I can be your mistress.
Adam had to remind himself to breathe. His body stiffened and an uncomfortable ache settled in his groin. Throughout his captivity, he’d longed for her, but then there had been Grace and because of that—his love for her, his honor—he’d not succumbed to his base desires. Instead, he’d tortured himself with thoughts of her pale, white thighs quivering as he stroked her center. He’d imagined himself plunging into her heat.
Now she was offering herself to him. He needn’t wed her. So why did he persist? Because she didn’t feel worthy of him. That much was clear. Considering Nurse Talbert’s condescension and Nick’s priggish treatment of her thus far, why would she feel any differently?
Jagged fury slashed through him. Georgina had braved more than lauded war heroes. She was a better person than all members of the haute ton combined. It was he who didn’t deserve her. And, suddenly, it was very important that she say yes to his suit. For reasons he didn’t fully understand or care to examine.
“I don’t want you to be my mistress. I want you to be my wife.”
She troubled her lower lip, the ruby-red flesh he had dreamed about. “Why?”
Her question brought him up short. He suspected his answer would determine hers. “When I…left Bristol, I tortured myself imagining the worst. I…” He looked beyond her shoulder, seeing the chambers that had served as his prison. “I feared they’d killed you and the thought of that almost killed me. I looked for you. I need you to know that. I didn’t forget you.”
A brown tendril escaped the harsh bun at the base of her neck. She brushed it away. “I—I know.” The strand bounced right back, refusing to be tamed.
It didn’t take an expert spy to detect the lie in her words. He caught the dark curl, rubbing the silky tendril between the pad of his thumb and forefinger. He brought it to his nose and inhaled the pure, clean, lemony scent that was Georgina.
She’d thought he’d abandoned her. He tried to imagine the terror she must have felt as a young woman without references, family, or money. Most women would have dissolved into a puddle of nothingness. Not Georgina. Sweet, determined, resourceful Georgina. At one time, he’d thought her weak. How wrong he’d been. There was a resolute determination in her to survive. She’d stared down some of the most unimaginable horrors and still managed to retain the aura of innocence and beauty that all but radiated from her.
Finally, he found the words to her question. “Georgina, I care very deeply about what happens to you. After I’d been freed, I recalled your smile, your laughter, your pain. And I yearned to see you again. So marry me. I promise I’ll never hurt you and I’ll tear any man who tried limb from limb.”
Georgina’s lids fluttered like the delicate wings of a butterfly. His eyes roved a path across her heart-shaped face, settling on her full lips.
He leaned down and claimed them as his, searching, tasting. He explored the flesh, sucking at her slightly fuller bottom lip and, when a breathy moan escaped her, swept his tongue into the moist cavern of her mouth. Adam settled his hands on her hips, dragging her close to him, his swollen shaft pressing against the soft flesh of her belly. She cried out and her tongue met his in a violent parry and thrust.
He tugged her skirts up, caressing the silky skin of her thighs, cupping her buttocks. Her whimper melded with his groan in a symphony of erotic delight. For too long, he’d imagined plunging his shaft deep inside her. Now, there was nothing stopping him. There was no Grace. No sense of honor. No—
A knock sounded in the room like a gunshot. “Adam?” Nick called out. The interruption killed Adam’s desire faster than being dumped head first into the Thames.
Adam yanked his lips away from Georgina’s with a violent curse. Her chest heaved and her lashes fluttered against the pale skin of her cheeks. God, he wanted to kiss her again. Craved it like a starving man did food. He lowered his head—
Nick’s peevish tone penetrated the hard oak door again. “Adam?”
It seemed to shock Georgina back to the moment. Her body stiffened against his and she made to pull away.
He held firm.
A lone brown curl fell across her eye. Brushing back the silken strand, he dropped a final kiss on her brow. Her eyes widened and the remaining color faded from her cheeks. She looked like a woman about to battle a beast, armed with little more than her pride.
And he knew. He sucked in a breath. This is why he wanted to marry her. Not out of any silly sense of obligation. Not because she was alone in the world, though that would have been reason enough. He wanted to marry her because of her strength. Her goodness. Her courage. Adam trailed a finger over her jawline, tipping her chin upward, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Marry me, Georgina. I’ll take care of you.”
She wet her lips. “I—”
“Adam, if you don’t open this door, by God, I’m coming in—”
Adam growled. “Go to hell.” He tossed the insult over his shoulder.
A shocked gasp met his curse. Then silence.
Adam rested his forehead against Georgina’s, sending a silent entreaty to the gods.
It would appear the gods were otherwise engaged.
The door opened, admitting his mother. Nick stood over her shoulder, arms folded, his mouth set in a hard, flat line of earlish disapproval. He slammed the door behind them, the reverberations echoing off the walls.
His mother’s shrewd gaze narrowed in on Georgina. She pursed her lips. “What is the meaning of this, Adam?”
*
Georgina wanted the floor to open up beneath her feet. She wanted it to swallow her whole and then have the carpet pulled above her mortified body for good measure.
Meeting green eyes so like Adam’s, and so filled with stinging rebuke, robbed Georgina of breath. Attired in Wedgewood blue satin skirts trimmed with fine lace, the tall and gracefully elegant woman could only be Adam’s mother.
She jerked her gaze away. Only to have it land on the Earl of Whitehaven’s lowered brows, the pinched tension around his narrow lips.
The years and years of her father’s sneering looks and hurtful barbs threatened to sweep her away into a sea of old hurts—hurts that still stuck like pinpricks.
Standing beside Adam, with the hard muscles in his chest straining the fabric of his jacket, she should have found solace. Instead, it only served to remind her of her own inadequacies and failings.
Then Adam slipped his hand into hers. His warmth pumped strength and support into her trembling fingers.
“Good afternoon, Mother,” Adam drawled.
The countess frowned. She cast another glance at Georgina. “Adam,” she murmured.
Apparently, the earl had tired of false pleasantries. “For the love of God, release that woman’s hand now.”
Georgina’s toes curled in her boots.
You are worthless, Georgina.
She swallowed, almost choking on the memories.