She felt none of it.
In a stupor, she slogged down the street, unaware of the direction and with no purpose in mind. Her dulled wits experienced no great surprise at finding herself a dozen houses away, on the narrow bridge spanning a tiny creek. She halted, frozen hands gripping the cold rocks forming the railing, and gazed into the sluggishly eddying water below. She knew this bridge, as they had passed over it several times. The street led from his house to other parts of the city, including the quaint park visible through the trees and edged by the shallow stream. They had walked there from his house just a half mile behind her, usually with friends but once alone, talking and laughing.
The memory brought fresh tears and a single sob escaped. So many hours and days, each of them burned into her consciousness with stark clarity and understanding. So many looks, his striking gray eyes tenderly caressing her and speaking of the emotion buried inside.
She was paralyzed. A small voice warned of the cold and encouraged her to return home to the wisdom of her aunt, where hope might be found. But she was detached, mesmerized by the currents in the black water, and temporarily lost to grief.
She did not feel the raindrops when they mingled with the tears running down her cheeks. She did not notice when her cloak blew open, falling from one shoulder to leave her upper chest exposed. She did not feel the cold seeping into her core, since it only joined the iciness already there.
She did not hear the clatter of horses’ hooves or the rattle of wheels. She did not hear her name being called. She did not feel the first tentative touch upon her sleeve. It was not until the hand brushed the tangled strands of her hair away, warm fingertips covered with supple leather fleetingly stroking along her jaw, that she gasped. Or perhaps it was his breath, sweet and hot, and the frantic tremor in his tone as he spoke close to her ear that pierced through her shell. But she was forever certain that it was the rough pivot about, his grip tight with worry on her upper arms, combined by the dazzling beauty of his face fraught with anxiety that restored some of her coherency.
“Georgiana, what in blazes are you doing standing here? You have been ill and now you”—he swore, releasing her only long enough to tear the thick overcoat off his shoulders and throw it over hers. It was warm from the heat of his body, the aroma of spices and tobacco locked into the fabric assailing her nostrils. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
He roughly grabbed her hands and shoved them into his flesh-heated and too large gloves, all the while muttering in a voice pitched low in fury and distress. “What are you thinking? Come. Let me get you inside the carriage. Your skin is like ice.” He rubbed her cheek with the back of his bare hand, frowning deeply and not aware of the instant flush that arose at his touch. He threw one arm over her shoulder and drew her close to his side, steering her toward the vehicle while trying to button the voluminous coat one-handed, fumbling with the task and releasing several frustrated curses.
Giggles bubbled in Georgiana’s chest, since she never heard him utter a profanity. She tried to talk or smile or laugh but her teeth were chattering so violently that the muscles would not obey. How he had found her, why he had returned and happened by, was a mystery. For the present, she was incurious, her mind captivated by the glory of his presence, her senses enthralled by the solid strength and heat of his body, and spirit content to bask in the glow of happiness warming her insides.
Numbly and with his assistance, her uncontrollable trembling and shivering worsening when he removed his arm from around her, she settled into the seat and submitted to his fussing over her.
Sebastian had not met her eyes since the harsh glare on the bridge, but she saw his furrowed brows and heard the stream of mumbled scolds as he busily arranged the coat snuggly around her and then reached into the space under the seat for several thick furs. He half-knelt, his tall body taking up the narrow space between the benches as he set about laying the blankets over her legs, tucking as he grumbled under his breath. Gradually, she noted the catch in his voice, the whimper within the words, the jerking motions in his normally graceful hands, and the harsh respirations that misted the minuscule space between them.
She was not aware that she had leaned forward until inches from his lowered head. Neither was he, until she spoke, and touched him.
“Sebastian.”
He froze. Her voice was velvet, musical, sensual, and tender. For the first time in their acquaintance, she uttered his Christian name. She whispered it, intimately, precisely as he had imagined in his dreams, rolling it off her tongue as if having familiarly done so thousands of times. Her tiny fingers brushed over his right ear, burying into the windswept hair behind and playing casually.
“Sebastian, I cannot be your friend either. I will not merely be your friend because I too want so much more. I love you.”
He lifted his head slowly. Wonder and shock played over his face. His eyes were liquid, sparkling with hope and astonishment. His hands had stilled on her blanket-draped ankles, his body tense with disbelief.
Long moments passed in silence. Georgiana smiled, continuing to run her fingers gently through the silky hair by his ear, and leaned closer until he could feel her breath tickling his face.
Their lips were less than an inch apart, eyes sliding closed in anticipation of the joy to come when the coach stopped with a jolt and the driver knocked on the roof to announce they were at the Warrow townhouse. The interruption was jarring. They pulled away, each noting the desire and irritation shining in the other’s eyes. Sebastian smiled before remembering the state she was in, a frantic frown creasing his brow and setting his jaw.
Georgiana’s trembling had increased, although she thought it was largely due to him rather than the cold. Nevertheless, she could not deny that she was freezing. The spits of rain had been enough to dampen her garments and hair, adding to the discomfort. Suddenly, the thought of a blazing fire and hot tea was very appealing.
Sebastian hopped lightly from the coach, turned to assist her clumsy efforts to discard the pile of blankets, and then lifted her into his arms. “We must warm you up. If you become ill again, I shall never forgive myself,” he murmured, clutching her tightly against his chest and striding briskly into the house. She snuggled into his body, arms locked about his shoulders and face pressed into the silk cravat surrounding his neck. She smiled, inhaled the comforting scent of his cologne, and rejoiced in his protectiveness. Not for a second did she consider the inappropriateness of their proximity.
His voice rose into a commanding tone, “Madame Laroque, hot tea and coffee immediately. Food too. Monsieur Godenot, send a note to the de Valday house informing Lord and Lady Matlock that their niece is safe. Ah, Grandmother, good.”
They entered the salon and Sebastian crossed to the unlit fireplace, carefully depositing Georgiana onto the cushions laid before the hearth. His reluctance to release her from his arms was obvious, the sensations so glorious as to be almost painful, but she needed a fire. Lady Warrow followed, wearing a dressing gown and a face creased with anxiety. Georgiana cringed, suddenly consumed with guilt.
“Oh, my dear girl! We were frantic with worry! You just disappeared, Madame Laroque said, walking in the rain and wind. Thank the Creator Sebastian happened along. I would never forgive myself if you came to any harm.”
Georgiana wanted to apologize, shame crushing her, but fresh shudders were wracking her body and her teeth clattered so loudly she could not think. The void left without his warmth surrounding her was profoundly gaping and raw.
“Later, Grandmother. Please see to the orders I left, will you?”
He shared a look with the elderly woman. Lady Warrow nodded in understanding and a bright smile flashed over her face. She patted Georgiana on the shoulder, bending for a soft kiss to her cheek.
“Very well. I shall see to it. All will be well now, Miss Darcy, all will be well.” And then she left, Georgiana certain that Lady Warrow’s words of encouragement were not just referencing her immediate need for warming.
Sebastian removed his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his shirt to the elbows, setting to the task of lighting a fire and competently establishing a roaring blaze in no time at all. He knelt on the hearth less than a foot away, but said nothing as he worked, and his face was inscrutable. Once he was satisfied with the results, he turned toward her, hesitating and quickly glancing away from her adoring eye.
“Here, let me help you remove these,” he whispered, moving closer and reaching unsteady fingers to unbutton his overcoat and the damp cloak. Pulling the latter from around her shoulders he paused again, frowning and cocking his head before beginning to laugh.
“What is it?”
“Did you have assistance dressing this morning, Miss Darcy? Or is my female fashion sense truly superior to yours?” He looked into her eyes then, mirth dancing in his eyes and crooked smile broad.
She tore her eyes away from his with effort to scan over her clothing, truly seeing what she had on.
“I think perhaps you do,” she agreed with a laugh.
He tossed the thin garment of lavender to the side and then brushed his fingers along the unevenly hooked row of buttons on her maroon dress. He continued to chuckle, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“I was in a bit of a hurry. It is fortunate I thought to dress at all. I do think my shoes and stockings match.” She lifted her skirt to check—they miraculously did—and missed the expression that crossed his face. “Your letter drove rational consideration from my mind,” she finished with a catch, swallowing and looking at him with questioning eyes.
Sebastian’s eyes, however, were trained on her silk-covered legs and even though he visibly winced at her words, he did not raise his eyes immediately. Instead, he slowly scanned upwards over every inch of the figure easily discernible beneath the damply clinging dress. While she watched, his expressive eyes paused at the gaps in her poorly buttoned gown that revealed small patches of the naked skin underneath, lingered over the unsupported fullness of her breasts, and studied the unbound golden hair that tumbled crazily over her shoulders and back.
Innocence did not prevent her comprehending the burning passion visible upon his face. She also recognized how the mixture of love and desire and guilt and nervousness flustered him. It was easy to recognize since she felt the same.
“You were leaving,” she whispered to break the tension.
“To Vienna,” he mumbled, answering automatically and dazedly meeting her eyes. “The Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde is offering a short session on Italian renaissance music, focusing on Palestrina.”
“That sounds… amazing.”
“I am sure it will be.”
“Then you were not leaving just because of me?”
“Yes, I was leaving because of you,” he answered truthfully in a tone half sober and half bemused, “but the educational program would prove enlightening as well as diverting. I needed to be diverted. It has been… painful. I would not have left otherwise.”
“Then what brought you back?”
“Fate,” he answered with a smile, “and the portfolio containing my concerto pieces that I forgot sitting on my bed. I was not thinking rationally today either.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “I am sorry to have caused you pain or driven you away.”
He shook his head, reaching to tuck a loose tress behind her ear and then capturing a long curl around his finger. “Do not apologize, Miss Darcy. It was my error and my choice. Under the circumstances, with… Caxton… it was what I needed to do. I caused far more grief by my actions than you have.”
“Lord Caxton is no longer an issue.” Her voice was vehement. “And my name is Georgiana.”
He paused with his fingers lightly resting upon her hair and ear. “Georgiana,” he repeated in a husky timbre that sped fresh shivers up her spine and reignited the tremors in her muscles. “You are still chilled,” he said.
Before she could think of what to say to correct his misinterpretation, he rose onto his knees and reached over her body to retrieve a quilt from the sofa behind, his chest brushing her face in the process. The final threads of coherency fled with his proximity, heat radiating into her skin and masculine cologne drifting into her nostrils. She inhaled his scent, turned her cheek to press into his shoulder, and stifled a moan that in the next breath became a gasp when his resonant, musical voice vibrated through her.
“You meant what you said in the carriage?”
His voice was soft and awed. So were his hands as they draped the quilt about her, lingering and caressing her arms.
She blinked her eyes and shook her head in an effort to clear the dizziness. “Yes and no,” she teased, smiling wider at the perplexity flashing over his face. Reaching one hand to stroke lightly over his jaw, she went on, “You are wrong, you know. We are friends and always will be. Wanting more, needing more, loving each other does not supplant the friendship we have. You will forever be my friend, Sebastian, my dearest friend in the entire world.”
He traced one fingertip over her lips, voice husky when he spoke. “And will I be more?”
“As much as you wish. You already are, you know.”
“I wish to be everything. Your friend, lover, husband, musical collaborator, muse.” He smiled, natural humor mixing with the earnest timbre. He leaned close and cupped her face within his hands. “Will you allow me the honor of being everything to you? Will you marry me, Georgiana Darcy?”