The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere by Anna Bradley

Chapter Eleven

The moment Benedict’s lips touched her skin, every thought fled Georgiana’s head. The fear, the anxiety and panic that had tried to swallow her when they’d arrived at Lady Archer’s vanished into mist, chased away by a rush of desire so sweet it left her dizzy, breathless.

Those dark emotions were no match for a kiss from a rake.

No match for him.

The warm clasp of his fingers around hers, his tentative smile and the gentleness of his touch, the soft murmur of his voice…somehow, he’d known just what to say, just how to reassure her.

She gazed down at the dark head bent over her bare wrist and her lips parted, her heart thrumming madly in her chest as his mouth grazed her pulse, his kiss both comforting and devastating at once. Once she did manage to withdraw her hand from his she was dazed, her head spinning and her pulse beating wildly under the tingling skin of her wrist.

Could he even be called a rake at all?

Georgiana hardly knew how to think of him now, but she knew she would think of him, long after he’d taken her home tonight. She’d lie in her bed and remember his whispers, the hot brush of his lips against her skin.

If Benedict noticed her agitation, he didn’t remark on it. His hand was warm and firm around hers as he handed her from the carriage, his arm reassuringly steady under her trembling fingertips as he escorted her to the entrance of Lady Archer’s townhouse.

“Good evening, Lord Haslemere.” Lady Archer’s butler, a somber-looking fellow in a royal blue coat with sumptuous gold-braiding on the cuffs, ushered them into a grand entryway with black marble floors and blazing chandeliers hanging in matched pairs from the ceiling.

No soft, comforting glow for Lady Archer, but a hard, bright light pouring down onto the unsuspecting heads below until it was absorbed into the pit of black marble under their feet.

Oh, dear. Lord Haslemere was right. It was quite the ugliest marble Georgiana had ever seen, and no matter which way she turned, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a gilt pier glass.

She looked…strange. Pale, but with burning eyes and bright spots of color in her cheeks. Was she feverish? She started to lift her hand to her cheek, but Lord Haslemere caught it and lowered it to his forearm.

“I can feel you trembling.” His voice was low, and his warm breath stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple. “I thought we agreed there’s no need for you to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” It wasn’t a lie. Whatever nerves still lingered after those moments alone in the carriage with him were gone, but the delicate blue vein at her wrist was still throbbing, as if clamoring for his mouth. “What makes you think I’m nervous?”

Nervesweren’t the reason her knees were weak, or tiny shivers were chasing each other over her skin. It wasn’t nerves causing the warm, melting sensation in her lower belly, or the dizzying flutter of her heart against her ribs.

It was him, and he’d only kissed her wrist. If he ever kissed her mouth, she’d likely swoon. Georgiana couldn’t tell if she found the thought titillating, or terrifying.

“If you’re not nervous, why are you squeezing my arm so tightly you’re about to tear my coat sleeve to shreds?” He smiled down at her.

“Oh.” Georgiana glanced down, saw her knuckles had turned white, and loosened her fingers. “I beg your par—”

“Lord Haslemere, you naughty thing!”

Georgiana turned, her eyes widening as a plump lady in a bright green satin gown bore down on them, her hands outstretched. She was half-smothered in diamonds and emeralds, and she wore such enormously tall blue and green peacock feathers they threatened to touch the candles set into the chandelier and set the whole arrangement ablaze.

“My dear Lord Haslemere!” the lady gushed. “Why, what extraordinary luck, to find you here this evening. It’s been an age, has it not?”

“Good evening, Lady Trowbridge.” Lord Haslemere took the lady’s hand and raised it to his lips in a gesture so gallant Lady Trowbridge, who couldn’t be a day under sixty years of age, succumbed to a girlish giggle.

“Ah, charming as ever, I see, you wicked man. Have you come for Lady Wylde? I saw her just a moment ago, at a table with your friend, the Earl of Harrington.” Lady Trowbridge’s merry brown eyes sparkled with mischief. “He’s caught you out there, I’m afraid.”

Lord Haslemere chuckled. “Not as much as you might imagine, my lady. May I introduce you to my friend, Miss Georgiana?”

He didn’t give her last name, but Lady Trowbridge didn’t seem to notice. “How do you do, my dear?” Her shrewd gaze swept over Georgiana with undisguised interest. “Friend, is she? She’s not in your usual style, Haslemere. Pretty all the same, though.”

Not in his usual style? Dear God, did Lady Trowbridge think she was—

“Do you play, my dear?” Lady Trowbridge waved her fan toward the back of the house, setting her peacock feathers quivering.

Georgiana glanced over Lady Trowbridge’s shoulder and saw the doors between the rooms had been thrown open and crowded with tables and dainty gilt chairs upholstered in red satin. Aristocrats of every age, size, and description were perched atop them, chattering like monkeys and flirting, gossiping, and tossing cards about with wild abandon.

Goodness, what a spectacle. Even from here, the din was deafening. It put Georgiana in mind of one of the battle reenactments at Astley’s Amphitheater, but less entertaining, and with a greater likelihood of bloodshed.

“You look positively terrified, you poor thing.” Lady Trowbridge tapped Georgiana’s arm with her fan. “It is a bit of a crush tonight, but I daresay we can squeeze you in somewhere.”

“I, ah…I’m afraid I don’t know how to play, my lady.”

Lady Trowbridge gave her a blank look, as if Georgiana were speaking in another language. “You mean to say you’ve never played faro?”

Georgiana shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Lady Trowbridge’s eyes went wide. “What, never? Why, how perfectly charming you are! Wherever did you find such a sweet little thing, Haslemere? I’m quite mad for her already.”

Lord Haslemere gave an indulgent laugh, and Georgiana glanced up at him to find him looking down at her with a fond expression that must surely be feigned. “You can’t expect me to tell my secrets, my lady, but perhaps you’d like to join us at a table? You can tutor Miss Georgiana on the play.”

“I shall, indeed. Someone must take care of her, and you’re a shamelessly negligent attendant. Come along, my dear.” Lady Trowbridge linked arms with Georgiana. “You’re sure to enjoy yourself. What could be more delightful than squandering Lord Haslemere’s money?”

Georgiana didn’t quite know what to say to that, but she let herself be led toward the back of the house. The air grew thicker and the buzz of conversation louder as they neared the drawing room. It was disorienting. Georgiana, who’d never been fond of crowds, stumbled a bit, but Lord Haslemere pressed a strong, reassuring hand to the middle of her back to steady her as they made their way toward a table in the corner.

“It’s terribly warm, is it not, my dear? I’m parched.” Lady Trowbridge plopped herself down in one of the gilt chairs and fluttered her fan vigorously in front of her face. “Fetch us some champagne, won’t you, Haslemere? There’s a dear boy.”

Georgiana perched on the edge of the red satin chair Lord Haslemere secured for her. Directly across from her a gentleman presided over a green baize board with two rows of cards arranged by suit spread across the top, some with neat piles of chips placed in front of them.

“That gentleman there is the banker. You, my dear, are a punter, or more simply put, a player.” Lady Trowbridge twittered on, pointing out different aspects of the game and explaining how to place a wager. Georgiana nodded politely, but one sharp glance had been enough for her not only to see how the game was played, but to calculate the odds of winning or losing on each turn of the cards.

She hadn’t lied to Lady Trowbridge—she’d never played faro before—but it was a game of numbers, much like every other card game. It was not, however, a particularly complicated game, nor was it a game of chance.

Not for anyone who could count, that is.

“Your chips, my dear.” Lord Haslemere reached over Georgiana’s shoulder, placed a tall pile of chips to one side of her place and a sparkling glass of champagne on the other, and took the opportunity to murmur in her ear. “I’ll keep an eye out for Lady Archer while you play. Do make an effort not to lose my fortune, won’t you?”

Georgiana heard the smile in his voice, and her own lips curved in response. “I make no promises, my lord.”

He straightened, chuckling, and said little from that point on, leaving her to the tender ministrations of Lady Trowbridge, but he never stirred from behind her chair, and she was acutely aware of him there, very close, the heat from his long, lean body teasing her senses.

Georgiana didn’t anticipate getting much pleasure from the game, but between Lord Haslemere’s strong, tantalizing presence at her back, Lady Trowbridge’s endless stream of entertaining nonsense, and the cool, delicious tickle of the champagne on her tongue, it wasn’t long before she was having a perfectly lovely time.

And then, of course, there were the cards.

She didn’t have fond memories of her time spent on the London streets, yet Georgiana couldn’t deny playing at cards was a bit like seeing an old friend again—a friend as accommodating now as it had ever been.

The trouble was, once one knew how to count cards, one couldn’t not count them, particularly when the banker was marking each card off on an abacus it was played. Georgiana couldn’t understand it. It was almost as if they were inviting her to cheat.

How was it that aristocrats lost entire fortunes at this game?

“My goodness, Miss Georgiana, you’re doing very well for yourself,” Lady Trowbridge exclaimed as the chips on the table in front of Georgiana continued to grow. “How lucky you are!”

“It isn’t luck, is it?” Lord Haslemere whispered the words directly into her ear, his voice low and dark and amused. Georgiana went still but for a deep shiver at that seductive whisper, the faint, intoxicating scent of peppermint lingering on his skin.

She’d always had a weakness for peppermints.

“No one would ever guess how wicked you are, would they? Not with those innocent eyes of yours.” His soft laugh wasn’t so much a sound as a breath, the warm rush of it against her ear making her quiver. “But I know your secret, Georgiana.”

Georgiana gripped the edge of the table to steady herself, dazed at the powerful tug of desire in her lower belly. Dear God, he wasn’t even touching her, but his seductive whisper made her nerve endings spark, made the fine hairs on her neck rise, made her as dizzy as if she’d drank a half-dozen glasses of champagne.

“So clever, aren’t you, princess?” He crooned, a silken whisper in her ear. “Such a clever, wicked lady.”

* * * *

He didn’t touch her. He wanted to—wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything—but he didn’t dare.

He imagined it as he stood there behind her, inhaling her scent, taking it inside himself in one rough breath after the next, his gaze on her hands, the fingertips of her gloves damp with condensation as she toyed with the stem of her champagne glass.

Imagined touching her…

In some strange, fevered dream he saw himself leaning over her, opening his mouth against her smooth, pale neck, teasing the loose tendrils there with his tongue, sinking his hands into her hair, plucking out her pins one by one until the soft, thick locks spilled into his palms, and he drew her head gently back so he could take her lips…

A low, frustrated groan rumbled in his chest. Good Lord, what was happening to him? He hadn’t even touched her, but he’d never been more aroused in his life.

He was shaking with desire, drowning in it—

“Well, Lord Haslemere, here you are at last. I’d begun to believe you’d remain in Surrey forever. What a delight to have you back in London again.”

Benedict tore his gaze from the back of Georgiana’s neck to find Lady Archer at his elbow, an amused smile on her lips. “How do you do, Lady Archer? It’s a pleasure to see you.”

She pouted as he raised her hand to his lips. “Is it really, my lord? If I hadn’t spoken to you, I doubt you would have noticed me at all.”

Benedict let his lips linger just a touch too long on her glove. “That would be impossible, my lady. Why would I have come tonight at all, except to see you?”

“You’re a shameless creature, Haslemere, but I’m inclined to look favorably upon you, as you seem to have done the impossible.” Lady Archer nodded at Lady Trowbridge. “I can’t conceive how you managed to get her to the tables. I’ve been trying for an age, with no success.”

Benedict shrugged. “My masculine wiles, of course.”

Lady Archer let out a trill of laughter. “If it was anyone other than you, Lord Haslemere, I’d say that was utter nonsense, but you’ve always been far too charming for your own good. Still, I’m not inclined to question my good fortune. Lady Trowbridge has plenty of money to waste, and she’s dreadful at faro.”

Benedict hesitated. He didn’t like to leave Georgiana, but she was safe enough with Lady Trowbridge, and he wanted to seize his chance to pry information out of Lady Archer while she was pleased with him. “You could return the favor, my lady.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose. “Is there something I can do for you, my lord?”

“A quick word or two in private, nothing more.”

“Private? You intrigue me. But of course, I’m pleased to indulge you. No lady would ever refuse Lord Haslemere a favor. Will you come to my private sitting room?”

“Thank you, my lady.” Benedict rested a hand on Georgiana’s shoulder to get her attention, then leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Stay with Lady Trowbridge, and don’t stir from your seat. I’m off to have a word with Lady Archer. Once I’m finished, I’ll return to fetch you.”

Georgiana nodded. “Yes, all right.”

She sounded slightly breathless, and Benedict just had time to wonder if she was as affected by him as he was by her before he was obliged to leave her, and follow Lady Archer.

“Now, Lord Haslemere.” Lady Archer closed the sitting room door behind her and gestured Benedict to a chair. “How can I help?”

“I have a few questions about Lord Draven I thought you might be able to answer.” Benedict didn’t mention the rumor he’d heard from Lady Wylde about Draven having been Lady Archer’s lover. Lady Archer was a worldly woman, and would likely understand right away why he’d chosen to come to her.

“Poor Lord Draven. You did hear about his, ah…accident, did you not?”

“Are we pretending it was an accident, my lady?”

Lady Archer sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s much point in that, is there? I won’t insult you by asking if you had a hand in it, though I’ve heard whispers to that end.”

“Whispers? Is that all? I’ve had accusations hurled directly in my face,” Benedict said, thinking of Mrs. Bury. “London does love their rumors, and the ton must have their gossip, regardless of whether there’s any truth to it.”

“Indeed. But I’ve known you long enough to know there’s not a morsel of truth in this case. You may be a rake, Haslemere, but you’ve never been a villain.”

“I thank you for that, my lady.” Benedict paused for a moment over his next words, but there was no delicate way to say it. “I suppose you’ve also heard Draven’s meant to be having an affair with my sister, the Duchess of Kenilworth.”

“Ah. That rumor is not, I’m afraid, quite as easily brushed aside. The ton has long believed Lord Draven is nursing a desperate passion for the duchess. That rumor has endured these six years or more, and is so entrenched people regard it as fact.”

“I don’t trouble myself much with what the ton does or doesn’t believe, but I think you, Lady Archer, may have more insight into the business than most.”

Lady Archer was quiet for a moment, then she crossed the room and took the chair opposite Benedict’s. “I might. What would you like to know?”

Benedict blew out a breath, relief rushing over him. Lady Archer would have been well within her rights to toss him out onto St. James Street for his impertinence. “That house party—the one hosted by Lord Draven’s father. The trouble seems to have started there.”

“Yes, I believe that’s right. Unfortunately, I didn’t attend that party, my lord, so anything I tell you about it is merely what I’ve heard secondhand.”

“I’d be grateful to hear it, just the same.” Lady Archer might know something without realizing she did.

“Very well. The duchess—well, she was Lady Jane then—attended the previous Lord Draven’s house party, and the current Lord Draven was said to have fallen madly in love with her then. More than one gentleman sighed after Lady Jane, but I don’t need to tell you that, my lord.”

It was on the tip of Benedict’s tongue to ask about Clara Beauchamp, but he decided against it. Miss Beauchamp was never introduced in society, and she wasn’t ton, or even aristocracy. Hence, no one in London seemed to know a thing about her.

“Alas for poor Lord Draven, the Duke of Kenilworth also attended that house party. He and Lord Draven were good friends, you know. But Kenilworth fell in love with Lady Jane as well, and she with him, if the gossips have the right of it. It was a tragic love triangle, I’m afraid.”

A love triangle, of all absurd things. Benedict would have said Jane was far too sensible to involve herself in such nonsense, but what insight did a brother have into the secret depths of his sister’s heart?

None, and nor did she wish him to. If nothing else, Jane had made that clear to him this afternoon.

“You likely know the rest of it, Lord Haslemere. Lord Draven, Kenilworth, and Lady Jane met in London after that doomed house party. Lady Jane came out that season, and Kenilworth immediately began courting her. Well, Lord Draven never really had a chance, did he? Kenilworth inherited an enormous fortune, as you know, and he didn’t hesitate to spend it. He purchased the Grosvenor Street house the previous winter, and every belle in London that season was wild to become mistress of it. By the end of it, Lady Jane was the Duchess of Kenilworth. Poor Draven was out, and has spent the past six years trying to get back in.”

“And now, according to the gossips, he’s succeeded.”

Lady Archer shrugged. “Some think so, yes, but no one really knows the truth. Unfortunately for Lady Jane, it’s far more exciting to believe she’s succumbed to a years’ long passion for Lord Draven than otherwise. Fidelity to one’s husband is, alas, a dull business.”

Every fool in London might believe what they liked. Benedict didn’t give a damn. All that mattered was what the Duke of Kenilworth believed. If he thought he had reason to doubt his duchess, wasn’t it possible he’d taken his wrath out on Lord Draven?

Benedict rose to his feet and began to pace the small room. “Yet for all those rumors of a rekindled love affair between Lord Draven and Jane, no one seems to think the Duke of Kenilworth had a hand in Lord Draven’s…mishap, though it seems far more likely a husband would be driven to violence over it than a brother would.”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Haslemere, but it is not the case that everyone in London believes the Duke of Kenilworth is innocent of the attack on Lord Draven.”

Benedict froze mid-step and turned a sharp look on Lady Archer. “Is that so?”

“It is, indeed.”

He marched back across the room and resumed his seat. “Do you mean to say, Lady Archer, that you don’t believe it?”

Lady Archer eyed him for a long moment, an expression Benedict couldn’t read on her face. She looked…wary. Fearful, even.

“I understand Lord Draven and the Duke of Kenilworth were great friends.” Benedict paused, but Lady Archer remained silent. “Perhaps the friendship between them is such that the duke would never suspect—”

“There was a friendship between them, Lord Haslemere. It ended years ago at that house party, presumably because of the rivalry over Lady Jane. The friendship between the duke and Lord Draven cooled after that.”

Benedict leaned forward, his gaze rivetted on Lady Archer. “Just how cool did it become?”

“Cool enough that by the time Kenilworth and Lord Draven returned to London for the season, they couldn’t stand the sight of each other.”

“My God.” Rivalry for a lady’s affections did tend to sour a friendship, but this was the first Benedict had heard about such deep animosity between Draven and Kenilworth. “How is it possible there was no gossip in London about their falling out?”

“There was some gossip, but the ton never became aware of the, ah…extent of their disagreement. I only know of it because Lord Draven and I became…friends of a sort when he came to London that year.” Lady Archer shook her head. “He was in a dreadful state. I’ve never seen a man more devastated. It’s fortunate his father intervened and sent him away to the Continent. I don’t exaggerate, Lord Haslemere, when I say I believe it saved his life.”

Benedict nodded. Lady Wylde had told him the same thing.

Lady Archer hesitated, then murmured, “Lord Draven’s and Kenilworth’s falling out was far worse than anyone realizes, Lord Haslemere. After the house party was over and they returned to London for the season, they, ah…they fought a duel.”

“A duel? Was it…were they fighting over—”

“Lady Jane?” Lady Archer gave him a pitying look. “Lord Draven never said, but I imagine it must have been.”

Benedict was hardly able to believe what he was hearing. No one had ever whispered even a breath about a duel before. This thing grew worse with every word out of Lady Archer’s mouth.

But Lady Archer wasn’t finished. “There is one other thing, Lord Haslemere.”

Something in her voice made Benedict’s blood run cold.

“I…forgive me, but Lady Jane and Lord Draven were in London together that season, and there are some who say Lord Draven was still pursuing her, even after Kenilworth started courting her. I’ll leave you to make of that what you will, but it did occur to me it might be the sort of thing that would lead to a duel.”

Benedict stared at her. No, it was impossible. Jane would never encourage one man’s affections while accepting the courtship of another.

“There’s only one thing that doesn’t make sense.” Lady Archer frowned. “If the duel was over Draven’s continued attentions to Lady Jane, one would think it would be Kenilworth who challenged Lord Draven. It was the other way around. It was Lord Draven who challenged Kenilworth.”

“Draven may have challenged Kenilworth for stealing away the lady he loved.” Benedict might have done the same, had he been in Draven’s position.

“Perhaps, though that seems a drastic measure for Lord Draven to take. It wasn’t as if a duel would change anything. By then he’d already lost Lady Jane’s heart to Kenilworth.” Lady Archer shook her head. “Lord Draven may have been madly in love with Lady Jane, but he’s never been a fool.”

“Every man in love is a fool, my lady.”

“Perhaps.” Lady Archer’s rose from her chair with a sigh. “Or perhaps there’s a great deal more to this business between Lord Draven, Lady Jane, and the Duke of Kenilworth than anyone suspects.”