But Rose took no notice. “The duke, how strange. Throughout our short courtship he only ever kissed me once, and it was as chaste as chaste can be. Nothing to turn legs wobbly.”
“He must have kissed her verrrry thoroughly if her knees went away,” Lily said, grinning.
“Stop it,” George said, flustered. “Nobody kissed me. It was just—I heard someone saying their knees buckled, as if they’d turned to jelly, and it seemed so unlikely, that’s all.”
Rose laughed. “George Rutherford, if nobody kissed you last night, explain to us now why your cheeks are on fire.”
George pressed her hands to her cheeks. They felt very hot. “All right, somebody did—but I’m not saying who, but—”
“It was the duke,” Lily said. “I’m sure of it.”
“It wasn’t the duke, it was just... some... man.”
“What man? Who?”
“I didn’t catch his name.”
“A man with no name? Intriguing—if unbelievable.”
“But he did have a mouth.” Lily giggled. “And possibly a tongue.”
“Definitely a tongue if he turned her knees to jelly.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re both being ridiculous. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” It had been a foolish idea to ask them about it. Both Lily and Rose were madly, giddily in love with their husbands, and of course they wanted her to be in love as well—which was never going to happen. She’d never get a sensible word out of them.
Besides, her cheeks were about to burst into flames. George turned her back on them and made a dignified exit. Or it would have been if their giggles hadn’t followed her all the way down the stairs.
In any case their knowledge was of no use to her, she decided. Both Lily and Rose were in love. To them kissing was all about love and the effects were an expression of that love.
George didn’t love the duke; truth to tell, she disliked him intensely. It was just that his kisses disturbed her.
***
In the days following the night of the ball—George couldn’t help but think of it as the night of the kiss, even though several momentous things had taken place that evening—she was braced to run into the duke at other society events. She had mentally prepared for it. Had armed herself for it. Was ready and waiting.
She was sure he would come to Lady Pentwhistle’s rout. Everyone who was anyone had been invited; it was expected to be the most tremendous squeeze. The duke would arrive, looking sardonic and intimidating—if one allowed it, which she would not. She would ignore him completely—unless he asked her for the first dance, giving her no choice but to accept him, unless she wanted to sit out the night on the wallflower benches, because if she refused him, the conventions of the polite world obliged her to refuse all other gentlemen who asked her that night.
Which of course he would know. Little did he know George was prepared for the sacrifice. An evening of being a wallflower was nothing compared to the look she’d see in his eye when she blithely refused him. Because nobody ever refused the duke.
The duke didn’t come to Lady Pentwhistle’s rout.
He didn’t attend the Heatherton ball, either, or the betrothal party for Charlotte Sandford, or Lady Marclay’s Venetian breakfast or any of the other engagements to which she’d been invited.
It was as if the duke had simply disappeared off the face of the earth. Or else returned to his previously unsociable existence.
It was a good thing, George told herself. It was better notto expect to see him anywhere, though she would quite like to encounter him one more time—she’d now thought of several beautifully scathing things to say to him.
Eventually it became clear that the duke wasn’t going to appear at any of the events she attended. Despite that, she couldn’t help looking for him.
And every time she looked, there he wasn’t.
His disappearance was a very good thing, she told herself. The sooner he was removed from her consciousness the better. Then perhaps she’d stop having those hot and sweaty dreams, where she woke up during the night, gasping, her nightdress all twisted up, her body sticky and overheated. Reliving that kiss. Those kisses.
She tried to get on with her life. She tried to exercise him away. She rode at dawn, in the daytime and at dusk, riding herself and Sultan—and poor Kirk—almost to exhaustion. But all it did was fill her dreams with that glorious chase out on Hampstead Heath. Which in her dreams ended with a kiss—and how wrong—and ridiculous—was that!
She suspected she knew what the matter with her was, and she was fairly sure the problem would pass in a few weeks. All she had to do was to endure the discomfort and the irritation. And wait.
Patience had never been one of her virtues.
