Chapter Six

George watched as Caroline accepted the wine from the maid who brought it to the bedchamber. She tossed it back and gave him a wicked, yet not entirely steady, smile.

After their meeting in Hatchards, he had not been given reason to think anything was wrong, that he had not erred by asking too much of her. He knew she wanted him as urgently as he wanted her. But this was his first time engaging a more permanent mistress; it was entirely possible he was ignorant of some aspects of the usual arrangements.

Whatever she asked of him, he would deliver. In exchange for having her to himself, he would offer her almost everything.

"Well?" he prompted when she said nothing. "You needn't be afraid of asking things of me—you need only say the word and they are yours."

"You are all that is charming." She handed him a crystal glass filled with burgundy liquid. "But this is not about material things—this is about boundaries."

He sipped his wine, considering her carefully. There was a hectic flush to her cheeks. "Such as?"

"You may not stay the night."

"Oh?" His brows rose. At Worthington Hall, they had slept together after finishing, and he had woken to find her in his arms. The entire proceeding had felt entirely natural.

Then again, he should have known that in London, things would be different.

"At which time would you prefer me to leave?" he asked, glancing at the gilded clock on her mantelpiece.

"Whenever we have concluded the night's business." She gave him a smile. "Once we are done together, I will call for your carriage and you will go."

A shame—he had not been eager to visit her only for the pleasure her body could bring, as considerable as that was. He also prized the quieter times they were together, where lust fell into companionship. No other lady had given that to him, and been so willing to cross intellectual swords.

Still, if these were the terms he was to have her, he would obey.

"I will miss sleeping in your arms," he said simply.

She started as though his words were an unwelcome shock, and took another drink. "Well," she said. "Don't get too attached, because the moment you marry, this ends."

He had expected that, as much as he disliked the thought. "Hardly an incentive to hurry and find a wife," he said.

"But you must. You said so yourself."

"What's the rush? Afraid you'll fall in love with me?"

After a moment of stunned silence, her brow arched and she gave a low, rich chuckle. "Love? Oh no. Believe me, darling, I have no intention of falling in love."

"Then there's no need to rush. Unless you were hoping to return to another man's bed?" The thought brought another dark wave of jealousy with it, but he fought it back.

"No," she said, her voice a little rough as she came to straddle him where he sat on the edge of the bed. "There's no one else."

"Good." He was almost alarmed by the force of his response. He had wanted before, yes, but never with this single-minded ferocity. "Now, what if I wish to take you out and have you on my arm?"

"You'd better not."

"Why?"

Her mouth ghosted along his jaw. "My reputation is extremely poor."

"Because you take lovers?"

"Precisely. Mothers despise me and seek to keep their daughters far away from my corruption." She gave a humourless laugh. "You would do well not to flaunt me across London if you are in search of a wife."

He had never been less inclined to marry. "I hardly think my reputation will suffer." He unpinned her hair, letting it fall in glorious curls across her shoulders. " Even if I should take a lover."

"Can you be so certain?"

"It's not so unusual for a gentleman to take a mistress, Caroline."

She stiffened above him. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it matters little whether you are seen to take me as a lover. But you know the thing that galls me—the thing that has always galled me—is the self-serving way gentlemen condemn women and yet are so forgiving of their own. A man may have several lovers and his reputation remains intact. But a lady—give me a lady who conducts affairs openly across London who does not have doors closed in her face." Her grey eyes flashed with anger. "The law strips women of autonomy; either they belong to their fathers or their husbands, and woe betide them if they fall foul of another man's greed. Yet if a man were in that position, ruled by his wife, you think him pitiful." Her mouth tightened, and he could feel her rage as though it burned from under her skin. "And if a woman has the misfortune to fall prey to a man who cares nothing for the moral laws to which we have all been subjected, she is the one who must face censure."

George brushed the hair back from her face. "Like you?" he asked softly.

"Oh, as for me—perhaps I deserve it. Heaven knows I have not behaved as a well-bred lady over the years. But there are other women, better than I, whose reputations have suffered."

"I doubt they are better than you," he said, running his hands from her hips to her shoulders. "But I concede your points. We men are hypocrites. My question is merely this: if you are so certain of the problem, what is your solution?"

Her brow rose. "Can one not witness inequality without having a path forward?"

"What is the point of one without the other?"

"We may not all have the strength of mind to propose an active solution, but we may all feel the effects of injustice."

"Ah, perhaps," he said, enjoying the challenge, the way she refused to back down. "If you did not have the strength of mind to articulate your argument with such eloquence, I would not think you capable of a solution. But I have been impressed with the surest certainty of both your force of mind and your intelligence."

Her arms slid around his neck. "I'm afraid my solution might shock you."

"I'm considered by many to be liberal-minded."

"Then shall we test that theory?" She leant in, hot breath against his cheek. "Equality in the eyes of the law; permission for the eldest daughter to inherit ahead of a younger son. The right for women to steer our country just as men do. Fairness in reproach. If one sex must endure the burden of criticism, then so must the other. If a lady is condemned for seeking a lover outside marriage, then so must a gentleman. And conversely, if a gentleman is not criticised for keeping mistresses, then neither must mistresses be judged for being kept." Her nose brushed against his. "Is that not shocking?"

"Only if one believes women to be inferior."

"Am I to believe you are that forward thinking?"

"Women are different," he said, trying to sort through his thoughts as she divested herself of her robe. "And they have different roles. Men cannot bear children."

"They take part in their creation." Her voice was bitter as she leant back. "And they are at liberty to abandon their offspring without any repercussions."

"That, I would argue, is not always true." He slid his fingers into the glossy weight of her hair. "If I were to have a bastard, I would provide for them. And any man who does not is judged accordingly."

"Yes, but is he ruined?" There was a note he didn't recognise in her voice. Anger, though not directed at him. "Is he thrust into marriage with the next available girl so his reputation is not wholly lost?"

Frowning, he looked at her carefully. "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

"Nothing." She kissed him then, hard on the mouth, tasting of wine. "Enough talking."

His body was more than willing to obey, but although she was hungry for him, and he for her, part of his mind was still occupied with what she had let slip.

Her anger. Her resentment. He knew little of her former marriage save that it had been to a much older gentleman—perhaps forty years her senior—and he had died, as such men were wont to do. But perhaps he should have known more about it, and what reason she had for such bitterness.

When they were done and she lay in the crook of his arm, spent and tired, her eyes closed and her breath soft, he wondered how he might compel her to open up to him. He had not known until now, watching her speak with such passion, how important it was to know all her angles and corners. Every hidden part.

Unpleasantness was not something he usually courted, but he had the nameless urge to uncover all the unpleasantness she had endured and air it, cast light on it, let it heal.

If this was nothing but desire, it was more than he had ever bargained for.

#

Caroline woke in the early hours of the morning, her bare body still cradled against George's, and she sat up, looking at him through the strains of dawn light. Summer had brought with it merry birds and burning sun, and Caroline felt the pressure of it tighten her throat.

She should not have slept beside him. That was the wine's fault—there was no other explanation. Certainly not the grave way he had looked at her as he had listened to her anger and not judged her for it. Not the way he had made love to her—for it could not be termed anything different, even with his hand to her throat—and held her in the spluttering candlelight, terribly familiar, wonderfully safe.

That ought to have been when she'd broken free and called for the carriage. Instead, she had let herself be lulled into sleep, more peaceful than she had known it to be for a long time.

Perhaps even since Worthington Hall.

She always enjoyed her lovers, and took pleasure from them as selfishly as they took pleasure from her, but none had made her feel safe the way George did—as though she truly could make any demands of him, and he would see them through.

But she could not allow him to remain until full morning, coming down to breakfast as though they shared a life.

They would share a bed, nothing more.

The sooner he married, the better for her fickle heart.

"George," she said, and moved the blankets from him. "Wake up."

He stirred sleepily, slitting open one eye. "What is it?"

"You must leave."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"It's very early." The eye closed again. "A few more minutes, love, and I shall be ready for you."

"I will call for your carriage." She swung her feet out of bed, but he caught at her wrist, halting her progress.

"Wait." His hair was tousled in the dawn light, his chest bare and lightly scattered with soft blonde hair. She had run her fingers through it the previous night as he had thrust into her, and she was dismayed to find she could still feel the sensation as though it had been seconds, not hours, ago.

"What for?"

"You are overly hasty." He dragged her hand back to his mouth and slowly sat up, stretching and rolling out his shoulders. "Come here and let me greet you properly."

It was altogether too easy to acquiesce to his demands, to let the command in his voice rule her body. He hauled her closer, rolling her on to her back and pinning her wrists against the bed. Just tightly enough she could feel the blood throb in her fingers. She softened under him.

"Better," he said, the sleepiness in his eyes replaced by something entirely more raw. He bit her lip, giving it a sharp tug she felt down to her core. "If I must leave, at least let me take something to remember you by."

Her back arched as he kissed between her breasts, and although she knew she had but to say a word and he would stop, she found she no longer wanted to.

After, she would insist he leave.

He pushed inside her with a groan, already hard and she wet and willing, and his eyes glazed. A distant part of her thought she could bear to see him above her like this, commanding yet vulnerable, utterly hers, for a good while longer.

An alarming thought, but it took root in her chest, winding around such vital things as her heart and lungs.

His hand came to her throat, and it was lightning in her veins, her body tightening around him in helpless, exquisite pleasure. In her experience, the things that were the most wrong were often the most right, and although she knew she ought to run from him—from this—she could not quite bear for it to end.

She held on until the very last moment before oblivion took her.

It was many more hours before she called for his carriage.