Chapter 22

The trouble was, she was too beautiful, too desirable, too… too his. She was in his blood and there seemed to be no way of getting her out, that was the bare truth of it. Gabriel had made all sorts of resolutions and had meant to keep them, but at the sight of Georgiana in that gown every single one of them had fled. He had intended, though the prospect had filled him with no joy, but rather a sick feeling of wrongness, to ask for Miss Templeton's hand in marriage that evening. He thought she and her mother were expecting as much, her mother being far the keener of the two. But of all the women assembled here, Alice Templeton seemed the most amiable, though undoubtedly shy. More than that, he did not think her home was a happy one, nor her wishes ever consulted by those around her, and he could at least offer her an escape to a better life, along with the status marriage to him would bring. She was extremely timid and presently a little nervous of him, but that was only because they were not yet well acquainted, and she was not, he thought, slow in understanding or lacking in character. Many marriages began, and went on to prosper, on flimsier foundations. They would marry, he would treat her with all possible consideration and afterwards bother her as little as was compatible with the reasons for their union, and he would have done his duty by everyone who depended on him. He had thought that he was reconciled to it all.

The trouble was, he could not find it in him to give a fig for duty when Georgiana appeared on the staircase in black velvet and silver lace, and their eyes met. She looked like a princess, a duchess, a queen from the previous century. His princess, his duchess, his queen. He understood now – and it was very late in the day for a man of his reputation and experience to come to such a realisation – how a man could become obsessed with a woman, and throw aside everything, all thoughts of duty, honour, family, obligation, in order to possess her. The very word ‘possess' and all it implied could make him hard, could set his body and his mind on fire with longing for her. Just her. He'd fought a duel over a woman once, but he'd been no more than a foolish boy then. He couldn't even remember her face now. He couldn't remember any other woman's face.

Georgiana's feet were clad in high-heeled shoes that Blanche must have found for her, since they were very far from the current mode. He had never previously held a conscious opinion about women's shoes, but now he wanted to fling himself at those feet and kiss them. Her ankles were revealed, in white stockings clocked with silver. They were very shapely ankles, but God knows he had seen many, many ankles before and they had not affected him so. The skirts of the gown were full, black velvet over silver. His colours. His. She was very tightly laced, and his hands should be about her little waist, spanning it, holding her tight. Her bodice was low, and her beautiful breasts were revealed by it, nestled in silver lace. The areolae of her nipples were concealed, just barely, he thought, but he didn't need to imagine them because he'd seen them, had kissed them, and just now he would have given every single thing he owned in the world to kiss them again. He wanted to bury his face between her breasts. He wanted to eat her.

Her lovely, well-shaped head was carried regally on her long white neck, and that neck was circled with a simple black velvet ribbon, which he would very much like to remove, with his teeth. And she was wearing – this was the last straw where his composure was concerned – that damnably enticing black lace loo mask. He knew in his blood that it was the same one she'd been wearing on their first meeting. Her eyes were revealed, those beautiful, unforgettable blue eyes, and beside one of them, in order to push him right over the brink, she had set an alluring black velvet beauty patch, such as had been fashionable in his grandparents' day. Patches had their own language, and this one – it was the sort of curious thing he knew, though now he wished he didn't – was entirely appropriate for her, being the patch that conveyed the useful information that the wearer had a passionate nature. And he knew the truth of that.

He also knew in his bones that it was the sheerest insanity to contemplate marrying another woman when he felt like this. She could call it lust if it made her happy. He didn't really care what it was called any more.

What was more, when they danced together it was very clear to him that, however hard she tried to conceal it, she felt exactly the same. She did not want him to marry any other woman alive one whit more than he wanted to do it. She would find excellent reasons to object to any bride he might choose, while all the while refusing to admit why. Surely it must be possible to make her see…?

By the time the dance with her had ended, he was fixed in his determination to try again. He endured the next set with Miss Templeton with an impatience he was barely able to conceal. He did not even stop to worry how exactly he would contrive to get Georgiana alone and make a last desperate attempt to convince her that she could, she should, she would marry him. He knew an opportunity would present itself, for it must, and was not in the least surprised when he saw her leave the room, her face pale. This was his last chance and by God he would take it. He followed her. He was not in a state just then to consider or to care whether anyone saw him go or not.

They spoke – he thought she came tantalisingly close to admitting that it would be the sheerest folly for them even to think of parting – and then, as he had always known they would be, they were in each other's arms. This was his best argument, surely, and it did not need words. It was perfectly clear that they could each of them have been married to another and it would not have mattered; it could even have been his wedding day, or hers, and still they could not be alone for five minutes without claiming each other. In sober truth, lust was far too feeble a word to describe it.

This time they were interrupted. He knew she was horrified – he felt her stiffen in his embrace – and he could have cursed aloud in frustration, for this did not suit his purposes at all, though he feared she would think it did. He had wanted her to admit, to herself as much as to him, that they should marry. She had not quite done so, and now he had no option but to put out the fire of scandal before it had a chance to flare up and ruin her. He saw in a lightning glance just exactly who he was dealing with, the worst possible news, and everything he said after that was preordained for him.