Pretty Persuasion (10 page)

Of course, he'd summoned the Scots devil to perform that service. Did Robert go anywhere without the man? Mr. Cameron had not accompanied them back from Gretna, but he had obviously arrived since. "What are you going to do? Call your henchman on me as you did poor Mrs. Pease?"

He burst out laughing, and the mattress rocked with each shout, rattling her teeth.

"I don't see what's so amusing about it," she chided, easing the pillow up a notch in search of a tiny waft of cool air. "She is a defenseless old woman, and that oaf must be more than twice her size."

That made him laugh even louder, bouncing the mattress so hard she thought she might be sick. "Mrs. Pease? Defenseless? Last I saw, she was whacking Cameron with her keys. I won't be surprised if he has a black eye in the morning."

Good for her. Georgie wouldn't mind a shot at the bully herself. Just the thought of how he had dragged her into that parlor at Gretna made her blood boil.

"Besides, I'd rather carry out this task myself." His baritone voice, laden with unspoken promises, seemed somehow ominous. "Though I'm certain Cameron would be disappointed to hear of it. I think he'd find dressing you a more, ah, amusing experience than detaining my housekeeper."

She shuddered at the thought of the devil touching her again. Once had been more than enough. The thought of Robert doing so made her shudder, as well, but… well, better not to think of it at all. "I'd prefer it if you would leave me be."

"Then I'm afraid I have no choice." He yanked on the pillow.

She rolled onto her back so she could grab it with both hands, but it was rapidly slipping away. "Oh, very well! I'll rise."

He stopped tugging but did not let go. "And?"

She gritted her teeth. "And I'll take a walk in the garden."

"Excellent. I expect to see you downstairs within the hour."

The mattress shifted as he rose. Hearing his footsteps on the wooden floorboards, she lowered the pillow. Her heart quickened. He was dressed simply in buff and forest green, his boots unfashionably tall. But they fit him well. Looking at him was like admiring a magnificent painting just for the sake of enjoying its beauty.

For as long as she could remember, he had made her feel that way. Now, however, there was another dimension to her perception of him. The pounding in her chest was part thrill, part apprehension, and she didn't know which was more powerful. She welcomed it as a distraction from the incessant self-pity, but it seemed almost absurd how easily Robert had replaced Phillip as the main occupant of her thoughts. Absurd, and unnerving on so many levels.

At the door, he turned. His lips curved ever so slightly, and she yanked the pillow over her head again. "One hour, Georgie."

The door opened and shut, and, within seconds, a merry but distinctly off-key whistle echoed down the hallway. Her pillow muffled the sound, but she could not help but grimace as he hit one discordant note after another. At least one thing hadn't changed: Robert still could not carry a tune to save his life.

And even though she could think of no reason why it should, the familiarity of his awkward whistling warmed her in a small way, and the smile it brought lingered for a long while after she rose and rang for a maid to help her dress.

TWO HOURS LATER, Robert was wondering whether she intended to renege. He had started back up the stairs to fetch her when a footman informed him she was waiting in the Long Gallery. Entering it, he found her at the far end, scrutinizing a portrait of his grandfather. She had donned a navy spencer over her cream-colored gown, a straw bonnet dangled in her gloved hand, and her hair was neatly pinned.

As he stepped up beside her, she didn't even afford him a glance. After a few seconds, she said, "You resemble your grandfather."

"So I've been told," he replied, hiding his surprise. Her mood seemed more agreeable than he had expected. Deciding it best not to comment upon it, he took a closer look at the portrait. His grandfather sat with one elbow on a mahogany desk cluttered with books and paper, a Great Dane resting by his feet. Add another decade to Robert's life and a side-curled wig, and he supposed there would be reasonable similarity.

"It was always my favorite," Georgie said.

He gave a noncommittal sound. "The others are grander."

She glanced at the half dozen other portraits lining the walls in the narrow, elongated room. "It is contrived grandeur. They tell you nothing about their subjects except their station and wealth. But this…" She gestured at his grandfather. "The dog, the books, his modest attire. You look at this man and feel as if you know him. He is going about his business, as if the artist is not even there. And the amount of detail is remarkable. Look, you can see the ink stains on his fingers."

Watching her instead of the painting, Robert found himself absorbed by her intent expression, the conviction in her voice. He recalled the time she gave him a tour of the portraits and paintings at Southwell, her father's opulent Wiltshire estate. He had been so fascinated with her enthusiasm. She saw the world as one great painting, enriched with colors so vibrant, yet so subtle, he could not perceive them. Her liveliness had breached their age difference, forging an unlikely friendship—until her behavior turned suddenly and mysteriously hostile.

But he'd ponder that mystery another day. His concern was for her present state of mind, the
joie de vivre
Rossemore appeared to have robbed her of. It took much of his willpower not to contemplate whatever else the bastard might have taken. Whether Rossemore had left her intact or not, the knowledge that he had possessed any sort of claim on Georgie never failed to make Robert more than a little bilious.

As for her current distraction, he didn't take it for anything but that, not when she had spent the past three days with her head buried under a pillow.

He noticed her watching him, inquiry lighting her violet eyes. "You're right," he murmured. "It is beautiful."

Her eyebrows creased. "You're not looking at the painting."

Only smiling, he gestured toward the French windows. "Shall we?"

She studied him an instant longer, then agreed with a brief nod. Her eyes filled with the emptiness he recognized from the journey down from Scotland, as if she suddenly remembered where, or in whose company, she stayed. Robert swallowed a sigh.

Side by side, they stepped through the French windows and descended one of the double flights leading to the garden. Benign clouds dotted the sky, and a state of near-euphoria settled over him as his lungs filled with crisp country air. Ever since his return, a deep sense of relief had hit him whenever he ventured outside and saw yews instead of palm trees, smelled daffodils and peat instead of orchids and molasses.

Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they crossed the path, the sound softening when they reached the rose garden's grass walk. Robert folded his arms behind his back and squinted at the pastel blanket above, too tempted to look at her, touch her, just to make sure it wasn't all a dream. To make sure he was really home.

"I wrote to your parents, informing them that we would remain here for a while. Until you recovered from your"—he hated to say it—"ailment."

Georgie stopped. "You told them I was ill?"

Breaking stride, he turned and saw her face pinched with disapproval. "I told them you were not feeling well enough to travel yet."

She twisted her bonnet in her hands. "You didn't say anything that might make them worry, did you? Anything that'd make them decide to come here?"

"I doubt it." He shrugged. "I told them I expect us to depart within the week, so I hardly think they'll feel it necessary to make the journey."

Her frown did not ease at that, but she made no comment, either. They picked up their stroll again, meandering along the beech-hedged path leading deeper into the garden. There was a hint of agitation in her step, and she did not stay silent long. "I am not sure I shall be sufficiently recovered to travel within the week."

A precognition of trouble stirred within him. "Recovered from what, exactly?"

"My condition. My… my—"

"Weak nerves?"

Her cheeks flushed and she avoided his eyes. "Yes."

"There is nothing wrong with you. We leave tomorrow."

She halted again, her face clouded with irritation this time. "You may leave, but I shall not."

Robert mentally gritted his teeth. He had nothing against rusticating, especially not in Georgie's company. He even relished her stubbornness as an affirmation that Rossemore hadn't entirely crushed her spirit. But he would not put up with her lies, white though they might be. "Why do you refuse to go?" She started a reply, but he cut her short. "The truth, if you please."

Her freckles danced as she crinkled her nose. "If I am supposed to be visiting my great-aunt, it would seem odd if I returned right away, wouldn't it?"

"Certainly. But that's not why you want to stay."

She heaved a sigh and stalked past him. As she strode down the path, he couldn't help admiring the subtle outline of her bottom. With each step, the thin muslin revealed soft curves and long legs—shapely legs, no doubt. Legs that would wrap him completely, lock him in her embrace. Swallowing hard, he was unable to keep back the images of hot, sweat-slicked bodies and silken sheets, of Georgie, warm and willing, beneath him, on top, crying out in passion as he—

"A gentleman would not ask a lady the nature of her indisposition," she said, interrupting his fantasy. She stomped back toward him, her voice less congenial than it had been in his head.

"Indeed?" Afraid she'd read his thoughts if he met her gaze, he pulled out his pocket watch, pretending to check the time. "What would a gentleman do, assuming he was in the company of a lady?"

A sound of profound frustration ground from her throat. "I do not want to see my parents yet. Is that what you wished to hear?"

It was, and he had already guessed that to be her reason. "You'll have to face them sooner or later."

"I'd rather it be later."

He looked up from his watch and found her avoiding his gaze as well. "What will waiting accomplish?"

She turned then, and the sincerity in her countenance would have pleased him if it hadn't walked hand in hand with such naked pain. "It will help me decide what to tell them."

"The truth won't do?"

"I'm not sure what the truth is," she said vaguely. At his frown, she shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I simply cannot bear the prospect of facing them so soon. Please, don't make me return yet."

If she were a beggar, she would undoubtedly starve; her plea contained only a hint of genuine supplication. Still, he would not disappoint her. Sympathy played but a secondary part of it. The truth was, he could think of far worse ways to spend his time than at Kingsworth, alone with Georgie.

He had thought of nothing but her while she was hiding in her room the past few days, and even though their conversation this afternoon had been less than congenial, there was pleasure in simply being near her. It was too soon to speculate upon a possible future with her, but if nothing else, they could at least rediscover their lost friendship.

God, but he
hoped
they could.

"Very well. We'll stay as long as you wish." He held up two fingers. "On two conditions."

Her expression became guarded. "What conditions?"

"You will write to your parents and tell them of the altered plans."

She shook her head and started to speak.

"I don't care which excuse you choose," he interrupted. "I simply refuse to deceive them myself."

"And the second condition?" she asked with a sigh of resignation.

"You will not hide in your room, and you will spend your time with me."

"What?" she blurted, her eyes widening. "No!"

"Then we'll be off at dawn."

Her cheeks reddened, and her eyes sparked. She was bursting to give a retort, he could tell, but seemed to have some modicum of restraint after all. "Very well," she said at last, then added petulantly, "That was three conditions, though."

"My arithmetic has always been rather poor," he quipped.

Making a face at him, she brushed past him to resume their stroll. He followed, staying a few steps behind, just to enjoy the view—the delightfully curvaceous view.

"What are we to do, then?" she asked over her shoulder. "I assume you have some sort of plan."

A plan? He hadn't even known they'd be in Yorkshire much longer. He widened his stride to catch up. "I'll think of something."

She gave him a sideways glance but did not comment. They rounded a corner and a vista appeared in the distance. His ears filled with the dulcet sounds of a spurting fountain. The sun beat down on them now, and as Georgie put on her bonnet, her features twisting in distaste, Robert recalled how she had always disliked wearing one.

"I hope we are not to be outside much," she said as she tied the ribbons loosely under her chin. "I did not bring a parasol."

"Why do you need one?"

"A lady can never be too careful in preserving her complexion," she replied pertly.

He laughed. "What about preserving her freckles?"

Her head whipped around, and the glare she leveled on him was below freezing. "I am not preserving them. I simply do not want more of them."

Robert stopped short, taken utterly by surprise at the ferocity of her reaction. "Why not?"

"Because freckles are horrid!"

"They are?" he asked, feeling as if he were missing some crucial point.

"Yes!" Without warning, she spun on her heel and started back toward the house. "I've had enough fresh air."

Too dumbfounded to argue, Robert ambled along. He thought her freckles extraordinarily fetching. Any fool could see they were part of her allure, and as much a part of her as her midnight-black hair, though he owned it was an unusual combination. But apparently, she didn't, the silly thing.

On the short walk back, he surveyed the verdant landscape, still marveling at the invigorating experience of seeing life revived. Georgie ascended the steps ahead of him, and as his gaze was once again drawn to her well-formed behind, an idea struck, prompted by thoughts of spring and freckles. Suddenly, he did have a plan, and cheered by the prospect of it, he took the steps two at a time.