Soft, so soft. So close.
She pressed herself more firmly against him, and he nearly groaned aloud. He wanted to kiss her so badly. His body hardened to the point of pain, a splendid, urgent ache. He felt drunk on the feel of her of her, her scent.
To hell with it.
He cradled her nape, tilted her head to the perfect angle, and leaned down to kiss her.
“Georgie? Are you there?”
The feminine hiss brought Benedict back from the brink, even as he cursed the interruption with every fiber of his being. He pulled back and met Georgie’s startled eyes. Shaken at what he’d almost done, he released her and stepped back just as her sister’s shadowy form emerged from the other side of the bushes.
Good God.
His heart was pounding as if he’d just survived a French cavalry charge, but he shot her a cocky grin to prove how unaffected he was.
Georgie blinked as if waking from a stupor. She bent to the ground, retrieved her blade from where she’d dropped it, lifted the hem of her skirts, and replaced itat her ankle. “Over here,” she croaked, stalking past him without a second glance. “Where on earth did you get to, Juliet? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Did you find Mr. Wylde?” Juliet asked innocently.
Benedict bit back a snort.
Oh yes, she most certainly did.
Chapter 17.
Benedict watched Georgie until she’d reached the safety of her mother, then headed toward the rotunda, where two semicircular “piazzas” opened up, illuminated by hanging lanterns. Seb and Alex had secured one of the curved, open-fronted supper boxes and were partaking of a fine dinner.
Seb raised his wine glass when he caught sight of Benedict. “Ah, there you are. Come and have a drink. Did you meet up with your little contact?”
“Jem? Yes. He’s still as slippery as ever. The little bugger even tried to pick my pocket.” Ben took a long drink of the wine Seb poured him and noticed with some amusement that his hand was still shaking. That dratted woman.
Seb indicated the lavish spread laid out on the table. “Alex is paying for dinner. He’s just been given three hundred pounds for recovering some antiquarian coins for General Sir Charles James Fox.”
Benedict gave him a jaunty salute with his glass. “Good work.”
Alex accepted the compliment with a lazy nod. He leaned back in his chair, indolently watching the crowds parade past the open front of the booth. The more subtle ladies contented themselves with peeping coyly at them from behind their fans. The bolder ones shot them saucy, suggestive glances that even a blind man couldn’t have misinterpreted.
A group of expensively dressed women swept past, as colorful as a flock of exotic parrots with their parasols, fans, and shawls. Their accents pronounced them to be Americans, and at least three of the younger ones peered into the box with undisguised interest.
Alex sent them a cheeky smile and a silent toast that had them blushing and hushing one another in a frenzy of flustered giggles. “Thank God we’ve stopped being at war with everyone,” he said fervently. “We’ve been deprived the company of French and American ladies for years.”
“I wouldn’t say you’ve exactly been deprived,” Seb drawled. “What about that pretty Spanish widow near Salamanca? Or that little French actress you’ve been meeting at the Theatre Royal?”
Alex raised a brow. “Who? Claudette? She’s as French as you are, which is to say, not at all. Her real name’s Sally Tuffin, and she’s never been farther than Covent Garden.”
Seb, who always made it his business to know everything about everyone—his personal motto was “knowledge is power”—inclined his head at the departing flock of ladies. “Those are the Caton sisters from Maryland. They’re filthy rich; father’s a tobacco baron. They’re on the hunt for titled husbands. Wellington dotes on them.”
Alex’s gaze followed them appreciatively. “Very transatlantic. Maybe we should take a leaf out of Benedict’s book, Seb, and get ourselves rich wives?”
“Neither of you have titles,” Benedict pointed out.
“Maybe one of ’em will fall for your brother?” Seb mused. “That would solve all his problems. I’m all in favor of introducing fresh stock into theton. Anyone familiar with animal husbandry will tell you that too much inbreeding produces an unhealthy population. Look at the Hapsburgs. Or our own dear King George. Mad as a bunch of hatters, the lot of them. That’s what happens when you keep marrying your cousin.”
Ben shook his head at his irreverence. “John doesn’t stand a chance. I expect the Misses Caton are aiming rather higher than an impoverished earl.”
Seb smiled. “We should thank God there’s no need for either of us to get leg-shackled to some whey-faced harridan just to clear a debt, Alex.”
Benedict chuckled at his friend’s vehemence, but Seb wasn’t finished.
