Chapter 18
“Icannot return to that gloomy house just yet!” Georgia cried.
Rain had split the sky and driven Lady Gertrude’s garden party hunting for shelter. Georgia had guided Keaton to their carriage, and both had gotten drenched in the process.
“I feel like I am breathing water,” Keaton said, hurling back his head and tossing back long, water-dark locks.
A spray of water lashed at Georgia, who squealed and giggled.
Keaton laughed. Georgia had not stopped at three or even four.
Keaton had lost count of how many glasses had followed.
He sat back in the carriage as it began to splash its way through the streets south of the Thames. He smiled, hearing Georgia’s laughter.
She received disturbing news, but the drink has taken her mind off it. I will help her. God help me, but I will put aside this damnable paranoid suspicion, and I will do the honorable thing. I will shake the truth out of Silverton if I need to!
“Then we will go and promenade in Hyde Park,” Keaton announced, the idea coming to him fully formed and perfect. He thumped the roof and gave his orders, hearing them echoed by the driver.
“Yes, I would dearly love to promenade in Hyde Park. My Aunt and Uncle would never countenance it lest I take attention away from Amelia.”
“I do not blame them,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” she demanded.
“Were I the father of a debutante, I, too, would not want the eyes of eligible young men drawn away from her by her more beautiful cousin.”
It seemed the simplest truth to state and not something that he should be keeping unsaid.
The thought briefly occurred to him that he had imbibed more champagne than he should, and it had caused a serious breach in his defenses.
He dismissed it with a shrug and a grin.
What possible consequences could there be?
“That is very sweet. I do not see myself as beautiful. Amelia is beautiful. Lady Alison at Lord Swinthorpe’s dinner was extraordinary.”
Keaton shrugged. “She was nothing special.”
“How would you know?” Georgia laughed.
“A blind man’s other senses become considerably more enhanced as a result of the lack of vision. She wore your perfume, but not as well as you. She did not speak as intelligently or with as much clever wit. And she made too much noise when she ate.”
He stuck out his tongue, grimacing. Georgia laughed uproariously.
“The poor girl! What woman could ever stand up to such scrutiny? All we must do to please a sighted man is look pretty. But for a blind man, all kinds of considerations must be taken into account.”
Keaton nodded sagely. “Some rise to the challenge. I have found nothing to critique in you.”
“You have found plenty,” she tutted.
“Then I was wrong.”
Georgia had been sitting opposite him, but now shifted so that she sat on the bench seat beside him. She leaned against him, and he put an arm about her shoulders.
“You surprised me today,” he murmured.
She lifted her head a little. “With my determination to save Amelia?”
“I already knew how determined you were. When you stole my trap, for example,” he joked.
“I did not steal it,” she shuddered. “I am the Duchess of Westvale. I was entitled to take it!”
“You push the definition of Duchess given the circumstances of our marriage. Most would not assume ownership rights so quickly,” he protested, only half-jokingly.
“I do hope that this is in jest. I also hope that it is inspired by an excess of champagne because I am not sure I like this aspect of the Duke of Westvale,” she mumbled.
Keaton turned his head to her, feeling her breath upon his cheek, sweet with the wine they had shared.
Her breasts pressed against his arm. Her shoulder was delicate and fragile beneath his hand.
He let it slip on her scapula and then the small of her back.
The touch was rewarded with a slight arching of her back, like a cat being stroked.
“Hyde Park, Your Grace!” came the shout from the driver.
It was barely audible over the steady thrum of rain on the roof of the carriage.
“It would be foolish to go outdoors in this,” Georgia breathed, leaning away from Keaton as though to look out of the window.
“It is fortunate then that I cannot see the rain. Not foolish, simply blind,” Keaton replied, laughing.
“Should we…?” she asked.
“We have already gotten drunk at a society garden party. What harm is there to stroll through Hyde Park in the middle of a rainstorm? Is anyone else present as mad as we are?”
“None that I can see.”
“Very well.” Keaton opened the door and stepped down with a splash. Immediately, rain plastered his head to his scalp, seeking the back of his collar to run down his spine and render his shirt transparent.
Georgia laughed as she splashed to the ground beside him.
“Now this is freedom!” she crowed.
She took Keaton’s arm and they set off into Hyde Park.
They followed a paved path, then veered away and across grass.
Keaton’s senses were dulled by the champagne, and he found himself reliant on his wife for guidance.
He had his arm about her shoulders while she held him around the waist, trying to take some shelter under his outstretched coat.
The ground beneath his feet was waterlogged, and they were soon splashing through puddles from which the grass poked.
When the first rumble of thunder reached their ears, they stopped.
“We perhaps should not be abroad if this is to become a thunderstorm,” Keaton bellowed out over the furor.
“I have always been rather afraid of thunderstorms,” Georgia replied.
Keaton could hear the unease in her voice.
“Really? Whatever for?”
“When I was a girl, I became lost in the woods during a thunderstorm. It was terrifying. Elias saved me. I was six, and he was just a few years older, but he braved the storm to come and find me. There! I think I see some refuge!”
“Not a tree, I hope!” He laughed as she led him a trot.
She clung to him fiercely as the peals of thunder grew louder, interspersed with bright flashes of lightning.
Keaton clung back. Partly, it was to reassure her as the sky was split.
Partly, it was to reassure himself that his guide was not about to leave him behind.
Though he had no fear of thunderstorms, he did not relish the idea of being stranded in the middle of one.
Presently, he heard the sound of a wooden door with creaking hinges being heaved open.
The rain stopped, drumming furiously on a wooden roof overhead.
The air inside was old and musty, with a strong undercurrent of animals.
Horses, in fact. Keaton’s feet clunked against a stone floor, then rustled on old straw.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“I think it must have been a stable. There are stalls and lots of old straw. But no horses. Plenty of cobwebs and dust, though.”
They found some old sacks that had once contained oats and stuffed them with straw to form makeshift seats.
Keaton could do a competent job once directed to the deepest clumps of straw.
As he sank into his seat, Georgia did the same, laughing as her stuffing gave way and she was toppled into Keaton.
For a long moment, they sprawled just inside the stable doors, laughing almost uncontrollably.
Both had more serious concerns and uses for their time, but the champagne served to reduce those worries.
It was temporary. Through the merry haze that the champagne had drowned him in, Keaton was aware that this could not last.
For now, though, I am content with what I have right here. I will not think of what her motives are or who she might be conspiring with. I will not dwell on whether I am being manipulated or whether I will ever know what happened to me. I will savor the company of a beautiful woman.
Georgia’s lips nuzzled at his neck and let out a long sigh of pleasure. Her dress felt paper-thin due to its soaking. He stroked his fingers up and down her spine. She murmured her appreciation at his touch.
Keaton moved her wet hair back from her face, caressing her cheek and then tracing the outline of her lips with his fingers. He marvelled at just how accurate his depiction of her had been.
“You really are most extraordinarily beautiful,” he whispered.
“No, I am not,” she whispered back, her lips dancing a hair's breadth from his, “you are blind. You cannot tell.”
“I am blind and that is all I can tell.”
Their lips met, and the sensation cut through the cold and the wet.
It cast aside the befuddlement of champagne, bringing clarity.
Keaton felt as though he were melting into her, becoming one with her.
His arms held her tightly to him, savoring the feel of her perfect body.
His hands roamed to her buttocks, feeling their round tightness.
He cupped her breasts and played across her stomach.
She writhed and squirmed at his touch, reacting to even the slightest movement. Each twist of her lithe body emphasized a new aspect of it, bringing a new part to Keaton’s attention. He explored her legs, feeling firm thighs beneath her sodden skirts, tracing the line of shapely calves.
“We will catch our deaths if we remain in these wet clothes,” he murmured, “is there anywhere in here where a fire could be laid?”
Georgia looked around.
“There is a door. I saw a chimney on that end of the building. There must have been rooms down there adjoining the stables. If there is a chimney, there must certainly be a fireplace.”
They rose, and Georgia led him to the door and through it.
Beyond was a narrow corridor, whose walls brushed Keaton’s shoulders.
Then, a room whose acoustics told him it was small.
The differing sound of the rain told him the size of the windows, which were made of frosted glass.
After a moment’s hunting in drawers and cupboards, Georgia discovered what she called an ancient tin. Within was flint and tinder.