8. Chapter 8
Louis
Louis gave the horse its head across the open field, the wind tearing at his coat.
His hands gripped the reins with a force that turned his knuckles white.
He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care.
He just needed to be somewhere that wasn't that garden, where Dunblane's hand had been on Georgie’s arse and she had been pressed against his chest. The sight made everything Louis had allowed himself to feel the past few days shatter in his chest.
His father's voice was there. It was always there, buried beneath the charm and the careful distance Louis kept from anything that might hurt him.
But now it rose to the surface. This is what women do.
They let you in and then they find someone better.
You were a fool to think the dalliance was anything more.
The horse slowed to a trot as the terrain roughened. Trees thickened around the path—he'd ridden into the woods at the edge of the Greystone estate without paying attention to where he was going. The sky had gone dark, clouds stacking heavy and gray, and the first drops of rain hit his face.
He pulled the horse to a stop and sat there with the rain beginning to fall and his breath coming hard.
She'd told him Dunblane was no one. Since she hadn’t come to him last night, he knew where she must have been.
Louis pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and let the rain fall on him, fighting every urge in his body to go and find Dunblane and beat the piss out of him.
He loved her. That was the hell of it. He'd done the one thing he'd sworn he would never do. He'd fallen in love. For the first time in his miserable life he'd let someone in, and she'd proven his father right.
His father would scoff at him and pour them both a drink to share a toast in his rightness. Remind Louis that he’d been a big enough idiot to let himself want things that men like him didn't get to have.
He was a fool. A spectacular, besotted fool who'd let Georgie Whitmore dismantle every defense he'd spent a lifetime building. Now he was sitting on a horse in the rain with nothing left but the urge to break everything in his path.
The rain was coming down hard. The horse was restless beneath him, unhappy with the weather.
Louis wiped the water from his face and scanned the area.
Dense trees closed in on a narrow path he didn't recognize.
Through the branches, he could make out the shape of a small stone building—a gamekeeper's cabin, set back from the path in a clearing.
He didn't want shelter. He wanted to keep riding until the rain and the distance drowned out the image of Georgie in Dunblane's arms. But the horse needed rest, and the storm wasn't easing, so he dismounted and led the animal under the overhang of a lean-to at the side of the building.
The cabin door was unlocked. Inside was a single room—a hearth, a table, a narrow bed with a folded blanket, a stack of firewood. Cold, sparse, and exactly suited to his mood. He knelt at the hearth and built a fire, just because it was something to do with his hands.
Falling in love with Georgie Whitmore hadn't saved him from a damned thing. Love wasn't the antidote to his father's lesson—it was the proof of it. When you let someone in, they leave. He should have known better. She’d stated her terms and he’d agreed. He was the one who had changed the rules.
He fed another piece of wood to the fire and watched the flames catch while telling himself that when the rain stopped, he'd ride back to Greystone, pack his things, and leave.
He'd make some excuse to Wes about estate business.
He'd write Max a letter. He'd go back to London, find a widow who wanted nothing from him, and resume the life he'd built before a beautiful woman with emerald-eyes and a sharp tongue had made him forget his good sense.
The fire was starting to warm the room when he heard another horse outside.
Then the cabin door opened and Georgie was standing in the frame, soaked through, her hair plastered to her face, her day dress clinging to her body, her chest heaving from the ride.
For a moment neither of them moved.
What the devil was she doing out here? She was drenched and her body trembled. Every part of him wanted to cross the room and pull her inside to wrap his arms around her beneath a blanket and never let her go.
He didn't move. He didn't trust himself to move.
He would not allow himself to hope. Hope was the thing that had destroyed him in the first place.
“What are you doing here, Georgie?” His voice came out rough.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She was shaking from the cold and rain. “I wanted to explain.”
“There’s no need.” Because if she'd come to explain—to tell him that Dunblane was an old arrangement, that the terms of their dalliance hadn't included fidelity, that she was sorry he'd had to see it—he’d rather her turn and leave.
“You don’t mean that.” Her voice cracked. “You don't know what he did to me. You don't know what he is.”
“I thought he was no one.” The words came out harder than he'd intended. “Because from where I stood, he certainly appeared as though he’s someone to you. Unless all of us who’ve taken you to bed are just no one.”
She flinched. The hit landed, and he hated himself for throwing it, but anger was the only thing holding him together. If he let it go, he was going to break.
“It was him, Louis.” Her voice was raw. “Dunblane. He was the first. The one who . . . ruined me.”
The words landed in his chest and stayed there.
“He cornered me. Told me to warm his bed or he'd go after Miss Barrow and ruin her, too. That is what you saw.” She was crying now—hard, angry tears that streaked through the rain on her face. “I kneed him in the groin after you left. So at least there's that.”
Louis stared at her. The picture he'd built—Georgie choosing Dunblane, Georgie in the man’s arms, Georgie proving his father right—collapsed, and what replaced it was something worse.
Georgie cornered and threatened. Georgie forced to fight off the man while Louis turned his back and walked away, leaving her to fend for herself instead of protecting her.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” His voice was quiet now, the anger draining out of it. Not accusing her, but giving way to the hurt underneath. “Surely you know that with all that has come to pass between us, I would have handled him. I would have made sure he didn’t get to you or Miss Barrow.”
“I froze when I saw him.” Her voice broke. “I haven’t been in his presence since . . . since that night. And when he walked into this house, I panicked and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t lie. He is no one to me. But I could never say that about you.”
He looked at her, and he knew she was telling him the truth. She might have misrepresented the matter, but he’d known her for years. Georgie Whitmore wasn’t a liar.
“I should have told you the whole story,” she said, clasping her arms around herself. “And you shouldn’t have run.”
“I know.” But at the time, it seemed like the only sane thing to do. “Part of me thought if I left you behind, then I wouldn’t have to suffer from you leaving me. That I wouldn’t have to prove my father right and play the part of the fool my mother had played him for.”
She crossed the room. He didn't move—couldn't move—and then her hands were on his face, cold and trembling, and she was looking at him with eyes that were red and fierce.
“You are not your father,” she said. “And I am not your mother. I came after you, knowing what you must have believed. I'm standing here in a soaking wet dress in the middle of a storm because I got on a horse and chased you, Louis. I don’t want to run away from you.”
“I love you, Georgie.” The words came out rough and unsteady. “Heaven help me, and I don’t expect you to feel the same. I know it wasn’t what we agreed to, but it doesn’t change that I love you.”
She watched him for a moment. Tears welled in her eyes. His heart raced as he tried to read her expression.
“I love you, too.”
He reached out and jerked her against him, crashing his lips down on hers. It wasn't a kiss like they'd shared before. It was desperate, all-consuming, and tasted of rain and salt. His hands came up to frame her face and he kissed her with everything he had.
Then he kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, before he pressed his forehead against hers. “You're freezing. We need to get you warm.”
“I’m certain you are more than capable of rectifying the matter.
” Her voice was rough and her hands were already pulling at his wet coat, shoving it off his shoulders.
He helped her—peeling off the soaked fabric, tossing it over the chair by the hearth.
She reached for his waistcoat and he caught her hands.
“Georgie. I didn’t mean . . . we don't have to—”
“I want to. I need you.” She held his gaze. “You. I need you, Louis.”
He let go of her hands. She undid his waistcoat and then his shirt, her cold fingers working the buttons.
He helped her with her dress—the wet fabric resisting, clinging to her skin—and they stripped each other with haste.
Fumbling with buttons. Struggling with sodden linen.
Her chemise stuck to her body, and he peeled it away.
She gasped when the cold air hit her bare skin.
He pulled her to the narrow bed and wrapped the blanket around them both, drawing her against his chest. Her skin was cold everywhere it pressed against his, and he held her close, running his hands up and down her back.
The fire caught in the hearth and the room began to warm.
She pressed her face into his neck, and her breath came hot against his throat.
“Don’t ever run away from me again,” she said against his skin.
“I'm here.” His hand slid into her wet hair. “I'm not going anywhere.”