Chapter 10
“That… did not help,” Georgia said as she stepped back into the carriage.
“A house packed full of gossiping jackanapes would not have been my choice,” Keaton drawled.
He felt the cool air on his cheek from the open window. From the other direction came Georgia's maddening perfume. He tried to breathe the smells of London, varied and unpleasant as they were. But still she reached him.
She cannot control how her perfume is carried on the air, and yet she knows that senses other than sight are heightened for me.
“Very well then. We will sit in Westvale alone together and let the world gossip.”
Keaton thumped the roof of the carriage and barked his orders. The conveyance lurched into motion.
“No, we will not,” he amended.
“Then what would you have us do? We married at your…”
Georgia's words cut, as though sliced by a guillotine.
Keaton breathed through his nose, teeth gritted, anger ruling him.
He sat forward with hands over the head of his cane.
From the sounds reaching him, the smells, the feel of the road, and his memory of the routes through London, he had a shrewd idea of where they were.
“You took advantage of a blind man. Let us not forget that,” he hissed.
It was harsh. He knew it. But anger was a fire within him, and the words, black smoke, billowing upward.
“I know,” Georgia said quietly, “thank you for reminding me so cruelly.”
“If you do not like cruel words, then perhaps do not create cruel situations.”
Frustration bubbled within him now. He had been uncomfortable in the zoo of the tea house, surrounded by unseen watchers. To then be told that he should relish hearing other men achieve what he had always wanted to and could never, was more than he could stomach.
She does not understand and can never understand. No one can. Which is why I am alone. I should never have agreed to this puerile outing.
“Such as? It was a tea house. For most, it would be a pleasant diversion in a wonderfully pretty location.”
“Pretty? How, pray tell, do I know that?” he demanded.
“Because I can describe it to you.”
He scoffed. “What earthly use is that to me except to taunt me with what I can never experience firsthand?”
“Surely second-hand is better than nothing?”
“No, it is not.”
He had turned to her as they argued. Now he looked away. It was an affectation—it did not matter in which direction his head was pointing.
“You are impossible and bitter,” Georgia commented.
“Bitter? How dare you? When you have experienced my life for one day, no, for one hour, then you may decide if my outlook on life is justified! But only then. Do not judge what you cannot comprehend.”
“Then do not judge me for failing to live up to your high standards,” she retorted. “I have never known a blind person, let alone been married to one. I am trying to be patient, navigating this as best I can and learning all the time. Give me credit for that, at least.”
“I give credit for nothing. Be silent.”
Keaton seethed. He recognized a feeling of disappointment within himself. Georgia was like everyone else. She could not understand him and judged accordingly. But he acknowledged he had hoped for something different.
I should not hope for such things. I should face life with pragmatism. For the blind, others are a hindrance. They change things. They disrupt routines. I cannot have that. For my independence, things must be as I have committed to memory.
“I will not be silent simply because you command it!” Georgia snapped suddenly.
“I am your husband...” Keaton began, unable to stop himself from responding.
“When it suits you! And when it does not, you push me away!”
“This was only meant to be a marriage of convenience,” he reminded. “There need be no closeness. So far, we have not managed to suppress any gossip, only to generate more. This,” he waved in the space between them, “is clearly not working.”
They were slipping away from the innards of London now, the road becoming less congested. Keaton could feel the speed of the carriage increasing. They would soon be back at Westvale, and he would be able to breathe easily.
I will return to the investigation. Discover who did this to me. Unravel the mystery of the fork in my life's path that I was forced down without my knowledge. That is all that matters. Anything else is just a distraction.
“I will not beg,” Georgia said with quiet resolve.
Keaton turned to her despite himself. “Beg?”
“I know that I forced your hand, and I did that quite deliberately. My circumstances were... unpleasant, and I sought to escape from them.”
Keaton waited, but she did not say more. He detected the subtle hints that she was looking for the right words, or battling with herself. Wanting to speak further but holding back. He heard the intakes of breath, the shifting on the seat, the exasperated sigh.
“Go on,” he said slowly.
“No. I will not.”
She does not want to beg and does not want my sympathy. She is certainly no beggar. Georgia Roseton is proud as a lioness. Would she keep that pride if I told her to leave my house? If I annulled the marriage? Or would she beg then?
The idea of Georgia begging made his breath catch in his throat.
He tightened his mouth, refusing to let any sign of arousal show.
But he could not dislodge the image that was now rampant in his mind—her on her knees, wet, panting, and desperate.
The face he had touched and mapped, flushed and imploring, prepared to do anything just to please him…
His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden lurch in the carriage.
It was followed by a cry from the driver and then an almighty crash.
Georgia shrieked, and Keaton felt her body slam into his.
The world tilted, and when it came to rest, he was beneath her, lying against the side of the carriage.
“India,” he whispered, “a ship around the Cape and up the east coast of Africa...”
Georgia mumbled drowsily. Keaton realized she was not fully conscious. He himself had been in a daze. A memory had resurfaced. Of discussing travel with someone, to India...
When was that? And why do I think the conversation took place in a carriage? And that it was interrupted?
He tried to focus on the memory, repeating the words he had just whispered to himself. But it was elusive... More a feeling than a concrete recollection.
Georgia stirred against him. Their pose in the upturned carriage was a mockery of two lovers.
Georgia lay stretched atop him, and he had both arms around her.
Her head lay beside his, their cheeks touching.
It was warm, smooth, and her skin felt soft.
Nothing should feel so smooth. Nothing in the world could be so soft.
As he tried to shift, he only succeeded in becoming more aware of the contact between their bodies. His arousal stirred from the feel of her hips pressed to his.
“Georgia?” he whispered, “Georgia, wake up.”
“Elias?” she mumbled.
Keaton frowned. Who was Elias that his name came to her in such an unguarded moment? He felt a flash of jealousy and cursed himself for being a fool.
What business of mine is it if there is an Elias somewhere that she desires? I do not want this woman, for devil’s sake!
But his manhood gave the lie to that as Georgia pushed herself up with the result that her hips ground into his. Keaton almost groaned at the surge of pleasure it wrenched through his body.
“Keaton?” she whispered innocently.
“Y-yes,” he croaked. “I think there has been an accident. I hear nothing from outside. I do not think I am injured. Are you?”
“No, I don't think I am…”
She shifted as though to roll from him, and a mad thought dashed across Keaton's mind.
“It might be best not to move until we know our situation. We might be in a precarious position.”
Very precarious! I am in very great danger. I must not let my resolve waver.
Her face was so close to his. He could feel the warmth of her cheek. Feel her breath.
“Speak,” he whispered.
“Why?” she replied.
“So that I might judge where your lips are.”
It was enough. He lifted his face to hers and his lips found Georgia's. He felt a sigh slip from her throat, felt her body sink against his after a moment's tension. His resolve had been battered like a broken dam before a flood. He no longer cared to restrain himself—couldn’t, wouldn’t.
His hands cradled her head as he kissed her deeper, hungrier, claiming her mouth with a need he could no longer disguise.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and when they parted for him—soft, wet, eager—he groaned into her mouth.
His fingers sank into her hair, relishing the feel of the silky locks, imagining the lustre that must be upon them.
Her breasts pressed firmly against his chest, and he could feel the tight peaks through the layers between them, taunting him.
That sensation became a secondary focus for his senses.
First, his lips, hot against Georgia's, tasting her tongue and her mouth, allowing her to taste his.
Below, his cock pressed achingly against her thighs and her vulnerable femininity.
Keaton had never felt such envy for those civilizations of the tropics who wore little.
He was aware of so many layers separating his body from hers.
Her dress, corset, chemise, whatever society and fashion deemed it necessary for women to wear.
Meanwhile, his breeches were a prison. Every tiny shift of her hips drove him mad, and had her whimpering her pleasure.
“Your Grace!” came the voice of the driver from the outside, tight with pain, “Your Grace, are you injured in there?”
Georgia's head rose from Keaton's, and he snarled in frustration. She giggled.
“I think we were saved by providence,” she whispered.
“By the devil,” he murmured. “Yes! We are unhurt!”