Page 4 of His Wicked Little Christmas
She was going to answer the dare, cross to the scoundrel who sat sprawled on the floor, back wedged against a threadbare sofa, long legs crossed at the ankle, two glasses, a decanter, and a flickering taper beside him. As if this was planned. As if they still knew each other. When she got closer and was able to see Dex’s eyes, the color undetermined in the subdued light, she was stunned to feel her soul soaring free of her body.
His gaze, obscure at best, shouldn’t have the power to turn her inside out.
Not after all this time.
He stared up at her, his delight sending tiny grooves from his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Hello, Georgie.”
“Dex,” she returned without a quiver, settling beside him with as much dignity as she could manage, her stomach clenching because no one had called her Georgie inyears. She only sat because his smile was real. If he’d pulled a fake Munro on her, she would’ve been out of the house like a shot and back to her sorrowful manor, shimmering promise surrounding the night or not.
He nudged a glass her way with his pinkie, his aroma washing over her with the movement. Whiskey and leather and some variety of mint.He’d always smelled better than fresh biscuits, better than anything to her mind. She lifted the tumbler to her lips, her fingers trembling but not enough for him to notice. “How did you organize a private party so quickly? I’m honored.”
“I raided a vacant morning room two doors down. Swiped the candle and the refreshments. I don’t think they’ll find us.” He tipped his head to stare at the ceiling. “God, I hope not.”
“You mean,” she whispered against the crystal rim, “you don’t find the effort to secure a flaming raisin between your teeth to be the height of amusement?”
His gaze found hers, a gradual study as potent as the brush of his finger across her skin. “Tell me something. Why the name?”
She took a slow sip, the brandy blazing a path down her throat.Oh. He’d heard about the society. Of course. Gossip grew like wildflowers at events such as these. “Because everyone wants to secure a duke, don’t you know? Once you’re Markham, you will.” Her laugh was stunted, dry as kindling. “The Countess Society doesn’t have the same appeal, I’m afraid. Though I’m rightly qualified.”
He shifted his legs, and she tried not to notice how long they were, how his sleek black trousers clung to his muscular thighs, his lean hips. The man was built, had always been built, like a thoroughbred. “I meant the nickname, Georgie.”
She swiveled around on her bottom to face him, irritation a swift tide through her veins. Blast and bother, if she showed a sliver of ankle to Dexter Munro, it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. “Oh, that isrich. Do you know why I’m presumed to be made of ice? Because I’m financially independent and unwilling to enter into another marital agreement? No, it’s mytransparencyabout my situation that frightens them. I have freedom, finally, and I’ve made no bones about the fact I chose freedom over any other arrangement. I walk the streets alone. I ride my mount through Hyde Park as cracking fast as I like. Many women in my situation feel this way; they simply don’t admit it. Or act on their liberty. It shakes the entire foundation of society. What if, they ask, we are happierwithout?”
Dex laughed, a musical sound that lit her up like one of those raisins and turned his glass in a tight circle on the floor, making a crudedesign in the dust. “What about passion to go with this grand liberty? A reasonable alternative for a widow of independent means to consider.”
Georgiana huffed an incredulous breath through her nose and pressed her back like a ruler against the sofa. “A lover to melt the Ice Countess, you mean? You disappoint me, Dex. As if this hasn’t been proposed in a hundred different ways since Arthur’s death three years ago.”
“By whom?” Dex asked with a brutal edge.
“Oh, don’t get your hackles up, playing big brother. Although Anthony would thank you for it.” She tapped her glass to his, took an insolent drink. “What I want from life is what I have. The Duchess Society and my modest circle of friends. The dilapidated dower house in Sussex where I will retire when my funds reach a level inconsistent with maintaining a middling life in London. The ability to make my own choices, good or bad, which may include tumbling off my mount during a wild ride through Hyde Park. Who knows? What I don’t want is another husband. My entire life has been dictated by a man’sneeds, their mismanagement. I’m finally free to mismanage my own life, thank you very much.”
Dex’s head fell back, his hands going into a loose fold over his belly. “I never thought of you as a sister, Georgie.”
The trilling notes of the pianoforte paraded down the hallway and slid under the crack in the door, blending with the whisper of their breaths. She’d never thought of him as a brother, so they were even.
“You’re a matchmaker then?” he finally asked.
She rolled her head to find his eyes as green as the holly trimming the house and fixed on her. It was as good a time as any to admit she would always find him attractive, always experience a tug in her stomach—and a profound twist to her heart—when he was near. One had to accept what one could not change. A life lesson she’d embraced. “I educate those being forced into a situation conceivably not of their choosing. Atrueeducation. Many women I work with have never read a legal agreement, never managed finances or a household. In certain instances, I’ve arranged introductions. Call it matchmaking if you will, with suitable men who don’t have vile reputations or addictions their wives would have to account for. My investigator researches every one of them, A toZ. My young ladies don’t need me to teach them how to sew a straight stitch or organize a proper dinner party, although those pointless lessons are on the program to soothe anxious mothers.” She looked to the moonlight streaking in the window, to the glimmers of dust sparking the air, to him. “It’s what I do because I must. I teach things I wish I’d been taught.”
Dex brought his hand to the bridge of his nose and squeezed, a gesture he’d employed when he had a problem he couldn’t solve. “Winterbourne wasn’t a good choice. With Anthony gone, I should have stepped in. I knew more about the man than your father likely did, things whispered over a gaming hell table. I should have talked to him.”
“You were off with anthracite and basalt, and I, well, I made the right decision.” She turned away, so she didn’t have to look in his eyes during this speech. “I didn’t love him. He was seventy, his life almost over, as harsh as that sounds. Arthur solved my family’s financial problems without a murmur of complaint. It was a transaction. I lived mostly apart from him once he noted how often I voiced my opinions, consigned to the charming though worn dower house in Sussex I mentioned. There’ve been worse arrangements. He purchased a pretty vase then found he had nowhere to display it. And later, he didn’t even like the vase anymore.”
“Georgie…”
She shook off his pacifying plea. “I was happy being tucked away, out of sight. Honestly, I was. My independent spirit was distasteful, and I wasn’t willing to relinquish it.”
She felt a tickle, turned as Dex slipped a strand of hair behind her ear. “This discussion isn’t making me desirous for marriage,” he said.
“Must you be desirous?” she whispered in horror as if he’d suggested he planned to take his sword and run someone through.
Dex hung his head, his spurt of laugher striking her cheek. “Oh, Georgie, how I’ve missed you.” Heat blistered her skin as he withdrew his hand, his thumb skimming her jaw, a sensitive spot beneath her ear. He didn’t linger, didn’t even seem to know his touch affected her. “I must. If I don’t produce an heir, my family is left with a perilous path of succession. My cousin, Alistair. Remember him? He would ravage the duchy in less than a year. Hundreds of tenants lives held in the balance.The decision is without ambiguity, isn’t it? One I’ve put off for far too long. When my father was still strong enough to discuss my future, I promised to provide the name of my fiancée by Twelfth Night.” He tapped his fingers in a staccato rhythm on the floor. “I could hold off, perhaps, negotiate for more time, but to what purpose? It’s the last thing I can give him. The last thing Iwillgive him.”
“So soon.” The Feast of the Epiphany, Twelfth Night, was the official end of Christmastide and just over two weeks away. But the choicewasn’tnegotiable. Alistair Fontanel, Viscount Harrison, was one of the most profligate wastrels in England. A complete and utter bounder. He’d tried to kiss her when she was fifteen, and Dex had bloodied his lip in repayment. That was the last she’d seen of him. “You must marry once, I suppose. Give it a whirl,” she murmured, the most inane advice she’d ever uttered.
He laughed again, the sound shadowing her like a caress. “Dependable guidance, Georgie Whitcomb.”
She polished off her brandy, wishing she had more. Tomorrow, she would think about Dex marrying. But not now. Not in this enchanting world where she had his attention for the first time in seven years.