Pretty Persuasion (2 page)

A bee buzzed past his ear, circling above for a few seconds before fading away, leaving only a pair of birds harmoniously chirping in the distance. Perhaps he had picked the wrong spot, and those birds were the only couple courting in his vicinity—

Fabric rustled and a twig snapped. Robert jerked upright and held his breath. Unbidden images flickered past his mind's eye: an ardent embrace where a silky smooth dress chafed against a man's rougher garb, roving hands, and lingering, less-than-chaste kisses…

And then, as if he needed his suspicions confirmed, came a soft, undeniably female sigh.

Robert stiffened.
Conversation, indeed.

"But when, Phillip? There isn't time; we cannot afford to wait much longer!"

Her voice was rich and smooth, the kind a man would give half his fortune to hear calling out his name while in the throes of passion—the voice of a full-grown woman, not a young girl. Was it her? Could that really be Georgie?

"Not much longer; I promise. Take heart, my dear."

A man's voice, no doubt about it, but there was a hint of boyishness in it, too. Or so he told himself, anyway.

"But can you not speak with Father?" said the lady he assumed to be Georgie. "You could call on him tomorrow, or even today—"

"No," the fellow said quickly, impatiently. Another silence ensued, and Robert clenched his jaw. He didn't care for the man's methods of persuasion.

"My dear," the so-called Phillip continued, his tone a touch smoother. "My dove… You know I hold you in the highest regard. Your understanding is unmatched by any lady of my acquaintance. And yet, you do not understand my position."

Oh, well done! Just patronize her, why don't you?
God, the man was a fool—a pretentious popinjay. But no matter. Surely Georgie wouldn't put up with such treatment. Assuming the lady really was Georgie. He still couldn't be sure.

"There is no reason to belittle me in that way," she shot back, and Robert silently applauded her pointed tone.

"I'm sorry, my dear; that was wrong of me," the fool amended quickly. "But how can it do any good to bring our wishes to his attention if he is determined to oppose them?"

Robert nearly choked on the snort that rose in his throat. The two-faced, conniving bastard.

"But—"

"Do you not trust me?" the man interrupted, his voice carrying a liberal amount of ready indignation.

Say no.
Robert clenched his jaw to keep from shouting the command at her through the bushes.

There was a moment's pause and then she let out a sigh and uttered a resigned, "Of course I trust you, Phillip…"

"Then surely you trust me when I say that calling on the duke would be a disaster."

"Yes. Of course. It's just that I had hoped—" She cut herself off. "But it doesn't matter. You're right; I know it. I simply wish you weren't, not in this matter."

Ah, Georgie… She did not suffer the man's insults, but she was either too inexperienced to recognize him for what he was, or—Robert gritted his teeth—she was too much in love. And as much for his own sake as hers, he much preferred the former explanation.

"I know, Georgiana," was the fellow's soothing response. "I wish the same. But I promise all will be well. We have wits and determination in our favor. From the moment we first spoke, I knew this was destined to be…"

Well. That settled it. The woman was Georgie for certain. Of course, he'd already known that, although perhaps he'd hoped to be wrong.

The fellow spoke again, but his voice lowered, and Robert couldn't make out his words. And when Georgie murmured her reply, he added frustration to the list of irrational emotions playing tug-of-war inside him. He counted to ten, focused on breathing and not doing anything stupid. But the pull was powerful, and he felt his composure slipping with every soft whisper from within the bower, with every happy sigh and teasing laughter.

Another twig snapped, and Robert shrank back as a shadow fell across the ground before him. A young man strode away from him toward the pathway. His hair was a shade between brown and blond; he was tall and lean with shoulders that, regrettably, did not seem padded. And his attire was painfully
au courant
, a fact Robert recognized since he was reminded daily by his loved ones that his own wardrobe left much to be desired.

But that was neither here nor there. What did matter was that something underhanded was going on between this fellow—who was a fop and a dandy as well as a fool—and the woman who was all but Robert's affianced wife.

Very well. He'd admit that perhaps he
had
assumed he'd marry Georgie after all. It would have been the simplest solution, and he could have done with some easy choices for a change.

But it was not to be. That he certainly did not want to marry a silly thing besotted with another man was beside the point. It was the principle of the matter. He'd obviously have to let Georgie go—but not before he had done his duty to her family and discovered what the devil she was about.

"O! glorious day! Attended Vauxhall with the Albermarles in the evening, where I happen'd upon the most extraordinary young Gentleman—tall, handsome, and of Vastly agreeable manners. Fear I abused the Ploy of dropping my kerchief to gain his attention. Am still unaware of his identity, but I know we shall meet again."

— From the diary of Lady Georgiana Montford, aged 19

GEORGIE WATCHED PHILLIP stride away, drinking in the sight of his tall, sinewy frame, the way he filled his well-cut coat, the confidence in his step. When he reached the pathway, he paused to steal a glance up and down the road before continuing. She expected him to look back, blow a kiss or flash a smile. He didn't.

She heaved a sigh as he disappeared from view. If only he were willing to take the chance that her father might see the worth of his character rather than look for faults with his station and descent… But Georgie knew her father would frown upon Phillip being a "mere" baron, and only a second-generation one, at that.

Phillip was right; they had to keep their plans a secret. Her chest grew heavy. There would be so much deception, so much guilt. But he was too important to her future, and she could not allow herself to be ruled by her conscience, not in this. No, it could be no other way.

But enough dallying. She'd kept Louisa waiting far too long. She quickly smoothed down her dress—her new violet, printed cambric; it pleased Phillip when she wore the latest fashion—and patted her hair, leaving her bonnet off. She forced herself to saunter as she left the bower in the event that she should be observed.

Someone coughed pointedly behind her. She startled, and her bonnet slipped out of her hand and landed on the ground with a soft rustle.

"Hallo, Georgie," the man said.

Oh, God. Her lungs tightened; she couldn't breathe. This was not happening. She should have been privy to his return, if not by gossip then by instinct alone. She'd always imagined she'd sense his presence the moment he set foot in England again. The moment he came home.

It could not be him. And yet, she knew that voice. It was a trace deeper than she remembered, like a nearby crack of thunder rather than a distant rumble, and it belonged to a man who ought to be halfway across the world. She whirled, praying her ears had deceived her.

Her mouth went dry, and her knees weakened. It
was
the Rat. Robert.

No, no, she would not be that familiar. He was Sheffield now, and Lord Sheffield was not the Robert she knew. This man's presence crowded her. He seemed larger, his physique no longer resembling that of a society gentleman—he was brawnier, more solid. Pitiless.

"Have you nothing to say, Georgie? No word of welcome? Come, now; surely you can manage something. An insult, perhaps?"

He arched a brow and she struggled to come up with a response, but her mind went blank. Completely and utterly blank.

He stepped closer—much too close but far enough away to rake his eyes over her. Still, she did not feel ogled. He studied her thoroughly, but with a kind of detachment that left her uncertain of his opinion.

And though she wished with aching desperation that it were not so, the truth remained that his opinion mattered. It always had and no doubt always would. Nails digging into her palms, she searched his countenance for a hint of appreciation. Oh, how abominable this feeling, this longing for him to recognize that she was grown, even desirable—a yearning that was a betrayal of herself, but still would not be suppressed.

Growing hot and flustered under his piercing gaze, she drew a deep breath and composed herself enough to study him in return. His walnut hair was a shade lighter, his skin darkened by a faint tan. A strong jaw, wide forehead, intelligent olive-green eyes. And that cleft chin—his most striking feature. She had always found him handsome, but her awareness of him was not childish admiration anymore. It was pure sensation—dizzying, soul-stirring sensation—and the shame of it burned her cheeks.

But the weakness she felt in his presence dimmed as she absorbed the full blow of his cold and humorless eyes, of his pinched lips, and of a regard that, if not entirely foreign to her, sufficed to tighten muscles in indignation rather than anxiety. He was a stranger, despite the pounding of her heart that said otherwise, and ought to be treated as such.

"How do you do, Lord Sheffield?" she said in a tone she hoped sounded as politely aloof as she intended.

Their gazes locked, and his narrowed. "Well enough, all things considered. Though I'd probably feel a vast deal better if my affianced wife were not conducting secret assignations with another man."

Blast it all. He must have seen Phillip leave. She had three options: outrage, indifference, or stupidity. She settled on a compromise. "Oh, dear. How disconcerting." She gave a dramatic sigh and pursed her mouth to complete the effect. "I recommend you disassociate yourself from her. No one would blame you, under the circumstances."

He crossed his arms. "I would, but I have no wish to cause a scandal."

"I see." She pretended to ponder the matter. "Then you ought to allow her the privilege of releasing you from your promise."

"What if she refuses?"

Amusement at such an unlikely notion caught her off guard, and she released a snort of laughter. She stepped up and put her hand on his arm. "Let me set your mind at ease, Lord Sheffield; I have every confidence she will let you go without objection."

Touching him had been a mistake, yet now that she had, she couldn't seem to let go. His coat-clad arm, slender but still so thick with muscles she would scarcely be able to span it with her hands, felt both comforting and unnerving, like clinging to the mast of a sinking boat.

It was time to abandon ship.

"I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you have returned home safely. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must return to the party." She turned and started away from him, but he grabbed her arm above the elbow and hauled her back.

"Not so fast, Georgie. Before you go, you shall tell me who your Phillip is and what you mean by meeting him alone in this manner."

Georgie froze and gaped. He knew Phillip by name. How? Had he spied on them? Oh, he
had
. Her breath rushed out in a huff. Who was this man? The old Robert would never have stooped so low as to eavesdrop. But it appeared that the new Robert, Lord Sheffield, would. The rude, unprincipled rat.

Yet for all that she hated his prying, there was guilt-ridden satisfaction in the knowledge that he cared. That he might even be jealous. It was a petty, childish sentiment that she ought to rise above.

He drew her closer. "What is the matter with your lover that he can't court you in public? Is he that unsuitable?"

For once, she appreciated her own stature; he might have intimidated her if they didn't nearly stand nose to nose. He tightened his grip on her arm, bringing to attention the indignity of her position. "Let go," she commanded, pouring frost into each syllable. "You're hurting me."

He wasn't, but he apparently didn't know that, since he released her as if stung. For a moment, he didn't seem to know what to do with his hand—until he pointed an accusing finger at her, a mere hair's breadth from her nose. "Never mind explaining what you were doing. I have a fairly good notion of it already. You had better give me a good reason why I should not go straight to your father to apprise him of the situation."

Georgie's vision blurred. Curse him! She clamped down so hard on her first, violent response that a sharp stab of pain spread through her jaw. What right had he to barge into her life, to interfere, to threaten her future? The future it had taken her years of soul-searching to plan to perfection and which was now so close, so completely within her reach.

Or rather, it had been. Before the Rat had returned.

She would not have it. He must be deterred, and summarily. "You'd be too late," she stated, hoping her voice quivered less than her insides. "I intend to tell Father all about it this evening."

Robert raised a dubious eyebrow. He looked the way she felt; the declaration had surprised her, as well. But now that she had jumped on that horse there was nothing to do but ride it and hope she wouldn't be thrown.

"So you see," she continued, "you'd be wasting your time, and you'd look foolish into the bargain."

"Give it up, Georgie. I heard your conversation. That precious little dandy of yours made his position quite clear."

"Oh, that." She made a dismissive gesture, praying he wouldn't notice her hand shaking. "Phillip has too little confidence in his own worth, so he refuses to believe Father would give us his blessing. I shall speak to Father and clear the way. I foresee no complications."

"I see," he said in a hesitant tone, one that clearly communicated his disbelief. "I expect you're also going to inform the duke that our understanding is at an end?"

Georgie didn't know why she hesitated, why her tongue suddenly seemed glued to the roof of her mouth. It was not because agreeing would cause a scandal, not really. Their "betrothal" had always been an unofficial agreement, and one of which few outside their immediate families were aware.