Charming? He winced. He’d never thought the room or the house humble, but with this heiress standing here, judging, the rather rustic nature of everything hit him like Gentleman Jackson’s fist to his gut. Could she ever be content withthis? Withhim?
Her slow but constant movement stilled at his desk. Like a thief, she rifled through the papers, and he could not rouse himself to feel bothered, to feel like it was an intrusion. Her rummaging about in his life could never be that.
She picked up a leaf of paper and turned to him, her gaze a burning coal on the page. “What is this?” A quirk in her voice he could not identify. “It makes no sense.”
He turned, too, leaning his hips against the windowsill and crossing his arms over his chest. “Let me see.” When she handed the paper over, he knew it in a glance and grinned. “That is for you. For us, really.”
“It appears to be a list of confectioners and bakeries.”
“Precisely.”
“But why?”
“So, I know where to look for houses. They are all on the outskirts of London. I will have to travel much and perhaps stay here some weeks, but by finding a home for us right outside London, you can have what you wish, and I can, too.”
“And the bakeries?”
“Are so I can buy you sweet things as often as you like. Good to have them conveniently located. Watching you eat sugar is the next best thing to kissing sugar off your lips. Hm. Not done that yet. We should try it soon.”
On hesitant, rocking feet, she stepped toward him. “When… when did you do this?”
“While you were sleeping. I needed to occupy my mind, and thoughts of you surviving were best suited to the occasion.” Itching to hold her, to prove to himself she lived and was unharmed, as if last night and this morning’s activities had not already done so, he swept across the sparse distance between them, backed her up against the desk she’d so recently pilfered through, and lifted her, setting her atop it and nudging her knees apart with his hips.
Her arms wrapped tight about his neck, and each breath pushed her chest against his. “I’m not important. I never have been, except as a pawn to sell and be bought, to seek revenge with, to—”
“You are most important. To me, you are everything.” He nudged the side of her nose with his own. “Happy Christmas, sweet one. You’re no pawn, and you know that. If you forget it, I’ll remind you.”
She kissed him, lips searing his and fingernails digging into the skin at the nape of his neck, demanding he get closer. He hiked up her skirts to her waist and fell into the kiss, and then pulled at her, demanding the same.
“Josiah.”
“Gee.”
“Josiah!”
He frowned, kissing the curve of her neck. The arrow of his name penetrated the fog of lust rolling through him, but he brushed it aside. Of course, she’d be saying his name. He’d pulled her to the table’s edge and nudged his knee against the bit of her body already wet for him.
“Josiah!”
But that wasn’t her voice calling his name.
They looked up at the same time, abandoning each other’s body with shock-widened eyes.
And the bedchamber door flew open.
Georgiana dove into Josiah’s arms, hiding her face in his chest, and Josiah lowered her skirts below her knees.
Josiah’s father stood in the doorway, his head cocked, his gaze greedy on them before he burst into laughter. “Here we’re all worried sick, and you’ve cornered the heiress, my boy.” More laughter.
Georgiana slowly straightened, her gaze narrowing on the intruder.
“I think you should leave, Lord Westgrove.”
“Indeed,” Josiah growled. “Get. Out.”
Georgiana slid to the floor and turned from his father, straightening her clothes, her hair, likely her nerves as well.
But his father did not get out. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and crossed one ankle over the other as if he intended to stay for a chat. “Compromised a fortune. Not gentlemanly, but men in your situation can’t be choosy about how they acquire wealthy wives. Likely can’t get one at all without a little coercion.
