Chapter 22 #2
After all, she was no silly, coy, marriage-mad debutante.
She was a sensible, intelligent, rather genteel and very unfashionable Irishwoman, and she truly enjoyed spinsterhood.
Besides, Rory McBane was not marriage material—he had not a penny to his name, not that it mattered.
And she was not like Lizzie. She would not fall head over heels in love, so much so that she would throw away her good name and her entire life for an illicit affair that could only lead to heartbreak.
“He is waiting in the library,” Leclerc said. “Your sister has a caller in the salon and I did not think she wished to be disturbed.”
Georgie could not think of a reply. Instead, she kept recalling Rory’s stunning kiss and the feeling of his body against hers.
She followed Leclerc downstairs, trying to draw a normal breath and finding it impossible.
She wished he had never kissed her; she wished he had not called. What could he possibly want?
It crossed her mind that he wished to apologize.
Relief flooded her. She would gladly accept an apology for his randy behavior. As he was such a dear friend of Lizzie’s, that was surely what he thought to do, so they could avoid having any awkwardness between them.
He was pacing in the library. Unfortunately, he remained rakishly handsome, causing her heart to pick up its racing beat.
As unfortunately, he was very intelligent, and Georgie admired wit and erudition more than any other trait in any man or woman.
Leclerc left and Georgie just stood there, watching him.
He turned to face her and his cheeks turned red. “How are you?” He bowed.
Georgie inclined her head and lied through her teeth. “Very well.” She smiled at him, hoping he had not a clue as to the fact that she was not well at all. Her skin tingled, and an ache she recognized had begun to spread its heat between her thighs.
His gaze was searching. “Did you receive the flowers?”
She blinked. “Flowers?”
“I sent you flowers, Georgina. I assumed you would have received them by now.”
“You sent me flowers?” she repeated like a lackwit.
A twinkle appeared in his astonishing green eyes. “Yes, roses. Red roses, in fact.” He started toward her.
She could not move. “But…why?” Was this a dream? Or was it some kind of ploy? After all, she was no coquette and he knew it. There was simply no reason for him to send her flowers.
“Why does any gentleman send flowers to a lady?” he asked simply.
She backed up. “I don’t know,” she breathed, beginning to tremble. This could not mean what he was implying…surely he was not here to court her!
The light in his eyes was impossibly tender. “You don’t know?” he said with amusement.
She decided she must leave—in fact, she must flee!
Georgie turned and started for the door in a panic, but he caught her from behind.
He turned her abruptly around and Georgina found herself in his arms. Her heart overcame her then.
She was terribly in love. Now that she dared to admit it, she had admired him and desired him from the first moment she had ever laid eyes upon him.
But no good could come of it. He was not for her—she was just too eccentric. She had known that from the very first, as well.
“I sent you roses, Georgina, as a token of my affection and admiration for you,” he murmured, his gaze on her face.
He must be in jest. She pulled away and found herself with her back against the wall. “Rory, please!” She held up a shaking hand. “We both know I am not the kind of woman to stir up affection or admiration in a man.”
He blinked.
“I thought you had come to apologize for the other night,” she cried, and she felt her cheeks heat at the mere mention of that evening.
“To apologize?” he echoed, surprised.
She nodded. “Yes, to apologize for taking such liberties with me.”
“Liberties?”
“Your apology is accepted,” Georgie said in a huge rush. “I know you are a dear friend of Lizzie’s and Eleanor’s favorite relation, so our paths will continue to cross. But it is best if we never speak of this again!”
He shook his head and seized her hand. “I am not apologizing for kissing you, Georgina May,” he growled.
And she knew what he intended. He pulled her into his arms and she tensed, desperately wanting to avoid his kiss but even more desperately wanting to accept it. He ignored her and quickly covered her mouth with his.
Georgie gave up. His mouth was very firm and uncompromising, and as he kissed her, desire exploded there in the juncture of her thighs, shameless and insistent. She clung, opening, trying to let more of him in. He pulled away, panting, his eyes hot and hard.
Georgie could not speak. Her lips throbbed—her entire body throbbed. She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Why?” she managed to say, as she could not breathe, not after such an astounding kiss. “Why are you doing this to me?” Surely he was not being sincere.
He caught her arm. “Because I am through pretending that this does not exist between us! From the moment we first met, I have tried my hardest not to see you for what you are—the most amazing woman I have ever had the good fortune to meet.”
Georgie cried out, afraid, yet also daring to hope. “You can’t mean that! Please, do not flatter me if you do not mean it!”
“I am not the womanizer you seem to think me,” he said. “When will you trust me?”
Georgie stared. It was a long moment before she could assemble her flustered thoughts. “I am afraid.”
He softened. “Why? I have never admired any woman more—or desired any woman more, either.”
She felt her knees give way, felt the almost painful stabbing of desire again. He put his arms around her. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, “not of me.”
Georgie had the good sense to plant her hands on his chest, although it did no good, as most of his body was pressed against hers. Did she dare believe him, trust him, now?
“I have done nothing but think about you these past three days,” Rory said, meeting her eyes, his gaze intense. “I have done nothing but think about us.”
Georgie went still, except for her heart, which pounded with explosive force. “I don’t understand.”
“I am a poor man, Georgina,” he whispered, “and by many standards, not even a gentleman.”
Georgie shook her head, disbelieving. “I would never judge any man’s character by the state of his finances,” she said firmly.
“You could—and should—do so much better,” Rory said roughly.
What if he was sincere? “I don’t want to do better,” Georgie heard herself whisper. And it was the truth—a truth she could no longer avoid.
He took one of her hands, lifted it to his mouth and kissed it, hard.
Then he looked at her, his eyes smoldering, and Georgie felt faint with desire.
“I am impoverished,” he whispered. “I work for my living. I may or may not inherit some small fortune from Eleanor. I have no right doing this, not now, not in these circumstances.”
“Doing what?” she cried, but she somehow knew that her wildest, most secret dream was coming true.
He bent and feathered her mouth with his, and Georgie thought she might die from the potent combination of desire and love. “I wish to take you as my wife, Georgina, but I will understand if you have the good sense to refuse me.”
Georgie gasped.
Rory claimed her mouth with his own.
After Blanche had left, Lizzie stood in the hall, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
She was stunned at Blanche’s confession that she did not want to marry.
Still, she now realized, that did not mean that Blanche and Tyrell were not marrying.
Only one fact was clear—Blanche was a very gracious, kind and dignified woman.
Lizzie shook her head, hugging herself. She would never make any sense of the encounter, she decided.
Some of her composure was returning, and now, in hindsight, she wished she had asked Blanche how Tyrell and Ned were faring.
Passing the library, Lizzie heard some noise from within. She gave it no thought, assuming a maid was preparing that room. The door was closed, which was somewhat odd, but she did not dwell on it. Then Lizzie heard voices.
There was no mistaking the male voice she had just heard—it belonged to Rory.
Suddenly Lizzie recalled how Rory had stared at Georgie so intently a few nights before.
Instinct overcame her then and she did not hesitate.
She opened the door, certain that Rory and her sister should not be closeted alone.
Georgie was on the sofa in Rory’s arms, in the throes of a frenzied kiss.
And Lizzie was afraid. Her own life passed before her eyes—her love for Tyrell, their brief, intense and illicit affair, her downfall and ruin, the grief and heartbreak.
In that instant, Lizzie knew she would never let Georgie suffer as she had. She knew she would protect her sister at all costs. Although the door was open, she knocked on it, loudly, four or five times.
Rory leapt to his feet, turning toward her. He became red.
Lizzie turned an incredulous stare on her sister, who sat up, so dazed she could only blink.
Lizzie’s temper began. She tried to control it. “I do beg your pardon for interrupting,” she said caustically. Then she gave up. “What are you doing, Georgie?” she cried. “Have you lost your wits?”
Georgie shook her head, wide-eyed and clearly not able to speak.
Lizzie whirled to confront Rory. “I do not know what your intentions are,” she said stiffly, “but I will not allow you to ruin my sister, sir. One fallen woman in this house is quite enough.”
Rory remained flushed, but he spoke to Lizzie, very quietly. “I have just asked your sister to marry me.”
Georgie stood up, beginning to smile, continuing to appear stunned.
And Lizzie began to understand. A smile grew when what she wanted to do was jump up and down and shout with glee. “Georgie?”
Georgie only had eyes for Rory. “Yes,” she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. “Yes. Yes!”