Aunt Agatha’s eyes were like gimlets. “Then if yet another Rutherford gel is going to jilt the Duke of Everingham and cause an even worse scandal, the least you can do, Georgiana, is to explain it to the duke’s mother—”
“The duke’s mother? But—”
“The duchess is in extremely poor health and is mightily distressed by the way her son has been treated by the gels of this family. The least you can do is to face her in person and explain your pathetic reasoning. That way the poor lady might understand, and it will perhaps give her a little peace of mind—relieve her of the suspicion that her son has been at fault—”
“But itishis fault. He’s the one—”
“Nonsense! He did the honorable thing and announced your betrothal. You’re the one who behaved like a hussy—worse than a hussy! I saw it with my own eyes! And nowyou are courting even more gossip and scandal by refusing him. Any other young lady would graciously accept her fate—what am I saying? Accept herfate? Marriage to a handsome young duke, one of the richest men in the kingdom is not a fate, it is ablessing! Any gel would be thankful to be in such a position, but not you! Oh, no, not my great-niece. I am ashamed, deeply ashamed, that a relative of mine could behave so shabbily.”
George gritted her teeth.
“So you must meet the duchess and explain that her son has done all he ought in this matter and is in no way at fault.”
George’s fingers clenched into fists. It was in all ways his fault. She’d told him she wasn’t interested in marriage and the horrid beast had taken that as some kind of challenge to his horrid masculinity. And then when he’d caught her, and kissed her just outside a room full of people, at the end of a concert—who had made the first move then? Not George. And then when everyone came spilling out after the recital, catching her locked in his arms—who was it who’d announced their betrothal without even asking her? Not George. And then he’d put it in the papers! Again without asking!
So why was everyone blaming her? She hadn’t wanted any of it.
To be fair, she did share some responsibility for the kissing. She hadn’t exactly fought him off. And perhaps she had become a little carried away—well, a lot carried away. She’d practically climbed him like a tree!
But she knew why that was and it wasn’t her fault. Nobody had warned her it could happen.
“This whole dreadful affair has quite cut up the poor duchess’s peace, and her health is fragile at the best of times,” Aunt Agatha continued. “If you would only talk to her, you could ease—”
“Very well, I’ll talk to her,” George agreed. Best to get it over with. Aunt Agatha was quite capable of going on and on and on about it all afternoon and through the night and probably for the rest of George’s life.
“Excellent,” Aunt Agatha said briskly. “I’ll let the duchess know to expect us tomorrow at three.”
“Us?”
“Of course, us. Who else would you take? That wretched animal?” Finn recognizing the reference, if not the sentiment, thumped his tail on the floor.
“No, of course not, but I thought perhaps—”
“Who? Rose and Lily have both gone to the country, Emmaline is in no fit state to accompany you anywhere, burdened as she is with the imminent arrival of The Heir. As for Dorothea”—she snorted—“no, I will accompany you and that’s that. I will call for you at twenty minutes to three. Be ready.”
***
George woke in the night, the bedclothes flung into twisted ropes, her nightdress scrunched up around her hips. She was hot, sweaty and restless. That dream... She blushed just thinking about it. She’d been kissing the duke again, her legs wrapped around his waist, only this time she was naked. And so was he... and his hands— No, she wouldn’t think about where they’d been and what they’d done.
She slipped out of bed, pulled her nightdress down, padded to the window and pulled the curtains back. Below her Berkeley Square was deserted, the gaslights blurry golden moons shining through the drizzle.
She pressed her hot cheek against the cold glass of the windowpane. Her body was afire, and not just for anyone. For the duke.
It was like a thirst that couldn’t be quenched, except by him, a hunger that only he could assuage. But would bedding him rid her of these restive, sweaty dreams, the craving for... for whatever it was she craved?
It was as though the desire had sprung from some outside source, a fever, an infection in her blood. And the duke was the source.
Was he also the cure?
She’d always thought she understood what passedbetween men and women. Even as a child she’d known how animals did it, and had supposed men and women weren’t much different. It seemed odd and uncomfortable and not something she ever thought she’d want.
Emm had told her that people were different, and that the pleasures of the bed could really bring a husband and wife closer. George was skeptical, but it did seem to have worked for Emm and Cal. Cal had only married Emm because he didn’t want to be bothered with Rose and Lily and her.
His attitude had certainly changed, but how much of it was because of whatever happened in the bedchamber?
Lily and Rose had talked about it too. They said it was lovely, but George had never really thought about whatlovelymeant.
She wondered now.
