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Chapter Twenty-Five

If her parents thought there’d been anything irregular about leaving Georgie home alone to Rafferty’s tender ministrations, they didn’t show it.

By the time they returned, the maids were in residence, Bertha had returned, and Georgie had risen from her specious sickbed, bright and cheerful enough to convince anyone of an uneventful sojourn.

She would have congratulated herself on her impeccable play-acting, but Rafferty seemed to be oblivious to her gallant efforts.

He moved through the house smoothly, treating her with polite deference when she’d asked about his bandaged hand, and made no mention of leaving. She’d had to make do with that.

She wasn’t able to do anything with Rafferty—she was now firmly Miss Georgiana to him—and even though she longed to throw herself into his arms she behaved with perfect propriety.

So he wanted to pretend the night hadn’t happened?

She wished him luck—she had no intention of letting it go.

She wanted more. His touch was oddly insistent—if she closed her eyes, she could feel him, his hand on her breasts, his mouth on hers, his body pressing hers down into the mattress.

She could feel him inside her. He’d been hers, and then gone, and she wanted more.

Martina came bustling into her room, a morning tray in her capable hands. “How are you feeling this morning, Miss Georgiana? We missed you in Kent.”

Georgie tried to look bright-eyed and cheerful. “I’m feeling fine. It was just a temporary indisposition.”

Martina set the tray down and pulled the curtains, letting in the gloomy autumn light.

“I can just imagine...” she was saying as she turned, and then the words dried up for a moment, as she stared at her.

Then she seemed to pull herself together.

“I can just imagine you had a nice time without your family breathing down your neck,” she said in a studiedly casual voice. “Did Rafferty look after you?”

“Oh, he wasn’t here much. Jane and Betsey took care of me, not that I needed taking care of. I really can manage on my own.”

“Of course, you can, Miss Georgiana. You’re looking a bit pale still. A walk would do you some good, get you fresh air. Shall I ask Rafferty to escort you?”

“No...er, no, I don’t think so,” she stammered. Rafferty didn’t seem to want to have anything to do with her and she wasn’t about to force herself on him. Not until she decided exactly what she was going to do.

“I’m going to kill him,” Martina said with deceptive calm.

“Martina...” Georgie began, but Martina had raced from the room like a cyclone, leaving her alone, and she slid out of bed and poured herself a cup of tea, her toes freezing in the early morning air.

How had Martina known? Was there some scarlet sign about her that announced to the world she had lost her innocence? Where in the world had she gone?

“You rat bastard!” Martina found Rafferty on the fourth floor, among the deserted servants’ bedrooms.

He didn’t bother denying it. “Don’t you think I know it?” he replied. “I never should have touched her.”

“Then why did you? Did she throw herself at you?”

He wasn’t about to tell her the truth. “She was too tempting.”

“You’re a man who can resist all sorts of temptation. I thought you were looking after the girl, when all this time you were just trying to get beneath her skirts! Shame on you, Rafferty. She’s just a child.”

“She’s not a child,” he snapped. “Apart from that, you’re right.”

“So you spent the last two days rolling in bed with her.”

“It was just once. One night,” he amended truthfully. “I told her it would never happen again.”

“And she believed you? You need to leave here, Rafferty, before you do any more damage. She thinks she’s in love with you!”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Then why did you seduce her?”

He started to deny it, then shut his mouth. It didn’t matter that she’d thrown herself in his arms—he was man enough to resist even the strongest temptation. And that’s what she had been—more temptation than he’d known what to do with, and he’d given in like a fool. “I’m never touching her again.”

“You think that excuses you? What if she’s pregnant? Did you pull out?”

“Of course I did,” he said irritably. He didn’t want to be making excuses to Martina, he didn’t want to be thinking about Georgie all the time.

She haunted him, his dreams, his waking hours, and Martina was right, he should get the hell away from her.

But he couldn’t, as long as Stiles posed a threat.

“You need to tell her what to do when she gets married,” he said.

“I don’t think we need to worry about that—she’s nowhere near ready to look at anyone else but her beloved Rafferty. Damn you!”

“I’ve tried to talk her out of it,” he snapped.

“Try harder! What if she’s pregnant?”

“She won’t be!”

“Withdrawal is never a sure thing. Will you marry her if she is?”

“I’d ruin her life.”

“You already have!” Martina slammed the door behind her as she stomped off to rejoin her young mistress.

She shut the door carefully behind her. She’d regained her calm, and she smoothed her dark chignon and brushed her skirts as she approached the bed, as if girding herself for war.

“First of all,” she said in voice far removed from her subservient maid’s voice, “Did he hurt you?”

Georgie didn’t attempt to dissemble. “Of course not!”

“Don’t lie to me, Miss Georgiana! Whose idea was this?”

“Mine, of course. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have touched me,” she said earnestly.

“Ha!” Martina scoffed. “That’s not what he said. And he knew what he was doing—he never should have come near you!”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, you have to. You need to know what to do when you go to your marriage bed, we need to plan what to do if the stupid man didn’t take careful enough precautions, we need to...oh, God, don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” Georgie said, blinking back tears. “It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. And I’m never getting married so it shouldn’t matter....”

“You should get married right away, in case there are any unexpected consequences. What about Mr. Salton?”

“He’s in love with Norah.”

“Fool,” said Martina loyally. “Is there anyone else who might do?”

Georgie shook her head. “I’m never getting married,” she said again.

“You are if you’re pregnant,” Martina said firmly.

“Then I’ll marry Rafferty.”

“He’s not the marrying kind. Don’t worry—he’ll find someone for you,” she said.

“I don’t want anyone but Rafferty.”

“Child,” Martina said in a kind voice, “he doesn’t want you.”

“Child, he doesn’t want you.” The words ran round and round in Georgie’s brain.

It was a death knell to her hopes and dreams, and she felt crushed, shattered, wounded to the heart.

She needed time to think, time to come to terms with Martina’s brutal words.

They were kindly meant—a necessary warning, and they had the unmistakable ring of truth.

He didn’t want her, and the sooner she accepted that dreadful truth and how to leave him alone, the better.

What was wrong with her? This was no surprise—Rafferty had done nothing but try to avoid her since he entered the household, denying her adolescent passion and treating her like a younger sister.

Or mostly—that had been no brotherly night in his bed.

But if he didn’t want her, why had he touched her, taken her?

Was she just so desperate that he’d taken pity on her and deflowered her as an act of charity?

She could feel the warmth stain her cheeks as she considered it, and she threw herself down on her bed, burying her face in the pillows.

She didn’t cry. It was past the time for tears.

The situation was disastrous, and she couldn’t bear to think about him and his certain reluctance to touch her.

Maybe men simply couldn’t resist a female in deshabille, one who was throwing herself at his feet.

Maybe she disgusted him, and that’s why he threatened to leave. Maybe he’d never wanted her at all.

She rolled over on her back, flinging her arms outward.

She couldn’t bear it, if it were true. She could simply hide from him, let him leave without ever seeing him again.

Part of her wanted to—her shame was absolute.

But she wasn’t someone who hid from disaster.

If she didn’t find out the truth she would. ..she would...

She climbed off the bed, landing on the floor in her beautiful shoes.

Why had he given her the shoes? The dresses?

Norah would tell her that he pitied her, and it seemed the dismal truth.

She took off the shoes and left them neatly by the bed.

If she was going to have this out with him, then she didn’t want to feel beholden to him from her head to her toes.

It was late morning, and her mother and Norah had left for their morning visits.

She was allowed to stay home, being not quite out, and it was one other injustice.

Some nights she was to stay at behind and be demure, at others she could go out and even dance.

Dance with Andrew Salton, the devious bastard.

No, he wasn’t that, he was simply in love with the wrong person, as she was.

Though from the look on Norah’s face, this particular passion was requited.

She moved silently down the stairs. How she would get Rafferty alone long enough to ask him the all-important question was a conundrum, but she would manage it somehow, if she had to ask him in front of Bertha, who would likely kill him.

Of course, there was no sign of him, and Bertha was in the midst of baking bread with no time for her foolish questions.

Georgie moved through the rooms—her father’s abandoned study where she’d found him at midnight that first night, through the salons and the dining room where he would stand stiff as a poker while her family discussed him.

He probably hated her for causing him so much trouble.