Chapter 5 #3
“In that case,” Rob said, holding out his hand to Miss Charlie. “Might I have this dance, Miss Packham?”
She tilted her head. “You haven’t called me Miss Packham since you were in short pants.”
His grin was unrepentant. “I am quite the gentleman, now. Didn’t you know? The Beau himself complimented me on my waltzing when we were bivouacked in Portugal.”
Charlie tilted her head, her smile a gamine’s. “Why would you waltz with the Duke of Wellington?”
Grey couldn’t believe it. He found himself wanting to stay with these Packhams, these female kings who were so oddly like their ferocious brothers.
“Lady Georgianna?” he asked. “Might I sign your card as well?”
She handed over the dance card, and he signed for the last dance.
She nodded toward the windows. “Now go relieve the mind of your fiancée. I believe I have a hussar to enchant. Eddie, are you available to shadow Mr. Mayhew a bit? Let us know if we need to enlist Aunt Berenice.”
Miss Edwina smiled, which should have been breathtaking. Why wasn’t it? Grey wondered.
“I would be happy to,” she said, tugging a bit on her gloves. “Better than standing by the potted palms with the mothers or dancing with…oh, bother. This dance is Lord Black’s. Would you mind making an excuse?”
“Gladly,” Lady Georgianna assured her. “Let him bore somebody else with his Tamworths.”
Grey looked back and forth between the dramatically scowling cousins. “Tamworths?”
Georgie leaned in as if she was imparting state secrets. “Pigs. In fact, my Lord Coleford, it might not be a bad idea for you to take Eddie’s place. Tamworths are nice hardy stock, cross-bred with Irish grazers by Sir Robert Peele. Might be perfect for a Welsh estate.”
He couldn’t help but blink. “Why do you know that?”
It was Charlie who laughed. “What I know about horses, Georgie knows about the estate. Especially livestock and the still room.”
“Only because I’m teaching the boys estate management. All of them cannot run off to glory in a scarlet jacket.”
“In that case,” Grey said, holding out his hand to the increasingly fascinating Miss Packham, “would you allow me to put off speaking to my fiancée and do me the honor of this dance? I need to discuss livestock.”
“You have other duties now, sir. Do not shirk them for the pleasure of discussing porkers.”
He decided he was making progress when she laughed. He wasn’t as pleased to realize that it was no longer enough. Blast. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate. She put her hand in his and set off a jolt like cannon fire, and he very much feared she was not going to like what he wanted.
He wasn’t sure he cared.
“Welsh pigs,” Georgie blurted out hours later as Grey led her into the final dance.
Drat. She should have anticipated her mistake.
The last dance at a ball was always the Roger de Coverly, which in the normal way of things was perfectly lovely…
spritely, fun, and easy. What it was not was an easy place to share confidences, like how Greyville’s meeting had gone with Prissy.
Georgie had not seen the girl faint during or after their dance, so that was a hopeful sign.
But because she and Greyville would be dancing figures with four other couples, she would have no real chance to quiz him on specifics.
No sooner had she thought that than the music began, a lively tune that set everyone into motion.
“You don’t like the Welsh?” Grey asked as they spun about each other and retreated to their positions.
She had to wait until the next movement to answer.
“You were the one who asked about pigs,” she accused.
Another round.
“Evidently I actually need cows,” he said, catching her hand for a spin. “I have been conversing with some other landowners.”
She couldn’t help it. She started to chuckle. “I hope you weren’t looking for a romantic moment,” she said on next pass.
He grinned right back. “Oddly enough, I have never considered cows the least romantic.”
But now the other dancers were obviously listening in.
“I like cows,” the smilingly blonde Miss Swinton offered alongside Georgie, batting her eyes at Greyville.
He was grinning again when they met in the middle. “I stand corrected. Evidently cows are romantic.”
Georgie spun under his arm and grinned. “Anything is romantic coming from the mouth of a marquess.” she assured him.
They skipped in and out of the line and then around to hold their hands up, letting the other couples pass through.
He scowled. “Realist. Now, what were we discussing?”
“Cows!” the rest of the set chimed in.
They barely made it to the end of the dance without falling into whoops.
“Come,” he said, slipping his hand under her elbow as the music came to an end. “Let us get some air while everyone else is saying goodbye.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He bent his head towards her. “So I may give you a full report on the evening’s progress. We have more to talk about than cows.”
“You were the one who brought them up.”
“The cows can wait,” he said. “There are a few steps to be accomplished before we’ll have a chance to rhapsodize over livestock.”
“They are really lovely cows,” she said, not moving.
His sole answer was a raised eyebrow. Georgie wished she could do that. Put him in his place. Although, truth be told, she didn’t know where that exactly was. Just this silly back-and-forth was causing the oddest fizz in her blood. That and the scent of cedar and citrus.
“The Welsh blacks,” she continued, just to goad him. “Great large eyes and sweet dispositions. And they would look quite artistic on those Welsh hills.”
“English pastures,” he corrected.
She let her eyes grow wide. “Well, that’s silly. Who would put Welsh cows in England? People would think they’d gotten lost.”
He huffed in impatience, but she could see the sly twinkle in his eye. “If we don’t figure out how to manage my mess, I won’t have a cow to wander anywhere, artistically or not. So, I would appreciate your letting me give my report so we can both go home and revisit things tomorrow.”
“You spoke with Priscilla?”
“I did.”
And then he turned her toward the window, and everything changed.
Georgie should have refused. She should have found an excuse of some kind rather than join him. She knew it the minute he cupped her elbow like fragile porcelain, setting off the most alarming reaction.
Chills, shivers, the oddest feeling that her feet weren’t connected to the rest of her. A definite urge to get closer to him.
She did not want to become attracted to this man.
Well, to be honest, she did not want to stay attracted to him, no matter how his touch sent chills skittering through unmentionable nooks and crannies in her body.
It shouldn’t make any difference that he smelled like starched linen, citrus, and pine, or that the feel of his hand on her arm, even though they wore gloves, both startled and settled her at the same time.
Or the fact that he was humming the music they’d been dancing to, which was endearing.
She did not want endearing. She wanted..
.she wanted...oh, bother. She was so distracted she didn’t know what she wanted.
Except more of this very enticing feeling, or that delicious fizz of matching wits with him. Or both.
“She took it well,” he said as he swept the curtains aside and stepped out into the moonlight.
Georgie looked up to answer him and blinked, the sight of him stealing her wits.
The gibbous moon sent bright light washing over Greyville, limning his hair and casting shadows that sharpened the angles of his face.
Hard, suddenly, strong. Solid but not threatening.
Compelling in a way Georgie hadn’t really noticed before, which she should have anticipated somehow, considering the records of his courage she’d been reading for years.
Somehow his features fit his heroism, as if he’d been cast in a play about brave soldiers.
For a moment she couldn’t think at all, she was so struck by it. By the almost spectral look of him contrasting with the very solid feel of him. By the confusing, exciting lightning set off by no more than the touch of his gloved fingers.
She had been attracted to other men before. She had sneaked off for a kiss or two in shadowy gardens. But never had she been struck literally dumb.
It was when she looked into his eyes that she realized she wasn’t the only one affected, and that set off new, even hotter sparks all along her skin, deep in her belly, robbing her of breath. Places she had never so much as acknowledged, much less understood, suddenly demanded attention.
Was it better or worse that she could sense the same confusion in him? He was staring hard; his fingers tightened on her arm. She could feel the brush of his breath against her hair. And she wanted….
“She took it…” she stammered, trying to pull her wits back together again. “Oh, yes. Priscilla.”
Still staring, he licked his lips, which unnerved her even more. “Pri...”
“Priscilla. You, uh, spoke to her.”
It still took him a moment to respond. Georgie wasn’t certain if that was better or worse.
“Oh. Yes.” He nodded abruptly, removing his hand to take a step back, which should have made things better. It should have made the night cooler.
It didn’t.
“You told her about the girls,” she said to him, her palm pressing against her own chest, as if it could quell the sudden thundering of her heart. “Amelia and Sophie.”
This made no sense. She had been with him twice, had had perfectly normal conversations both times. How could she so suddenly feel as if she was flying apart, just from the heat in his eyes, the strain in his voice?
He nodded, his movement jerky. “Indeed. Priscilla knew. She sends her thanks for your efforts. If those don’t work, she is considering an elopement.”
“Oh, no,” Georgie protested, struggling to pull her thoughts back to order. “That will not do at all.”
“Exactly what I told her. I told her that impulsive decisions rarely end well.”
His words were a warning, and Georgie wished she could have attended better. But he was looking at her again, and Georgie was feeling it right down to her slippers.
She was twenty, for heaven’s sake. She had met this man twice without incident. Oh yes, she’d been attracted to him, but what wickedness was the moon causing? She suddenly had images in her head, and they were none of them polite. But oh, they were tempting.
She licked her own lips and found his gaze focused there.
More blasted chills, chasing up and down like lightning.
“Eddie…uh….” She cleared her throat, struggled for coherence.
“She said that Prissy’s parents were in the middle of a full-scale whispered dispute.
I’m sorry your friend Bowdern isn’t here.
He might have put a coda on the business. ”
“And then what?”
Was he standing closer? She was feeling crowded, and she swore he wasn’t intentionally looming. But he was...close. Too close. And she had nowhere to move.
“Did you manage to talk with the young ladies on the list?” she blurted out.
He turned away for a moment, his left hand clenching and unclenching down by his leg. Georgie found herself mesmerized by it.
“They were...” He paused, drew in a breath that sounded a bit shaky. Shook his head. “Pleasant.”
Georgie flinched. Pleasant was not exactly a ringing endorsement.
“Well, it was only your first meeting,” she demurred.
He turned back to her, and the last word she would have been able to use about his expression was pleasant. Hot. Hard. Seething. Mesmerizing. And she simply couldn’t look away.
She was struggling to pull herself back together when he reached out a hand and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She found herself closing her eyes.
“I don’t understand….”
“I’m afraid I do,” he growled, and she felt his hand on her shoulder.
She couldn’t help it. She leaned in, as if starving for his touch. She opened her eyes finally, to see that the moonlight had reached his eyes and set them gleaming. She heard his breathing quicken. She swore she could sense his heartbeat just through his fingertips.
“What?” she whispered.
He shook his head again. Clenched his hand. “I don’t want pleasant,” he said.
And before she could draw breath to answer, he was kissing her.
Kissing? More like devouring, his arms tight around her, his mouth coaxing hers open, his heart thundering against her breast. He stunned her, swamped her senses with the unbearable silk of his lips, the insistent invasion of his tongue, the tender strength of his hands, that were the only thing holding her up when her legs went weak.
She couldn’t believe it. She, who prided herself on her control, had her fingers threaded through his delicious soft hair, her body pressed to his, her back arched so she could feel the sleek wall of his chest against her suddenly sensitive breasts.
She lost her purpose and jettisoned any good sense that remained, wanting nothing more than. ..more.
She was so lost she never heard the steps approaching from the other side of the curtain. She barely heard her cousin rasp out, “Georgie, ‘ware!”
Instinctively she tried to pull away. Grey held on tighter, his hand cupping the back of her head, his arm a steel band across her back. She almost lost herself completely.
It took the stentorian condemnation in her aunt’s voice to haul her back.
“That will be quite enough of that!” A clarion call sure to be heard all the way to the foyer. “Georgianna Alice Elliott Packham, stop that at once!”
Grey startled upright, and the rest of the world came crashing back in.
Literally. Georgie didn’t look, but she could hear the shocked murmuring of more than one attendee, the tone as salacious as the gossip would undoubtedly be by morning.
She was certain she should be stunned, ashamed.
Something. All she could think was that she felt suddenly cold without Grey’s arms around her, and it made her angry. She didn’t want that. She didn’t.
“Explain yourself!” Aunt Berenice demanded.
She couldn’t. She even managed to open her mouth, but words simply wouldn’t form.
It was Grey who responded, settling his arm around her shoulder and smiling at her aunt. “You may wish us happy,” he said.
Georgie startled so badly that only Grey’s arms kept her from falling backwards. “What?!”
And then she heard Eddie’s soft voice behind her and knew that her disaster was complete. “I don’t think we’re going to need that rake after all.”