To Marry an Heiress (6 page)

She strolled past him and placed her hand on her father’s shoulder. “Oh, Papa, you’re giving Lord Huntingdon a tongue-lashing for nothing. What woman wouldn’t be pleased that her suitor wished to marry her as soon as possible?”

What woman indeed? She’d neither referred to herself nor confirmed that she was pleased. She’d
spoken the truth, but not necessarily a truth that applied to her. He wondered if she merely wished to put her father’s doubts at ease while keeping her own counsel regarding her true feelings on the matter.

If Pierce’s diminishing agitation was any indication, she had succeeded. Pierce settled his gaze on his daughter. The depth of love in his eyes caused Devon to regret he didn’t have time to court her properly, to make her feel as though she was indeed fortunate he had selected her.

Pierce patted her hand. “Thought I was prepared for giving you over to another man. Reckon I’m still adjusting to the thought.”

Georgina kissed his leathery cheek. “I’ll always be your little girl. Now, if you’ll excuse us, it’s my understanding that Lord Huntingdon is taking me boating.”

Georgina tried to enjoy the scenery, the sight of the other boats floating along the river, but her attention kept returning to Huntingdon and the powerful bunching of his muscles as he rowed. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves past his elbows. She was surprised by the hard, knotted look of his forearms, the veins that stood out in sharp relief beneath his bronzed skin.

Her gaze continually darted between his broad shoulders, his wide chest, his flat stomach, his hips, and then it would dip lower, and she would feel her face scald with the heat of speculation. What would it be like to kiss every inch of that remarkable torso…and then some?

“Is everything all right, Georgina?” he asked in that deep rumble that caused little chill bumps to erupt over her flesh.

Or perhaps it was his informality that elicited the delicious shivers.

“Shouldn’t you address me as Miss Pierce?” she asked, preferring the distance such formality evoked.

“Once engaged, it is acceptable for a couple to address each other using first names,” he explained. “Therefore you may call me Devon.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know why it flustered her to think of calling him by his first name. She’d addressed boys in that manner for as long as she could remember.

Only he wasn’t a boy, and each moment brought her closer to an intimacy with him for which she wasn’t prepared.

Elizabeth had wanted to come with them and act as chaperone, but Georgina had refused the offer. It seemed absolutely silly that a woman couldn’t trust the man she planned to marry. Besides, with chaperones around, how in the world did these people get to know each other? A person couldn’t talk about personal things with someone near enough to hang onto every word.

“You didn’t answer my question, Georgina.”

His question, asked long ago, had slipped her mind completely. “Yes, everything is fine.”

“You look warm.”

Only on the inside. She could certainly use a fan
right now, a Texas fan that was good at cooling, not communicating.

“I’m fine,” she rushed to assure him.

She wondered how she would manage to survive her wedding night with any amount of decorum when he had the uncanny ability to set her heart to thumping against her ribs with nothing more than his presence. She couldn’t claim he gave her longing looks, the kind she read about in the romance novels she enjoyed.

Yet neither was he ignoring her. Rather she had a feeling he was taking measure of her, just as she was of him. These moments should have been shared before they’d ever broached the subject of marriage. If he looked too closely, he might change his mind. If she looked too intently, so might she.

Lauren was right. Huntingdon was devilishly handsome. He had a generous mouth, his lower lip the only portion of his face that appeared to be soft. The lines that fanned out from the corners of his mouth and eyes had not been carved by joy. Would he ever know happiness with her? Or would they simply exist side by side, going their separate ways until the need to fulfill a promise brought him to her bed?

She wondered if he would bed her on their wedding night as dispassionately as he’d proposed. Would he simply lift the hem of her nightgown or would he dare trail that luscious mouth of his over her body? How could she allow a man she barely knew to take such liberties?

Should she ask for a reprieve, a period of adjustment, during which time they could come to know each other well enough for the awkwardness to fall away?

What if that moment never came?

“If I may be beastly bold, Georgina seems a rather harsh name for a woman,” he said, bringing her musing to an abrupt halt. “Although George or Georgie doesn’t seem much of an improvement.”

“Gina,” she said softly. Only her dearest friends referred to her as such. She’d never expected him to. She’d somehow imagined in this stuffy society they would forever refer to each other in the strictest formal terms.

He leaned forward slightly, not upsetting the rhythm of his strokes in the least. “Pardon?”

“Those close to me call me Gina.”

“Indeed.”

Was he questioning her statement? “I wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t so.”

“Of course not. I was simply speculating as to whether or not you were granting me permission to address you…as intimately.”

His eyes darkened, and his scrutiny made her wonder if she should have accepted Elizabeth’s offer to serve as chaperone. Wouldn’t that be something? To actually have to fend off a man’s advances when all her life she’d expected she might have to lasso and hog-tie a man in order to hold him close?

“I assume once we’re married, we’ll be intimate—” she began.

“Indeed we shall be,” he interrupted.

Her stomach quivered, and she felt her face breaking out in those unsightly blotches that announced to the whole world she was uncomfortable with her current situation. “Therefore calling me Gina is acceptable.”

“I appreciate the generous consideration.”

She wondered if when they were old and feeble he’d still speak to her as though they were passing strangers. She found it odd that he’d seemed to test the waters by hinting he wished permission to call her Gina and then retreated by distancing himself with so much politeness she was tempted to rock the boat until he toppled into the water.

Surely a time would come when she would be able to actually carry on a real conversation with him. Where words weren’t measured, meanings analyzed, and interpretations avoided.

“I have to admit I’m amazed to see you row with such skill. With the aristocracy’s penchant for servants, I’d assumed you’d have a rowing boy,” she said.

An incredible, warm smile spread across his face, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “I would have if I considered this pursuit work, but it’s pleasure. The aristocracy prefers to engage in pleasure at a more intimate level.”

He’d spoken the words “pleasure” and “intimate” in a low purr that made her think of flickering candles, cool sheets, and warm bodies. She assumed it was her impending marriage and her conversation with Lauren that had these carnal thoughts running through her mind. She had on occasion daydreamed
about lying in bed with a man, but the visions had never taken such firm root that she couldn’t shake them off.

“If I may be blunt, I don’t understand your aversion to work,” she said.

“A man of my standing doesn’t engage in laborious acts. It’s simply not done. I assume you have no appreciation for the amount of effort involved in appearing idle. It’s quite tiresome.”

She laughed with disbelief. “Not as tiresome as hard, honest labor.”

“I take it you don’t approve of idleness.”

“I just figure a grown man ought to be able to dress himself.”

“Ah, but I do, Gina.”

He wrapped such carnality around the shortened version of her name that she almost lost her grip on her parasol. Clutching it, she strove to regain her composure, to not think about how nice it would be to have him whisper her name in that enticing manner beside her ear during the height of passion. She desperately wanted to swallow, but her mouth had grown too dry.

“Well, then, Devon—” His name squeaking out of her mouth more closely echoed fear than sensuality. She was not gifted at playing mating games, acting coy, or being sophisticatedly brazen. “My opinion of you has improved ten-fold.”

“Once we are wed, I’ll see to hiring a lady’s maid for you.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

She’d gone years without a maid. Of course, she’d worn much simpler dresses at the time. She’d had a maid while she was in New York, and Lauren’s servants had been assisting her since she’d come to London. She supposed she should graciously accept his offer to hire a maid for her. She’d spoken quickly, because she hadn’t wanted him to think she was unable to manage on her own. She didn’t know why his impression of her abilities mattered, but it did.

“I’m afraid I must insist. I’ll not have it bandied about that my wife must do without.”

“Your peers’ perception of you is important to you,” she said speculatively.

“Quite so. As such, I would appreciate it if you would not disclose that financial need brought us together rather than a mutual attraction. I’ve been quite adept at hiding my impoverished state.”

Arrogant pride was carved into his features. She was only just beginning to realize that it might not have been laziness that had brought him to her father but fear of appearing to be less of a man in front of those who mattered to him. “It must have cost you dearly to approach my father.”

He clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on the oars. “A price I was willing to pay.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to seek employment—”

“Of course, it would have been easier, but as I attempted to explain last night and mistakenly thought you had comprehended, people of my rank do not work. Not with our hands, not with our
backs. A man does not sweat to maintain his standing among the peerage. Sweat is only allowed when he plays or makes love.”

An image of tiny beads of moisture covering his flesh flashed through her mind. Averting her gaze, she watched the water ripple as he sliced the oars through the river. “I see,” she replied in a strangled voice.

Did she see? Devon wondered. Did she truly understand what it was to be a peer of the realm? To be constantly scrutinized and judged? To be born into a way of life you were expected to follow regardless of your own desires or dreams?

To have obligation and duty thrust on you at an early age? To understand your place in society and to know you could never step beyond its boundaries?

“I’ve acquired the license we’ll need and made arrangements for our marriage to take place Friday morning,” he said somberly, hoping to deflect his morose thoughts.

She snapped her head around so quickly he heard her neck pop.

“You really did it, made all the arrangements?”

She appeared quite alarmed.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked quietly. If she had, he would indeed have to woo her.

“No, of course not. I just”—she tightened her grip on her parasol—“I just never really expected to get married. I haven’t quite settled my mind around the possibility.”

“Around the
certainty
, Gina, for I assure you I shall not rescind my offer to marry you.”

She nodded slowly, but he couldn’t determine if she was relieved or disappointed.

“Regarding your attire for the wedding, something similar to what you’re wearing today would be appropriate.” He’d been unprepared for her elegance when she’d joined him in Ravenleigh’s library. The simple lines of the dress suited her tall and slender build.

She gave him a gamin smile that took him off guard with the protective surge it ignited. “I was thinking something more along the lines of the ball gown I wore the night we met. With a few more bows, perhaps.”

He lost the battle to suppress his groan. At least a wedding arranged on such short notice would garner few attendants. Family only, and if he was fortunate, perhaps they wouldn’t show.

“You find the bows objectionable?” she asked.

He cleared his throat to gain precious time to consider how best to respond to her inquiry. During the courting phase of a relationship, he knew a man had to choose his words carefully for fear of offending his intended and thus losing her favor. Although their relationship more closely resembled a business agreement, he was surprised to realize he did want her to welcome the marriage.

“I hope I do not appear too forward in stating quite emphatically that bows do not suit you.”

“I suppose instead of bows, I could have used feathers—”

“God, no!”

Her smile blossomed, softening the hard angles of
her face. “My father has gawd-awful taste in clothes, doesn’t he?”

“Your father selects your clothing?”

“Only the ball gowns. He thinks the frillier something is, the more beautiful it becomes. I find them hideous.”

“If you find them objectionable, why wear them at all?”

“Because it pleases him when I do.”

“Do you not realize the unfavorable opinions you generate when you wear such garish clothing?”

“Why would I care about the opinions of people I don’t know, people for whom I have no feelings?”

That attitude was going to have to change because, by God, he did care what his peers thought.

“If my father asked,” she continued, “I’d ride through the streets bare-ass naked.”

Devon froze, stilling the oars and his breathing as an image of her rose unbidden in his mind, her legs exposed for all the world to see, her hair loosened and cascading around her, offering only tempting glimpses of what lay beneath. He cocked his head forward. “Indeed?”

She lowered her gaze, the long sweep of her lashes resting on her reddening cheeks. “Not that he would ever ask.”

“I should hope not.”

She peered up at him. “It might prove scandalous.”

“No doubt.” He set the oars back in motion. “So for your father you wear atrocious ball gowns and agree to marry a man you’ve only recently met.”