a hunger that rivaled his own.
Realizing that this was leading to a place far more significant than his bed, Rory pulled away, releasing her.
Georgie stared at him, her eyes huge.
He fought for composure, grasped at shreds and wondered what to do next. Somehow he smiled. “I could not resist,” he said, glancing casually up at the mistletoe, never mind his pounding heart.
Her hand moved to her mouth while her gaze found the offending wreath. He could not tell if she was wiping her lips with disgust or touching them with reverence. She backed away, flushing. “Th-that,” she stammered, “that was…was uncalled for…Mr. McBane.”
He did not know what to say—a very rare event—so he bowed. “I think I should take my leave. Thank you for a pleasant evening,” he said as politely as possible. He continued to reel from their kiss. “I look forward to our next encounter.”