Chapter 6
Affection
His lips found the fluttering pulse beneath her ear as he whispered things that would have scandalized a ballroom, things no one in society would have imagined of him.
You’re going to ruin me for anyone else.
I want to kiss you. Everywhere.
Your body should be worshipped.
Ren felt crazed. Unsettled. Jubilant.
Knowing how rare this connection was, he tried to extend the moment before reality intruded, ending it all.
Instead of diving into a kiss that would wash away his restraint, he bathed in her teasing scent, lavender and the clean cut of citrus.
Traced the delicate veins that ran into the deep vee of her cleavage.
Learned the shape of her, that crooked tooth undoing him, as he gave himself to her.
Suspending time, he leaned back, allowing the corridor’s sconce to gild her in a golden glow.
Georgiana faced him with more confidence than a young woman should possess, her smile knowing without reason.
It made him imagine tangled sheets, her wrists caught in his hands as he held her there, his mouth at her neck, claiming more than he ought.
Her body was a revelation, her mind an enticement. Her exuberance a gift.
Ren desired her in ways he’d not counted on desiring in this lifetime.
She had no clue what she was igniting in him. He’d done something he’d never imagined doing and drawn on her skin, bringing his passion for her and his passion for art into the same haunting realm.
He cradled her face in his palms, lifting her eyes to his so she wouldn’t misinterpret the warning. His words were for her alone as his son lay nearby, and he would say them only once.
“I’m going to kiss you, Gia Harrington, without the past or the future stealing in.
A kiss to remember, honesty in the only way I can give it.
Then you’re going to leave me to my solitude and find the man meant for you.
Younger, certainly wiser. Better.” Crowding his body into hers in the intimate space, he captured her lips before she could argue, knowing she’d been about to start an argument they’d both lose.
Woefully, she surpassed his dreams.
Where Georgiana was bold in life, she was shy here, letting him lead.
He teased apart her lips, smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks, the effort to deepen the contact consuming them both.
She rose onto her toes, lifted her arms to circle his shoulders, her fingers sliding into his hair to scrape his scalp, each touch undoing him.
He’d been a foolish lad the last time a kiss felt substantial, when he’d wanted nothing more. His thoughts weren’t on what came next—clothing discarded, emotions shelved, bodies entwined. Finished.
This was the genuine article, the present, he recognized with some dread.
No motives, no plotting.
Just her.
The grip she had of his hair turned greedy, her fingers clenching, tilting his head as her lips opened beneath his.
The fit of their bodies felt fated as he moved in, hip to hip, soft meeting firm.
He couldn’t hide his arousal, no better than she could, though the aftermath differed.
His cock pulsed against her pelvis, her moan caught in his throat, their wanting communicated in singular ways.
He’d never lost himself in a kiss.
If he selfishly asked for more, her plump breast fitting perfectly into his palm, nipple tightening beneath his circling thumb, she leaned into the caress, not away.
When he gripped her waist, she returned the hold on his, until they worked together to direct the dance.
Her need slid into him, skimming along his skin like a lit match.
If he backed her into the wall, giving her no space to escape, he was past reason.
He would later admit the undertaking got away from him.
She was a petite thing for all her curves, and Ren finally stopped himself when his next move was to cup her rounded bottom and lift her off her feet, with the hope her legs would circle his waist and move them to the next stage.
This eager kiss beneath a battered gamekeeper’s staircase was its own kind of lovemaking.
He might have continued had she understood that fact.
“Drat,” he thought she murmured when he pulled away.
“It’s for the best,” he said, wondering who, exactly, he was trying to convince.
“Ducal rules, I suppose.”
Regrettably, her thready voice and the trembling fingers still tangled in his hair lessened his motivation to do the proper damned thing.
“Rules of a man who doesn’t want to ruin you, sprite,” he ground out, turning away to adjust himself. His shaft was harder than the knotted pine panels she leaned against. It was a wonder he hadn’t popped a bone button on his trousers. What would she think of that?
With a sigh, she stepped out of the alcove and set her hair to rights with more composure than he felt. “Who do you suggest for this younger, wiser, better man I attach myself to? Any noble recommendations?”
Ren’s mouth had gone dry as he sought to decide which part of her he liked best. There was lots to choose from.
Her keen wit, for one. Her intelligence, two.
Her curves, every last one of them, for another.
Her hair, this glorious, golden, curling mass flowing over her shoulders. That crooked front tooth—
“Ren,” she said, snapping her fingers before his face.
“I’m sorry, what?” He gave his head a shake to clear it.
The devious expression that slid over her features was terrifying. “You’re right, it’s time I marry.”
Where had that come from? “I never said—”
“My brother is in patent agreement, by the way.” She shook out her skirt and smoothed her hand over her bodice, drawing his gaze and his hunger. “How about Marquess Epley? I’ve made adequate notes during this matchmaking venture, and he’s a leading contender.”
“Epley?” His hand rose, tapping once at his breastbone. “He comes to here.”
“Taller than me,” she said, too serenely.
“Everyone is taller than you, sprite.” Ren frowned, beginning to suspect she enjoyed this.
“He asked me to meet him after dinner. An aperitif by the fountain.”
“Excellent,” Ren whispered and squeezed the bridge of nose, a headache beginning to pulse in his temple. Aperitif by the fountain. He was going to drive that mongrel into the dirt for absolutely no defensible reason other than jealousy.
“Lord Fitzhugh-Johns? Only a year older than me. His finances are adequate, and he has nice eyes, a sort of dark gray.”
“He’s on guest behavior this week, Gia. In other words, his best. There are rumors he’s not to be trusted within reach of a decanter.” Or a hazard table, Ren could have added. Instead, he followed her into the main room to find Henry still sleeping, his blanket tossed off again.
Georgiana picked up her sketches and glanced between them, head tilted, judging.
“I’d like one, if you don’t mind,” he whispered. Much to his mortification, he heard the possessive edge in his voice. It was simply that the drawings were passably good, and she’d been a dangerous subject to depict. Rare enough a thing that he couldn’t quite bear to part with both.
“I don’t think so.” She gathered them to her mouthwatering chest, her hazel-gold eyes flicking to his. She pressed her thumb to the rose tattooed on her skin. “One question remains, so I’ll hold to my terms.”
“Terms,” he whispered, the knot she was tying him into tightening. What fucking terms?
“Terms,” she confirmed, slipping out the door before he could argue.
8 hours later
Georgiana had never tried to make someone jealous before, though her sister, Honoria, recommended the practice for stubborn men. The method suited then, because Renwick Bellamont, Duke of Dunmere, was mulish to his core.
He liked her; she knew he did.
His kiss had been beyond divine, a stolen stretch of time that burned at the edges, five minutes of bliss she couldn’t describe.
Her nipples tightened at the memory of his fingers curving around her breast, his thumb circling in a practiced rhythm.
Standing hip to hip, feeling his excitement as keenly as her own, had been a novel experience.
Though she’d heard whispers among married women in darkened parlor corners, Ren’s response was nothing like she’d imagined.
Georgiana sipped her champagne, heat rising to her cheeks, curling low through her.
His hardness had been heavy against her.
Hard and insistent. Together, they’d created an inferno, breathless and unsteady, lost in the moment.
It was no wonder, none at all, why mothers wanted their daughters kept out of reach if this is what occurred.
Reactions women could hide, but men, if they were attracted, could not.
Georgiana easily labeled the emotion threading through her as she studied Ren from across the music room, the hideously performed strains of Beethoven drawing a frown from him as he stared into his glass.
Lust. She wanted to see him. Touch him. Love him.
The only problem being that she was falling for an honorable, though somewhat cantankerous, man.
Despite Ren’s silly declarations about his unsuitable character, he wouldn’t seduce her.
He was kind. A wonderful father. A gentleman.
(She’d caught him off guard with the modeling session, leading to their reckless kiss—one she’d not been entirely innocent in provoking.)
Every moment since, she’d wavered between staring at his sketches and daydreaming about his hands on her. Imagining their life together, a family: she, Ren, and Henry. And another child, if they were lucky.
And though she didn’t yearn to be a duchess, she did yearn to be an artist’s wife.
So she would seduce Renwick Bellamont, Duke of Dunmere, then apologize profusely after he admitted he loved her too. Being reduced to using her sister’s jealousy ploy wasn’t so bad, really.
In fact, it was working almost as well as the matchmaking one had.