The Regency Season Collection: Part One. Кэрол Мортимер
I am so much in love with you I very much doubt I shall ever be able to deny you anything in future, love.’
Georgianna hesitated, knowing that there was still one thing that she had not confessed to her beloved. The last confession.
When she first returned to England she had been too angry at Hawksmere’s incarceration of her, to talk of such things, and since then there had been no right time, no opportunity, for her to do so.
‘What is it, Georgia?’ Zachary sat up slightly as he sensed her sudden tension. His hands gently cupped either side of her face as he looked down at her searchingly. ‘Tell me, my love.’
She chewed on her bottom lip. ‘I— It is only— A lady should not talk of such things,’ she choked out emotionally.
‘Now you are seriously worrying me, love.’ Zachary frowned. ‘We have talked about so much this past hour. The past, the now, our future together. What on earth is there that still bothers you so much that you look as if you are about to cry?’
Georgianna felt as if she were about to cry. It was all too embarrassing. Too humiliating.
Her gaze dropped from his as she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘When I eloped with André...’
‘I thought we had agreed earlier that we would not discuss that ever again,’ Zachary reminded with chiding gentleness.
‘Just this one thing, Zachary,’ she pleaded. ‘It is important, if we are to be married.’
‘We are most certainly going to be married and sooner rather than later.’ Zachary had never been as happy as he had felt this past hour of knowing that Georgianna loved him, that she had consented to marry him. He could not bear it if that happiness—if a lifetime with Georgianna as his wife, should ever be snatched away from him.
‘Whatever you have yet to tell me, never doubt my love for you, Georgianna. Never. Do you understand?’ He held her tightly against him. ‘Be assured, nothing you have to say, now or in the future, will ever change that,’ he added with certainty.
Georgianna looked up at him wonderingly, moved beyond measure at the knowledge that Zachary loved her so deeply, so unconditionally. The same deep intensity of emotion with which she now loved him. ‘It is nothing bad, my love,’ she assured huskily as she reached up to stroke his cheek. ‘Only embarrassing for me to speak of,’ she conceded ruefully.
‘I grow more intrigued by the moment, my love.’ He eyed her quizzically.
‘Where to start?’ Georgianna pulled out of his arms before standing up and turning away slightly, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her. ‘When I eloped with André—allow me to finish, my love, please!’ she begged as Zachary made a noise of protest. ‘We spent several uncomfortable days being jostled about in the coach together on the way to the seaport. We passed the sea journey as brother and sister in separate cabins. And once we reached Paris...’ She gave a shake of her head. ‘You are well aware of what transpired within days of our reaching the French capital.’
Zachary’s narrowed gaze remained intently on Georgianna as he slowly stood up to move softly to her side, reaching down to lift her chin so that he might gaze down directly, searchingly, into the frankness of those violet-coloured eyes. ‘Are you saying...?’ He drew in a sharp breath, hardly daring to believe.
‘I am saying that André and I had never shared any more than a few chaste kisses before we eloped and that he did not so much as kiss me during the whole of our journey to France.’
‘Georgianna?’
She swallowed. ‘The intensity, depth, of our own lovemaking was—is, the first I have ever known.’
‘Can it be? Are you a virgin still, Georgianna?’ Zachary prompted tensely.
The colour deepened in her cheeks as she nodded. ‘I could not bear to tell you before now.’ She grasped tightly to the front of his waistcoat as she gazed up at him imploringly. ‘The Zachary I met on my return to England would have enjoyed tormenting me with that knowledge. Would have mocked and taunted me as to André’s disinterest in me. Would have—’
‘Hush, my love.’ Zachary placed a silencing fingertip against her lips, his heart having swelled almost to bursting point in his chest.
He had long ago accepted that Georgianna had been Rousseau’s lover and it had made no difference to the deep love and admiration, respect, that he now felt for her. But to now realise, to know, that Georgianna had never, would never, belong to any other man but him?
It was a priceless gift. A gift beyond anything Zachary might ever have imagined.
‘I took such liberties with you.’ He groaned, disgusted with himself. ‘I was far too rough in my lovemaking. Too advanced in the things I did to you and demanded from you in return.’
‘I loved the way you made love to me, Zachary, and so enjoyed making love to you,’ she admitted shyly. ‘Indeed, I cannot wait to repeat it.’
‘That will not happen until after we are married,’ he assured her determinedly.
She chuckled throatily. ‘Can it be that Zachary Black, the arrogant and haughty Duke of Hawksmere, has now become prim and respectable?’
‘You may take it that Zachary Black, the arrogant and haughty Duke of Hawksmere,’ he repeated huskily, ‘intends to cherish and love, to make love to, Georgianna Rose Black, Duchess of Hawksmere, and only Georgianna Rose Black, Duchess of Hawksmere, for the rest of their lives together.’
It was so much more, so indescribably, wonderfully, ecstatically more than Georgianna Rose Lancaster, soon to be Black, could ever have hoped or dreamed of.
* * * * *
Carole Mortimer
The Players:
Darian Hunter, Duke of Wolfingham: legendary rake and notorious bachelor
Mariah Beecham, Countess of Carlisle: society’s scandalous widow and secret agent of the crown
The Stage:
A notoriously debauched house party
The Scene:
Forced to pose as lovers, Darian and Mariah must work together to stop an assassination plot
The Twist:
As the shocking and oh-so-sensual games play out around them, the romantic ruse becomes all too real. And the tantalizing temptation to indulge their every desire becomes overwhelming…
My good friend, Susan Stephens. What fun we have on our travels!
March 1815—White’s Club, London
‘You wanted to speak to me?’
Having been perusing today’s newspaper, whilst seated in an otherwise deserted private room of his club, Darian Hunter, the Duke of Wolfingham, now continued reading to the end of the article before folding the broadsheet neatly into four and placing it down on the low table beside him. He then glanced up at the fashionably dressed young gentleman who had addressed him so aggressively. ‘And a good afternoon to you, too, Anthony,’ he greeted his younger brother calmly.
Anthony eyed him impatiently. ‘Do not come the haughty duke with me, Darian! Most especially when I know it is you who wished to speak with me rather than the other way about. You have left messages for me all over town,’ he reminded as Darian raised dark brows questioningly. ‘I