Chapter 12 #2
She nodded, briefly closed her eyes and dragged in another calming breath, sternly telling various parts of her body to desist from all those feelings skittering through them. “I know. It’s just...”
He was still smiling. “You’re rather a private person.”
She scowled. “If you’re going to be disrobing me and licking me like a Gunter’s ice, then yes. I would much rather not do it in a public park in front of witnesses.”
Letting loose a bark of laughter, he dropped a final kiss on the top of her head and straightened. He didn’t remove his arm from around her, but with the other hand he tidied his hair and knocked on the roof. “Your wish and all that. Would you mind a bit of kissing on the way, though?”
She wouldn’t.
Grey had to admit he was in awe of his new wife.
He still felt as if his bones had melted and his cock had turned to stone long after Georgie had herself tidied and ready to meet Rob’s staff.
Her hair was a bit disarrayed, and her lovely lips were plump and pink from a surfeit of kissing, but as they pulled to a stop in front of the tidy little brick three-story thatched cottage at the edge of Putney Heath, she was as comfortably put together as if she had come from morning visits.
He was still busy commanding his cock to settle down.
He knew the staff wouldn’t allow itself to notice his condition, but it didn’t help him support the dignity of the office and all that.
Fortunately, they had to wait a few moments to disembark so that the staff could line up on the stairs in two rows, neat and prim in Rob’s grey and maroon livery.
“Ready, wife?”
The groom opened the door and set down the steps.
Grey waited for Georgie to take in one of her calming breaths before stepping out and holding his hand out to help her down.
She exited with a quiet grace that made him proud.
Although the idea that the daughter of one of the premiere political earls in the land would not know how to greet staff was absurd.
The line of uniformed servants dipped in unison and a comfortably round middle-aged man with a bright red tonsure stepped forward. “My lord, my lady. Welcome to Cuckoo Cottage. I am Wren.”
Georgie almost tripped. Her eyes went a bit wider. The butler, whom Wren obviously was, smiled.
“Did he hire you for your name?” Georgie asked with a smile of her own.
“I sometimes wonder, my lady.”
They were introduced to Mrs. Wren, who was a perfect match for her husband, although with black hair, and then led on into the house.
“Your maid is already here, my lady,” Mrs. Wren said, bustling in ahead of them. “Would you care to freshen up? I can offer a tour of the house. His lordship particularly wanted me to point out the garden.”
Georgie brightened noticeably, which put another strain on Grey’s patience, since he knew it meant a further delay in what he really wanted to do.
“Thank you, yes,” Georgie answered the woman.
Mrs. Wren beamed. “And in a bit cook has gone out of her way to provide a special dinner.”
Which meant an even longer delay. Grey was beginning to feel positively grumpy.
“In that case,” he said, following his wife up the stairs. “I will take a brandy in whichever room leads out to the garden. Since I suspect that is the only tour she’ll need.”
“And the kitchen garden,” she offered with one saucy smile over her shoulder before continuing.
He thought he should thank Mrs. Wren for showing the way, if only for the chance to enjoy the sway of his wife’s sleek derriere as she climbed those steps like a dancer.
Except focusing on that once again threatened his amour propre.
He deliberately looked away so he didn’t have to adjust his clothing.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
Georgie was feeling more unsettled by the minute.
It wasn’t the house; it was lovely, a simple cottage decorated for comfort rather than ostentation.
It wasn’t Grey. He was going out of his way to ease her progress.
It wasn’t even Rob Glenn’s instructions to his staff, who all seemed to be smiling like proud aunts and uncles.
The garden out back was indeed delightful, a riot of early color and scent with pinks and pasque flowers, verbena, and wisteria and two apple trees perfectly espaliered against a red brick wall. The kitchen garden was just as compelling, with enough herbs to stock a sizeable stillroom.
The garden had its own bees, along with a few early butterflies tumbling about the flowers like brightly colored acrobats.
The day was warm and the sun gentle behind the fluffy white clouds.
A dream of a day. A dream of a garden, especially when she discovered the overgrown arbor against the back wall.
Much like the arbor at her home, it had facing benches tucked within the profusion of soft lilac wisteria that grew so lushly it all but hid the bench from view from the house.
Maybe the arbor was increasing her anxiety. Because the minute he saw it, Grey grinned like a pirate.
“I’ll wait a bit on that brandy, Wren,” he announced and held out his arm.
Georgie didn’t know what to do but lay her hand atop it and allow him to guide her in to duck under the fragrant bower.
Grey sat her down on one bench but did not take the other one. He took up the rest of the bench she sat on, crowding her with his deliciously hard body, hips and shoulders and thighs. Oh, those thighs.
She cleared her throat.
“Mrs. Wren was right,” Grey said, laying his arm across the bench behind her. “This is a lovely garden.”
Georgie refused to simper or shy, even if her body had started up that disconcerting hum again, that buzz of anticipation. Now it had an idea of what Grey could make her feel, and that shortened its patience. Georgie had the most disconcerting urge to hum right along with her body.
Grey eased his arm around her shoulders and stroked his fingers along her arm. She shivered. He noticed and smiled more widely. And Georgie unfortunately remembered another bit of her grandmother’s advice.
Begin as you mean to go on.
No more secrets. No more evasions merely to get along. She needed to know what to expect.
So, she cleared her throat again. “I assume you have more than flower appreciation on your mind,” she said, not quite able to face him.
He leaned in to kiss her ear, which of course set off new shivers. “I do. Do you mind?”
“No….er, well, as long as we don’t miss dinner. Mrs. Wren was quite excited by the menu. Roast lamb and haricot verts.”
Another kiss, a bit farther down her neck. “That’s nice.”
“I would also not like to be discovered imitating a Gunter’s ice, if you don’t mind.”
“I can leave every stitch of clothing on you,” he promised. She could hear his smile.
She looked over, trying to work that out. “How?”
His eyes were molten and so dark she could tumble right into them. “Do you trust me?”
She tilted her head in consideration. She did. Mostly. But she kept hearing her grandmother. Begin as you mean….
“Can I ask some questions first?” she asked, clenching her hands in her lap. “We haven’t had any time to...well, make certain we’re on the same page.”
That brought his head up. “I thought we had, for which I believe you should be very grateful. It isn’t every husband who can ensure his wife’s privacy as long as I believe you wish. Especially when the husband considers himself a slave to that wife’s beauty.”
Georgie’s head came back. “Please stop,” she said. “You don’t need to do that.”
He actually looked confused. “Do what? Call my wife beautiful?”
She sucked in a breath. “I would only ask you to be truthful. I am not beautiful. My mother allows the terms ‘striking’ or ‘gracious.’ But you know perfectly well I am not in the fashion.”
“You are in my fashion, madame.”
That stole her thoughts completely. Good heavens, he looked like he meant it.
Eddie was the beauty in the family. There were several of Georgie’s sisters and cousins who would slay hearts as they aged.
But Georgie was...utilitarian. Useful. Competent.
Not...beautiful. She truly didn’t know what to make of Grey’s assertion.
He considered her again. “You don’t believe me,” he said, sounding very surprised.
She managed a shrug. “It is a foreign concept. As I said, my contribution to society is to educate siblings and ease young men into etiquette. Not to provoke or succumb to a mad passion.”
He shook his head. “Poor fools. They don’t know what they missed.” With another kiss to her neck, he reached down with his free hand and unclenched hers. “Now, what were those questions you wanted to ask?”
She blinked, still caught by his assertions. Beautiful. What a thought. And then there was his hand, his fingers callused just that much to set off more shivers.
Questions, yes. Begin as…
“Do you have a mistress?”
Well, that certainly caught his attention. He froze as if she’d called his parentage into question. “I beg your pardon?”
She briefly closed her eyes against the outrage in his.
“Something Grandmama said. That I should begin as I mean to go on in this marriage. Well, you should know that I am terrible at pretending blindness and deafness as most ton wives do. I would rather know right up front where I stand. Where you stand…or sit or…whatever.”
He took a long moment to answer, his head tilted in consideration. “You wouldn’t mind my having a mistress as long as I notified you beforehand?”
It took quite a bit of her remaining discipline to maintain her poise when what she wanted was to pummel him for even suggesting such a thing.
“I did not say that.”
“But you would understand if I met my needs while you are forbidding me them.”
“I did not say that either.”
“Then what?”
She briefly closed her eyes again, mortified but committed. She had to know. “Am I to truly assume you cannot control yourself for a few weeks until you are back home and we are able to truly begin this marriage?”
Again, he tilted his head, as if considering the wisteria over his head. “Well, I don’t know. I have never been asked to before.”
She found herself staring. “You have never…refrained from carnal activity for a few weeks at a time?”
“Well,” he mused with a suspicious twinkle in his eye. “There was the time I was in that French prison. And the siege of Badajoz. Precious little fun there.”
She surprised herself with a huff of laughter. “Then you could manage it again if you tried.”
“If I landed in another French prison, perhaps.”
Now, a frown. “But you expect me to refrain without complaint for years. Isn’t that a bit unfair?”
“Grossly unfair. You are going to prey on my sense of justice, aren’t you?”
“Do you need to be threatened?”
For a moment, there was silence, punctuated only by the hum of distant bees, a bit of birdsong. The ruffle of a breeze. The thud of her pulse.
But then, still smiling, he leaned down and kissed her. Just that. A meeting, an acknowledgement. A promise. “If you can promise not to run off with the head gardener while I am away, I imagine I can withstand the lure of any female I encounter.”
She all but held her breath. “Can I ask for a vow to that?”
He leaned close, brushed her lips with his. Reached up to stroke her cheek with that deliciously callused finger. “I imagine you can. As long as you promise you will honestly consider the moratorium only to be for this trip.”
“I will…” she reached up this time and kissed him. “Consider.”
“In that case,” he said, his voice unbearably soft, low enough to set up a resonance in her chest, in her belly, “would you like to meet back here after dinner, or is it too public for what I intend to do?”
She was beginning to find it hard to breathe. “What exactly is that?”
His finger strayed south along her throat, back towards her very sensitive collarbone. Just above where her dress skimmed the beginning swell of her breasts.
“Well,” he murmured, leaning closer, his eyes all but pitch black, his smile again a thing of sin and temptation, “I thought I would begin by kissing my way along your pulse.” His lips brushed the throbbing at the base of her throat.
“Here, for instance, and here—” to the inside of her elbow, her wrist. Up to where she could feel her heart pound against her ribs.
Just a touch, a feather against her breast that set it to puckering again, filling, all but reaching out to be touched.
“I would very much like to divest you of all this clothing, dress, stays, stockings—I can promise you that rolling them down is quite a lovely pastime….”
She couldn’t catch her breath at all now.
He had run his hand down over her hip, along her thigh, to just behind her knee.
Even through her dress, oh, who knew that spot could be so sensitive, so evocative?
Who could imagine that faint touch could set off fireworks deep inside?
Who could think that just those touches would make it impossible to look away from the kind of eyes that made more thorough promises than any words ever could?
“And then,” he murmured, his hand moving again, back up her thigh, towards those fireworks, “I would introduce you to the delights that await you when you put yourself in my hands. I would be honored to show you exactly what your grandmother meant.”
And just a brush against the place where her thighs met, where she swore she was melting and weeping all at once.
Where she wanted more than anything to find out exactly what he meant.
She opened her mouth to tell him. She reached up to cup his face.
But before she could say a word, the dinner bell rang.
Again, abrupt silence. Except for the pounding of her pulse. The accompaniment of birdsong. The rasp of his breath against her cheek.
“Dinner,” he said, his expression wry.
She would have thought him unaffected, but she realized his hands were trembling just a bit. “Dinner,” she answered.
He leaned forward one more time and brushed his lips against hers. “I cannot wait for dessert.”