Chapter 9
Iwish she would refrain from wearing that damnable perfume. It is going to give me a megrim!
Keaton sat in his carriage next to Georgia.
He was irritable because of their destination and because of the way she seemed determined to get under his skin.
It was bad enough that he seemed incapable of a solid night's sleep while she was in the house, waking from feverish dreams of her.
Then there was her rearranging of furniture and. ..
No, she did that once and has not done it again. I am clutching at straws to fit my mood. Her perfume is intoxicatingly pleasant if anything. But it is as though she wishes to ingratiate herself into my affections!
The trouble was that it would be all too easy for her to ingratiate herself, for Keaton found himself drawn to her.
When her perfume was not addling his senses, he missed it.
He thought of the feel of her bare skin at the oddest times, hankered after it at times until he stopped himself.
He could visualize her beautiful face, and his fingers remembered the perfect softness of her skin.
Worst of all, his lips remembered the touch of hers.
The warmth and infinite, yielding softness.
Soft yet with underlying firmness. He yearned for the taste of her again, the feel of her tongue against his lips.
Sitting next to her now, he fought to maintain his concentration while her very presence scattered his thoughts and inflamed his desire.
He shifted, crossing his legs to hide the heat straining beneath his trousers.
“I would like my friend Hermione Archer to visit this week for tea,” Georgia chimed suddenly.
“Must you?” Keaton said before he could stop himself.
“You object?”
“I do not like sharing my house with others,” he murmured churlishly.
“Then offering to marry me was a curious decision,” she answered, and he could hear that adorable smile in her voice.
“One that was necessary, not desired,” he groused.
He was acutely aware of her presence next to him on the seat. It would have been preferable for her to have seated herself opposite him, but she had chosen otherwise. Now he could feel her thigh pressed against his in the confined space.
Why are such conveyances made to be so damned small inside, anyway? I shall commission a coach maker to build one for me that provides enough room for two passengers not to be seated upon each other's laps.
He knew the source of his irritation, and it had nothing to do with Georgia, at least not directly.
She had expressed the desire to experience a London tea-house, never having done so before.
Keaton's reaction had been that neither had he, nor did he wish to begin.
But then he thought of the reason for their marriage.
To be seen publicly as man and wife and thereby nullify the gossip.
“I assume she is a respectable person?” Keaton broached.
“Of course, most respectable and from an eminently respectable family,” Georgia replied.
“Then perhaps we arrange a soiree here in town while we are here, and invite her. Then you may see your friend, and we will have another opportunity to show ourselves off as a married couple.”
“That suits me,” she shrugged.
“I will leave the particulars to you then. Set the date for tomorrow evening.”
Keaton's mind went to his meeting with Aloysius Thorne the previous day. He had received the investigator in a somewhat worked-up state, mind still full of the encounter with Georgia, the kiss he had attempted to initiate and clumsily failed at that.
What was I thinking? I must be stronger than this, or I will be taken advantage of and made a laughingstock by this woman and her insidious family!
“How did your meeting go?” she asked.
“My meeting? Why do you wish to know?” he replied, suspicious.
“I am merely making conversation. I do not know how far the White Conduit House is, but it will seem a very long way if we are sitting in silence.”
“My meeting was my own business,” he shut down.
“Have you given any thought to my request concerning my brother?” she asked then.
“I have, and mentioned it to my man at my meeting with him yesterday. Mr. Thorne will wish to give you an interview to ascertain the details.”
“Thorne?” Georgia asked.
“Yes, Aloysius is his name. Aloysius Thorne. Why?”
The driver called out their location, approaching the famed tea-house known as White Conduit House.
Keaton could smell fresh mown grass and hear the soft sway of trees.
From the direction of the sun on his face, he deduced that they had traveled north, the sun shining on them through the window at the rear of the carriage.
On the outskirts of London, somewhere in the north, judging by the obvious presence of grass and trees. Islington? Pentonville, perhaps?
“I had written to Mr Thorne myself, asking for his help. It... it came to nothing in the end,” Georgia said, falteringly.
Keaton frowned.
“I do not wish his time wasted. If he has already undertaken an investigation and found nothing—”
“He did not,” she put in quickly, “he could not undertake the assignment at the time. Perhaps he was simply too busy?”
The carriage rolled to a halt, and Keaton felt the driver disembarking. Moments later, the door swung open, and he heard the mechanical clatter of the collapsible steps being unfolded. He pondered Georgia's words through it all.
Why would Thorne have not taken up a task, particularly one requested by a young woman in search of her brother? Thorne is a gentleman and, I suspect, somewhat sentimental. I think he would ensure he was not too busy to help. Unless...
“Right you are, Your Grace,” his driver declared.
Keaton realized that Georgia had already alighted. He knew the driver would be standing by to offer a hand.
“Georgia, your hand, please,” Keaton ordered, “my wife will assist me, my good man. Remain here with the carriage, we will have need of you in an hour or so.”
He felt Georgia's hand in front of him and took it. Her hand was warm, dainty, perfect.
“You have cut yourself,” she pointed out as he traversed the steps.
“Yesterday. It is nothing,” he waved away.
The wound had been bound, but he had removed the dressing to make its presence less obvious. It was a cut across his palm, made when a blade had slipped.
“It is not the first time. I can feel older scars. Whatever have you been up to?” she asked.
Keaton gritted his teeth behind an outward smile.
Does she think that I share any and all of my thoughts out in the streets, where there is no way of knowing who is nearby and may be listening?
“It is nothing, I said. Accidents. That is all,” he grated, “now, shall we get this over with?”
He felt Georgia's hands take his gently and guide it to her shoulder.
It was not bare today, the dress shawled it, but could not disguise the delicate feel of her collarbone beneath his heavy fingers.
Such was her fragile femininity that he felt as though his hands were clumsy paws, rough and unsubtle.
He followed her across a pavement and up a series of stone steps. Then they went inside. Keaton felt the coolness of an interior protected from the sun by stone and brick.
A noise reached him, the kind that only came from a collection of people at their leisure. It was a babble that rivaled the sound of gathered geese, overlaid with the clink of cutlery and crockery. Keaton's hackles rose, and he felt himself tensing, not knowing where his next foot would fall.
He felt every eye upon him, thought he even sensed a dimming of the conversation as they entered.
Everyone wishes a gawk at the blind Duke.
“This is simply gorgeous,” Georgia enthused, distracted by it all, “the decoration is lovely! I do not know what to call it, but I have never seen the like. We are being taken to a table.”
As they walked, she described what she could see with such descriptive skill that Keaton could not help but picture the room in his mind's eye. Finally, they stopped and were seated, and tea and sandwiches were ordered.
“Is this simply awful for you?” Georgia asked, and Keaton could hear the anxiety in her voice.
For a schemer, she acts the part of concern very well. Is she as much a schemer as I think?
“Yes, frankly. An unfamiliar place surrounded by people I do not know. I do not like to be the center of attention,” he answered crossly.
“Then I think we should leave,” she started, her voice falling.
“No, not at all.” He put his hand out across the table and felt her take it.
There was a curious pleasure in that contact, though he did not seek pleasure nor desire it. This relationship would be simpler by far if she were tedious or unpleasant to be around. Or both. As it was, Keaton felt himself constantly rebuilding his walls against her.
“Let us be seen together,” he whispered, smiling.
Then he raised her hand to his lips. He lingered over the kiss longer than he had intended. The plan had been to dash a kiss against the back of her hand. Instead, he savored the taste of her, the feel of her skin, the scent of her perfume.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he murmured, desperate for any conversation to distract from his wild thoughts.
“Well, you know that I reside at Silverton Hall. Lord and Lady Silverton are my Aunt and Uncle. Lady Silverton is my mother's sister,” she began.
“Lady Silverton? Your Aunt, Aunt Whatever-her-name-is, surely?”
“She insists on my using her title,” Georgia said with chagrin. “Since I came to live at Silverton. She is a great one for formality.”
“Formality? As am I, but I would not call my mother's sister using a title rather than her name,” Keaton responded, genuinely surprised.
Georgia quickly removed her hand from his.
“I often wondered what I had done to upset them so much. I looked for fault in everything I did. I could not find it. They just disliked me,” she breathed, her voice pitched low for his ears only.