2. Georgiana
2
Georgiana
T his wasn’t normal.
Miss Georgiana Hartley peered down at the amber-haired, red-faced, perspiring man beneath her. He wasn’t even forming words. It wasn’t typical for men to sweat that much, was it? Or turn the exact shade of cooked lobster. Come to think of it, with the sweating…he did somewhat resemble a buttered lobster.
“Maybe I should ring for help,” she said slowly. “I fear you did damage your brain.”
He shook his head vigorously, her body shaking atop him. The adamant gesture would have reassured her if the man hadn’t immediately frozen, his wide-eyed gaze falling to her chest. A choked noise left him before his gaze began playing a rigorous game of shuttlecock around the room.
She blew out a sigh and glanced around the chamber that would have been just right for her attempted assignation: cozy and intimate, with its dark-wood walls and earth-toned furnishings. It felt seductive. Perfect. Or so she had thought.
She had been so excited to find an empty room; the first few she’d tested out had been occupied. One of which had been Lord Wessex with a woman who was very much not his fiancé. His fiancé…whose family was currently hosting this ball. Goodness, the nerve of the man, sleeping with other women in Lady Felicity’s own home. She grimaced—both at that thought and the wheeze that just came from the man beneath her. Perhaps if she gave the startled clam a moment, he’d collect himself.
Georgiana soothingly rubbed his chest—his surprisingly hard chest. And not because of bones, which one would expect from the tall, thin, bespectacled stranger who had been buried in a book when he’d entered the room. No, that smooth, solid feeling beneath her fingertips was flesh, muscle . Who could he be? She definitely hadn’t seen him in the ballroom.
But her soothing strokes, which had possibly, potentially—fine, definitely—turned exploratory, had the opposite effect she was hoping for. More wheezing. Disappointment settled heavily in her belly. Her fingers twitched with desire to discover. But this was undoubtedly not the man to do that with. If she tried to fondle him, he would probably have an apoplexy. What a waste.
Goodness, this had gone completely arse-backwards. Tits-sideways. She had been fishing for a savage shark and ended up with a crimson crustacean.
Georgiana had been positioning herself for optimal seduction as she awaited the Duke of Ironcrest. To be honest, she hadn’t been certain the Duke would accept the invitation she’d murmured to him, but he rarely attended these events, and she wasn’t going to give up on a chance to experience . Unfortunately, Georgiana’s mother had a horrible habit of throwing Georgiana—quite literally—into the path of unmarried gentlemen. So the Duke had probably thought this a scheme to trap him into marriage. It wasn’t, though.
What it was…
…was curiosity.
Georgiana had realized fairly young that she possessed…urm…particular proclivities. It may have been influenced by the fact that she had gotten her hands on Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure when she had been just fourteen. Or when she had stumbled upon a secret stash of lewd publications beneath her older brother’s bed after he’d left for America. Pamphlets that were full of illustrations of naughty, naughty things. Naughty things like women having their bottoms spanked, their hands bound, being watched, and watching as these naughty things were performed.
She fingered the man’s cravat and then frowned. He was distressingly still besides an odd, gurgling noise emanating from him. This awkward man under her—who might have since expired—definitely did not partake in such things. But the Duke of Ironcrest supposedly did. Hence her attempt at an assignation.
She let out a sigh. Failed attempt.
Said bumbling man fumbled beneath her—he was alive!—and procured a handkerchief from his trousers. He lifted it to his head, the back of his hand skimming her nipple. She sucked in a breath. He froze. Again. His eyes went comically wide, and his face went even more crimson. Tingles. That had given her tingles. Why couldn’t she have successfully rendezvoused with the Duke? She wanted tingles, blast it. She wanted to feel something . Something would be better than the empty, invisible existence she currently lived. Or the future that loomed—
“Gurrg,” the man said, interrupting her maudlin thoughts.
Goodness, she was always getting lost in her thoughts. That’s what happened when one’s only company was oneself and one’s dog. An anvil landed on her heart. Just oneself now. Now that her beloved Bernie had passed.
She shook her head, shoving away her heartache before she turned into a blubbering, bare-breasted mess. Her gaze tracked a bead of sweat slipping into the man’s curls. Whatever could gurrg mean?
He cleared his throat and dabbed his forehead, looking everywhere but at her. “I meant to say, my apologies,” he said hoarsely.
Ah, yes. Gurrg clearly meant apologies. How could she have misinterpreted that? The poor thing sounded like he hadn’t had a drink of water in days, a man stranded in a desert. She should probably show him some mercy, get off him, and cover herself. But she felt oddly content here, making this flustered man even more flustered. Was it unusual that she felt more comfortable leaning on a stranger, bubbies on full display, than she did anywhere else?
“It is quite all right,” she said with a smile, giving his chest a little pat.
But nothing was all right. Which was how Georgiana found herself here in the first place. She was tired of being the tempting carrot dangled before a ton of braying donkeys. That wasn’t the kindest comparison, she knew. But it was oddly fitting, given the last man she danced with back in the ballroom. The one it seemed frighteningly possible she could end up marrying.
Georgiana didn’t exist for any other purpose. She was useless as a woman to her father, and in her mother’s eyes, the only way to fix that was to use Georgiana’s beauty and their family’s wealth to snatch a titled lord. Georgiana didn’t give a fig about titles. She did give a fig about titillation. So, her rebellious self had thought, why not seek out said titillation with the depraved lords her mother wanted so desperately to marry her to? Well, the scandalous, handsome ones. She could do without the donkeys.
But instead, she had ended up with the one man—who now appeared to be struggling for air—in all of Christendom, who apparently couldn’t partake in such activities. Perhaps he was a virgin. He had run from her instead of to her when he had accidentally stumbled upon her half-naked. That was typical of virgins, wasn’t it? She snorted at the irony, considering she was a virgin.
Enough, Georgiana. You’ve tortured the poor lobster long enough. She pressed her hands on his chest and pushed herself up.
“Meep,” he squeaked. A look of horror promptly washed over his face.
She tried her damnedest to hide her smile, but his horrified gaping—and yes, even more gurgling—was too much for her. Georgiana ran a finger down the bridge of his sharp, straight nose, a giggle slipping free. He was such an adorable little freckled lobster. She leaned down, letting her finger trail over his freckled, rosy cheek, pausing at his prominent cheekbone. Her heart did a little flip.
Their gazes clashed, and the flipping started up in her stomach. Lord, the lobster’s eyes. They were a smoky, deep whisky—amber with dark mahogany striations. And just like the amber liquid, they were intoxicating. Her gaze fell to his lips, and her tongue slipped out, coasting over her own. Little girls were told of stories of enchanted frogs that transformed into princes with a kiss. She hovered lower, one hand resting on the floor beside his head.
What would happen if one kissed a lobster?
His gaze flicked to her mouth and back to her eyes. His pupils flared. Oh, God. What was happening? Her body buzzed. Her skin hummed. His lips parted, and he didn’t just draw in air on that small breath, he drew her in as well. Her fingernails dug into the carpet as she tried desperately to ground herself. But she was helpless against the mystical pull of those amber irises.
The scent of ink and parchment and leather drifted to her. He smelled as inviting as the pages of a beloved book. Perhaps it wasn’t so unfortunate he’d stumbled into the room instead of the Duke. What was contained in this intriguing man’s pages—
The door to the drawing room swung open, and reality hit her like a slap in the face with said intriguing book.
Oh, my bloody God. No, no, no. No!
She scrambled off the gentleman and yanked her bodice up. Why had she dithered so thoughtlessly? Why was she always so careless and reckless? Because really, who cares if you are? Fortunately, that depressing thought didn’t last long. The crustacean beneath her flew up to sitting, and his head collided with hers . Or maybe unfortunately. She fell backward on her bottom, clutching her forehead. Ouch, ouch , ouch. Of course, the clumsy crawfish would crash into her.
“Fitz?” a deep, alarmed voice boomed through the room.
“…Georgina?” And that low voice was oh-so-much worse.
Because she recognized that voice. Her eyes slammed shut. That voice was her father’s: Mr. Thomas Hartley of Hartley Textiles. A man in trade, but richer than the majority of the ton. Hence why the Hartleys were invited to a country ball at an earl’s estate. A man who was trying to get in the Jennings family’s good graces.
Georgiana grimaced, a grimace so deep she was sure it would be permanently etched on her face. She slowly lifted her gaze to her father, whose mouth was opening and closing in what would have been a hilarious fashion if it had been happening during literally any other moment but this one. And that was when she recognized the second man. The owner of said estate, the head of the Jennings family—the Earl of Bentley.
“Fitz, I demand you explain yourself at once,” Lord Bentley said.
A shiver traveled down Georgiana’s spine. She discreetly studied the Earl. Broad, solid—his muscles straining against the protesting seams of his tailcoat—and incredibly handsome. No. Handsome wasn’t quite right. Pretty was more apt. His features were beautiful. Now that was a man. One in charge.
But…who was Fitz? Her brows scrunched and then immediately shot to her hairline. Mr. Fitzwilliam Jennings, the Earl’s younger brother.
She glanced at the man next to her, who currently looked like he was trying to disappear inside his cravat like a turtle. He was Mr. Fitzwilliam Jennings? She looked back at the Earl. The Earl’s younger brother? This confident, commanding, composed man’s younger brother? If she looked beyond the flushed, sweaty complexion and the disheveled amber curls, she supposed she did see the resemblance. Matching amber eyes, matching amber shade of locks.
“I. Urm. Ope. You see. Muromph.”
She frowned. Truly? They were related?
Lord Bentley crossed his arms over his chest and waited for his brother to start forming actual words. Apparently, Mr. Jennings’s odd behavior was normal. At least she no longer needed to fear for his brain. Just his future. Her future. Which was going to become their future without some quick thinking.
“I don’t think an explanation is required, my lord,” Georgiana’s father said, his voice rising. Clearly Father had gotten over his shock. “It is obvious your brother has taken advantage of my daughter! He has defiled her!”
If only. She deflated with a sigh. If she was going to be caught in a compromising position, was it too much to ask that she had actually experienced a thorough defiling? Also, since when did her father care? Oh, right. Male pride. How dare his daughter be defiled… The daughter in question didn’t matter so much, just that she belonged to him. The lobster could have defiled her father’s boot, and he would have been just as offended.
“Father,” she said soothingly. “There has been no defiling. It was all an accident.” Yes, an accident. That was perfect. She could work her way out of this. “Mr. Jennings had been reading his book and walking”—she pointed to said book on the floor. Ha! Evidence!— “And we collided and tumbled to the ground. His foot got tangled in my skirts, which tore down my bodice.” She spread her arms wide and smiled encouragingly at her father. “You see, it was all a most unfortunate accident.” And a most perfect lie. “No one need ever know.”
“Whose bodice was torn down?” a loud, female voice asked.
Her smile fled. Fled fast and far away. Because that was a familiar female voice.
Georgiana’s shoulders slumped, and she wished she could turtle like the man next to her and disappear. Because Georgiana’s grasping mama glided into the room, Lady Billingsworth—known for her wagging tongue—at her side. Getting out of this had been slim before, but now? Now that a calculating glint flared in Mother’s eyes, and a look of pure glee lit up Lady Billingsworth’s wine-flushed face?
Now Georgiana Hartley was most definitely fucked .