Chapter Two

George was bored. Although he would rather have chopped off his thumb than admit it to the world, he would rather be at home in his library with a novel. One of those sensationalist gothic ones. Or perhaps a romance. Some poetry.

He had ascertained within five minutes that in Miss Stanley's eyes, his only charm was his wealth and title. Admittedly, most young ladies were interested in these, but he had some ridiculous notion of his future wife enjoying his company, too.

He was, he could freely admit, an optimist.

"Mr Comerford?" she asked. He looked down into her cherubic face, realising by her note of irritation that this must not have been the first time she'd said his name.

"Ah, I'm sorry." He offered her a charming smile. "I must have been lost in my thoughts."

"I asked if you would ask me to dance."

Across the room, George spied a familiar head of blonde curls.

How he knew it was hers, he was not entirely sure. Perhaps it was the angle at which she held her head, the way the curls fell across her neck. Or perhaps it was the colour of them, burnished gold by candlelight; flaxen by the light of the sun.

Or perhaps it was the voluptuous curves that accompanied the hair. The generous swell of breasts he had pressed his face into, a rounded waist he delighted in, and hips that he had gripped as he'd held her against him.

Although she was clothed now, gowned in a dress of elegant red, he knew what every inch of her naked body looked like. The curves, the lines, the soft rolls he had kissed with a poet's adoration.

This was, naturally, not the first time he had seen her since their parting, but he was still swamped by restless need. The urge to prowl to her side and command her hand in the next dance would do him no favours. Besides, it would ruin the languid, unbothered reputation he had been at such pains to establish. George Comerford did not pursue ladies with such single-mindedness.

Even so, he disliked that she was there flirting with other gentlemen. A wave of something alarmingly possessive rose in him, and he turned back to his wearying partner.

"A dance," he said, with a flourishing bow. "Would you be so good as to grant me the waltz, Miss Stanley?"

She made what he was certain was a valiant effort to blush, and he almost applauded the attempt. Despite her distinct lack of interest in him , she was evidently prepared to do anything in order to secure his viscountcy and fortune.

"I've heard you like to write poetry," she said as they took their places in the middle of the ballroom, her hand resting lightly on his.

Another half an hour before he could escape her.

"I do," he said.

"Like Byron."

No one would ever quite be like Byron, either with his sudden rise to popularity or the subsequent scandals with the now-infamous Caroline Lamb. The comparison was at once flattering and dire. "Somewhat," he said.

"I thought you might like to write me some." She fluttered her lashes.

He was temporarily speechless. "Is that so?"

"Well I am extraordinarily pretty. Quite a few gentlemen have been obliging enough to say that if they had the power, they would write a sonnet to the brilliance of my eyes." If she possessed any subtlety, she was not using it on him. "Do you not agree, sir?"

He could not help thinking again of Caroline, who had never once demanded anything other than honesty from him. She would have abhorred the idea of false flattery. "Why, it means nothing at all if it is not from the heart, darling," she had said to him on more than one occasion.

There was no denying she was aware of her charms, but at least she wielded them with a lighter hand than Miss Stanley.

"I'm afraid," he said absently, "I am not much in the habit of writing poetry for young ladies."

Save, of course, a certain lady who was not in the heart of her youth.

Deciding another half hour with a young lady interested in nothing but his fortune would be intolerable, he guided her from the dance, encountering a fearsome little scowl that almost made him laugh.

Fortune hunters could take their shot at him; they would always miss.

"Ah," he said, spying his friend. "Hawkridge."

James Hawkridge had been a friend of his since his Cambridge days, and although he was not titled, he owned a tidy estate in Cornwall. Hopefully it would be good enough to please Miss Stanley.

"Comerford," Hawkridge said with a start. "What are you doing here?"

"It's been an age since we last met."

Hawkridge's only sign of confusion was a slow blink—he had seen George just two days ago at White's. "Yes."

"Allow me to present Miss Stanley to you. Miss Stanley, this is my very good friend, Mr James Hawkridge." He placed her hand on Hawkridge's arm, and could almost see the way she assessed his friend, calculating the approximate worth of his property and determining if she was worth his attention. By her eventual smile, she evidently decided he was.

Excellent.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance," Hawkridge said, after a searching glance at George to clarify his intentions. "Don't suppose you would do me the honour of dancing?"

Miss Stanley sent George a particularly poisonous look he supposed he deserved. "I should be delighted to dance the remainder of the waltz with you."

George gestured them extravagantly past him and abandoned the dance in search of refreshments. There was, at least, wine, and he poured himself a generous glass before leaning against a pillar in order to watch the proceedings. James was flirting extravagantly, and Miss Stanley was encouraging him at every juncture. Caroline was nowhere to be seen.

Irritated with himself for caring when she had insisted on ending things between them, he abandoned his pillar and made his way to the card room. When he got there, however, he near collided with a figure just leaving it.

And, curse his luck, out of all four hundred guests, it had to be Caroline Spenser herself.

#

Caroline stopped short at the sight of George so close to her—closer than he had been since the day they had left Worthington Hall. All evening, she had been flirting, hoping she might feel something with at least one potential patron. But now, pinned like a butterfly underneath the weight of his gaze, all the desire she had been waiting to feel came rushing through.

And it was with a man who would be married imminently.

A man to whom she had become altogether too close to in the past. Worthington Hall had been a wash of madness, a desire too deep to deny, but more than that, it had been an exercise in intimacy. Lying awake in the early hours of the morning, the sensation of his fingers threading through her hair. Gentle kisses after he had finished with her.

It was the first time in a long time that she had allowed herself to be held, and it had been intoxicating. That was why she had cut him off before she could risk getting attached.

And now here he was, a manifestation of her desires, his eyes darkening the longer he looked at her.

"Caroline." His voice was low, a little rough.

She couldn't let him know how much he affected her. "Mr Comerford," she said, batting her eyelashes like she might at any gentleman who greeted her. "Where is the delightful Miss Stanley?"

"Securing a fortune for herself elsewhere." His gaze travelled down her body, and she fought the urge to preen. "That gown is divine, Caroline. You are divine in it."

"Thank you, darling." She stepped aside and gestured him in the card room, where she had been making the rounds. Gentlemen who enjoyed cards were often tempted to bet on other pleasures. "Were you heading this way? Please, don't let me stop you."

"As it happens, I was looking for some air." He offered her his arm. "Will you accompany me outside?"

She bit her lip, hesitating. "I shouldn't."

"But you want to."

"But I want to," she conceded, and accepted his arm. He guided her to the French doors thrown open to welcome in the cool night breeze. The billowing curtains brushed the bare skin at the top of her arms, and as she stepped onto the balcony, she looked down on the onto the street. She felt like a naive girl on her first assignation.

Ridiculous.

Rather thrilling.

She was not in the market for any more scandal than her usual variety, but this was fun. The push and pull, the forbidden nature of it. The desire.

In the darkness, he was almost more compelling than in the light, though only because she had his features memorised. A certain silver in his brown eyes. The roguish slant of his smile. Not quite a smirk—he was not a rake—but something approaching one.

"Caroline," he said, his voice low and caressing. The sound of it was delicious against her flushed skin. He took her wrist now, thumb smoothing across the soft material of her gloves.

"We said we would not act as lovers here," she said, though she had been the one to dictate the terms.

"I know."

"So we shouldn't."

"I agree." His hand touched her elbow, at the precise place her gloves ended. His fingers were bare, and heat swelled through her. Her nipples hardened. "It would be foolish. And in full view of the ballroom." He tilted his head, and a slow smile dawned across his face. His eyes glittered in the dim light. "Although perhaps you like that."

"Perhaps."

"A thrill. The potential of discovery." His hand travelled up her arm to the puff of her sleeves. Then down, caressing her breast. The heavy ache of it resounded through her. "I've missed these. I've missed you."

She'd missed him too. Both his conversation and the way he took control. When it came to her body, the bedchamber, she enjoyed commands, a forceful hand to bend her will. George had learnt it about her, as he had learnt so many things about her body, and she thought the domination called to him, too.

"So kiss me," she said.

He wasted no time.

His mouth was hot and demanding, capturing hers the instant she gave him leave to, and his other hand found her waist, fingers digging in through her layers to find the softness of her curves. She cupped his neck in his hands, nails biting at his skin.

Just once .

The letter in her reticule was a reminder that no matter what she wanted, she had obligations, and she must have someone to pay for them.

If only she did not crave him, and only him, so very much. Too much for it to be a mere arrangement of convenience.

The kiss was burning fire, igniting her from the inside out, and all too soon voices approached. George drew her back into the darkness, stepping away from her just enough that there was nothing immediately untoward about their appearance. If one neglected to notice, that was, precisely how out of breath they both were. Or how possessive George's hand on her wrist was, as though he sensed she was about to return to the ball.

"Not yet," he murmured.

Another couple, equally as intent on amorous activities, went by silent agreement to the other darkened corner of the balcony.

"You can hardly have me here," she said dryly. "No matter how tempting it might be."

"You would have to be quiet, certainly."

She gave him a flirtatious look and moved away. "You flatter me too much, darling. But I did not come here for you."

"No?" His voice was dark and possessive, and she loved that, too, the way it sharpened her awareness of the ache between her legs.

If he insisted, perhaps she would let him have her here, after all. The pleasure of it would be exquisite.

"You know what I am," she said lightly. "And what I do."

"Who are you entertaining this time?"

If only he knew. But it was better this way. "Does it matter?" She shook him free. "We agreed we would not interfere with each other once we returned to London. You have a wife to catch." And I cannot become attached to a man who will never be mine.

"I am excellent at multitasking."

She laughed. "Poor girl. You should not be so cruel."

"When can I see you again?"

"We will attend many of the same events, no doubt." She waved an airy hand at him, knowing that for all his possessiveness, he would not keep her against her will. "Enough, darling. Know when to let things go."

His eyes burned into her back as she forced herself to walk away as though she felt nothing at leaving him alone on the darkened balcony.