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Chapter Twenty-Four

She was alone in the bed. Georgie opened her eyes, staring around the shadowy room. Daylight was filtering through the curtains, and she could hear the sounds of the city outside the window. She pushed herself up slowly.

She was achy, sticky, tired, and strangely close to tears. Where was Rafferty? No, she shouldn’t call him that—that was his butler’s name. He wasn’t her butler, he was her lover, and all sorts of conflicting thoughts assailed her. Where was he?

There was a knock on the door, and she quickly dove beneath the covers again, unaccountably shy of this man who’d done so much to her body. But to her shock it wasn’t Rafferty peering in the open door.

“You awake, miss?” the man said. “I’ve got a bath ready for you if you’d like, and Rafferty brought some clothes back from your house Then I’ll make you a nice hot breakfast and we’ll get you on your way.”

She stared at him, nonplussed. “Who are you?”

“I’m Rafferty’s man, Jenkins,” he said easily. “He told me to take care of you while he looked after business. I’ve got tea and toast first to give you a little sustenance. You must be tired.” There was no salacious meaning beneath the words, but Georgie could feel her face flush.

“Tea would be very nice,” she said in a choked voice.

He came in the room, carrying a small tray. He didn’t look like a servant, but then Rafferty didn’t look like a butler. “Rafferty’ll be back for you in an hour, so you can take your time, miss. Just don’t let the bath get cold.”

“I won’t.” She took a bracing sip of tea, and felt a little bit of her lost strength pour through her.

She wondered how she was going to get from the bed to the bathtub—there was no sign of her discarded gown or her chemise, and she knew she had no choice but to wrap herself in a sheet like some ancient Roman goddess.

She needed Rafferty. She needed him to smile down at her, she needed his arms around her.

Instead, she felt like an interloper, a stranger in a strange place.

The bath was heavenly, so warm that she wanted to cry. Tears felt very close, and she wondered why. She’d made her choice last night, she’d managed to seduce him after all, and she didn’t regret it. She just wanted him back, to tell her everything was all right, to tell her he loved her.

But there was no sign of him.

By the time she got back to the bedroom, wrapped once again in an abandoned sheet, the room had been changed, the bed made, the curtains open to the bright autumn day, the fire crackling in the fireplace. Her clothes lay neatly folded on the bed, including one of her new dresses.

She bit her lip. It was too bright a color for her mood—she’d prefer the old dark one to hide away in, but it had disappeared along with her old chemise.

She looked and saw that a new one had been provided, clearly stolen from Norah’s clothes press.

It was made of whisper-fine batiste with tiny blue bells embroidered at the neckline and hem, a far cry from her own utilitarian undergarment, and she bit her lip as she surveyed it.

Once more, Rafferty was taking care of her.

She dressed quickly, barely struggling with the fastenings, and surveyed herself in the mirror.

Her hair was a mare’s nest, tangled down her back, and she looked around until she saw silver-backed brushes on the washstand.

Doing what she could with her hair, she braided it down her back, and then, straightening her spine, she stepped out into the main room.

She’d expected to see Jenkins. Instead, she stopped short as she saw Rafferty sitting in one of the chairs, drinking coffee.

He rose, and she didn’t want him to. She had to fight the urge to turn and run back into the bedroom, but some latent bravery returned, enough to allow her to scoot across the room and drop down into the chair opposite him.

This was not going to be pleasant, she knew it.

There was no expression on his face—she might as well be a stranger, and she wanted to cry.

“I take it Jenkins looked after you?” he said in a neutral voice, settling back in his own chair.

“Very well. Thank you for bringing my clothes.”

He merely nodded. “We’ll go back to the house as soon as you’re ready. It’s a mess, but the girls are already working on it, and it should be habitable by tonight.”

“Did they...did they find the money?” she ventured.

“No.”

Silence fell. She needed him to smile at her, to tell her he loved her, to say something that would make this awkward interview better, but he said nothing. When she last saw him, they had been naked in each others’ arms, and she’d been so happy.

But now he looked at her, and his extraordinary eyes were cool and emotionless. “You needn’t worry about last night,” he said, and she felt fresh color flood her face. “There won’t be consequences. Martina will look after you.”

“Wh...what do you mean?” She really didn’t want to be talking about it in such a clinical manner, but he was giving her no choice.

“It’s easy enough to fake virginity for your husband. No one need ever know you had a slight slip from grace.”

The words were like a dagger in her heart, and grief shut down around her. He didn’t care. Last night hadn’t mattered to him, it was just another household problem to be solved. “What if I’m pregnant?” she said defiantly.

“You won’t be. I pulled out. If there’s any chance it didn’t work, then Martina can see to that also.”

She just stared at him in shock as he rose, draining his coffee and setting it down on the table. “Are you ready?”

She wanted to scream at him, throw something at him, hit him. But he simply stood there, seemingly barely aware of her, and she rose as well, a little unsteady, and moved past him to the door, saying not one word.

There was a hackney waiting for them, and he helped her in, then followed her inside, sitting far too close in the confined quarters. They travelled back to Corinth Place in an uneasily silence, and when he helped her out, he said one thing that was her death knell.

“I warned you, Miss Georgiana,” he said in a low voice. “I’m a thief and a liar and a very bad man. You should never have come near me.”

And there was nothing she could say.

He hated himself. Despised himself for giving in to temptation, not once but twice, for taking her and her innocence and reveling in the triumph.

He’d wanted her so long, refusing to admit it, but once he did, he’d been almost insatiable.

It was only the knowledge that she must be sore that kept him from going for a third and even a fourth time.

She’d been so lithe and luscious in his arms, so sweetly curious and gloriously responsive, and he knew that despite his worst misgivings, she had to love him, at least a little bit.

And instead of comforting her the next day he’d been cold and dismissive, trying to push her away from him. It was that, or she’d be on the table with her skirts up to her ears, and he couldn’t afford to give in again. The harm was done, but he had to do what he could to remedy things.

At least Martina would be there to see to things, to look after her and make certain she was all right. It had killed him, but he hadn’t spilled inside her body, which would help avert pregnancy. If by any chance it hadn’t worked, he’d do what he had to do, and ruin her life. But that was unlikely.

In fact, he’d found that if he bedded women and then didn’t return for more, they grew particularly irate. All he had to do was keep his hands off Georgie and she’d despise him soon enough. Which would be a relief, wouldn’t it?

By the time they reached the house on Corinth Place, his worst fears had been realized.

The house had been ransacked, and Rafferty went from room to room in a mood so far beyond sour that he could only wish that Billy Stiles would show up.

He was in a mood for violence, and there was no one he could take it out on.

He’d already destroyed Georgie’s sweet smile—the expression on her face was nothing short of heartbreak.

But her heart wasn’t truly broken. She’d had a tumble with a servant, nothing more, and there would be no repercussions. She might think she was in love, but he knew better. It was simply childish infatuation, nothing more.

Except he was finding it harder and harder to think of her as a child after last night.

She’d laid in his arms, warm and pliant, she’d welcomed him into her body, she’d held him as he found his release.

She’d been shyly adventurous, doing what he’d told her, and she’d looked him with such adoration that it made him want to hit somebody.

Where the hell was Billy Stiles when he needed him?

She’d gone straight to her room, and he hadn’t seen any sign of her all day.

It was no surprise—he’d been too busy driving Jane and Betsey to attack the appalling mess Stiles’s henchmen had left behind to even think of her more than once or twice.

A minute. The less he saw of her the better—he was having trouble keeping his distance, and he took out his own self-loathing on the girls, who accepted it naturally enough.

He did loathe himself. He should never have touched her, never have given in to overwhelming temptation. But her mouth had been so sweet against his, her eyes so full of longing, and for some unknown reason he’d wanted her too badly to stop himself. If he’d even stopped at the first time...

Even that hadn’t been enough. He still wanted her, if he were honest. And she’d never let him touch her again—he’d seen to that quite effectively. She hated him, as he deserved to be hated, and that knowledge should have satisfied him.

Christ, he needed to get away from her. He hadn’t seen Billy since early this morning, when they’d finished with the house. Maybe he was ready to give up his quest, and Georgie would be safe enough to leave behind.