Bound with Passion Page 5

  “Oh, just something outlandish to cheer Lady Caroline Lamb. I don’t think she’s fully recovered from the loss of her last child, even though it’s been well over a year.”

  “A year? That’s not very long. My mother never recovered.”

  James turned to look at him. “She still had you to lavish all her love upon, didn’t she? Caroline has another child.”

  “Oh, James. You really were raised by wolves, weren’t you?”

  James shrugged. “Mostly absentee wolves at that.” His parents had been young when they’d had him, but the Rushfords wouldn’t have known what to do with a child even if they’d waited until the supposed maturity of middle age. Both of his parents were actors and they’d traveled around Europe with a troupe of motley thespians. While they were away, James was farmed out to several less-than-welcoming tenuous connections in Wales. He learned early on that it was best not to rely on anyone to pave the way for him, much less love him.

  “Yes, Caroline still has her son, but it’s not the same,” Trevor continued. “At least I don’t think it was for my family. It was almost as if when my mother had me—an heir!—she was relieved, because that’s what she was obliged to do, what society demanded. But when she had my little sister, Cynthia, it was so much more, meant so much more, for herself I mean, for the joy of it. So when Cynthia died before her second birthday . . . ” His voice trailed off.

  “Well, it’s all finished now. Your mother—and your father, even now, in his backhanded way—adored you. You can hardly fault them for it.”

  James watched as Trevor fingered a piece of crimson velvet. “I think I would love to have children,” Trevor said. It came out like a breath of sadness.

  Tempted to joke about how there was a limit to what even he, with his boundless imagination, could provide, James caught himself before he made light of the tender confession. “Maybe Georgie would—”

  A tap at the door interrupted him.

  Trevor called, “Come.”

  The door opened and Georgie poked her head in. “Are you two decent?” Her smile was tentative and confident all at once.

  “For now,” James said suggestively.

  She rolled her eyes and entered the room, shutting the door behind her. “Mrs. Daley has ordered the carriage for half six.” She looked at the mantle clock and saw that granted them an hour to prepare. “Does that give you both enough time to get ready? I don’t want to antagonize my mother by being late.”

  “How thoughtful of you.” Trevor smiled. “Taking your mother’s feelings into account? What’s come over you?”

  She walked over to the table where they were looking at the swatches. “Mrs. Daley’s lemon cake came over me. That confection seems to soothe all my irritations with my mother. I’ve even agreed to dress like a proper lady for the occasion.”

  “How charming!” James held up a piece of lavender silk next to her face. “I want to make you more hats and dresses in this color.”

  “Don’t bother.” She waved her hand dismissively over the table and all the samples. “I’ll be gone before I have the opportunity to wear them anyway. And you know I find British hats so deplorably structured and confining.”

  “I’ve already made you one and sent it up to your room. I did my best to keep your preferences in mind. It is neither structured nor confining.”

  “Oh, very well. I suppose it would be rude not to wear it at least once.”

  He nodded his approval, then held up another piece of fabric in a deeper purple. “This one is perfect; it makes your eyes look like burnished copper. You must allow me.” He let the soft fabric touch her cheek faintly before he pulled it away.

  “Are you flirting with me, Mister Rushford?”

  He stared at her eyes, then at her lips, where the hint of a smile played. Then he simply leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  She stiffened immediately. “James. Do stop being ridiculous.”

  He shrugged and lined all of the samples into a neat pile, not really looking at her as he did, but he’d felt the shiver of physical recognition pass between them, and it had not been one-sided. “You and Trevor have been best friends your entire lives,” James said. “I feel like the odd man.”

  Georgie smoothed her bodice with a quick, jerking motion. “Well, that would be a first. Trevor told me you were notoriously popular at Cambridge and universally adored in London.”

  James looked at Trevor with a smile, and the other man lifted one shoulder. “What? It’s true,” Trevor said.

  Georgie continued, “I suspect you’ve never been the odd man a day in your life, James.”

  He finished organizing his work area and looked at Trevor, then back at Georgie. “Have you?”

  “Have I what?” Georgie glanced around the room as if she were looking for viable escape routes.

  “Have you ever been the odd . . . person?”

  She sighed impatiently. “I am always the odd person. I don’t know what in the world I was thinking to make that offhand comment about my willingness to tell you anything. That was entirely shortsighted on my part.”

  “Is that a renege?” James parried.

  “Are we playing whist?” Georgie shot back.

  Trevor sighed. “Do stop squabbling.”

  “No, we’re—or at least I—am not squabbling. I am merely trying to deepen our friendship.” James said, keeping his focus on Georgie.

  “You are as much a friend to me as anyone, James Rushford, and you know it. I have no secrets, isn’t that right, Trevor?”

  James watched as Trevor tried to suppress his true thoughts—that there was much more he wanted to know about Georgie, about the woman she had become.

  Georgie obviously noticed Trevor’s hesitation, and she appeared to be . . . hurt.

  “What’s this?” Georgie asked with a bit of anger tingeing her voice. “You think I’m secretive, Trevor? You know me better than I know myself!”

  Trevor smiled and kissed her on the other cheek. “Go change for dinner, sweetling. Of course I do. But you are different somehow—which is as it should be after all your adventures.”

  She looked confused. “I—I mean, of course I’m changed. Did you think I would always be the same ninny who used to steal your horses and ride them to Camburton in the middle of the night?”

  Trevor put an arm around one of her shoulders and walked her to the door of the drawing room. “Come, let’s all get changed for supper and forget this who-am-I nonsense. We’ll be ready in good time for the carriage ride to your mother’s.”

  James followed close behind as the other two ascended the wide marble staircase that rose through the center of the grand hall.

  “And you must learn to ignore James. He’s entirely too persistent.”

  James smiled at Trevor’s back. “Yes, I am. Relentless even.”

  Georgie shook her head and looked at him over her shoulder, rolling her eyes again. “Honestly, you two are like puppies. Does anyone do any work around here?”

  Despite their afternoon of languorous lovemaking, Trevor and James were arguably two of the most productive men in the north of England. Trevor managed over ten thousand acres of properties in Derbyshire and London, and James had created the second largest hat business in the British Isles. “We manage to get a few things accomplished now and then,” James drawled.

  She laughed through her words. “I bet you do.”

  As they preceded him up the stairs like the old friends they were, James was overcome with a flash of unfamiliar passion. Unfamiliar, because it wasn’t the slow, seductive eroticism he had described to Trevor earlier when he’d taken him a second time in front of the fire. This was something deeper, a momentary vision of what it could be like if the three of them were truly bound together, if the three of them were walking up the stairs like this in some imaginary future, toward their communal bed and into the comfort of one another’s arms.

  James wanted to see Trevor and Georgie joined, not in some carnal, voyeuristic he
at, but in a reverential way. He wanted to prepare them both, as if for some ritual—their marriage, he supposed. He wanted to bathe them and anoint them and make sure they were wet and eager for one another. He wanted to shepherd them through the process: to lick Georgie while Trevor watched with trembling patience; to suck Trevor while Georgie was forced to be the languorous woman who must exist somewhere inside that curved, luscious body of hers.

  For all her talk of mannish poses and how they helped her gain access to the top stables in Arabia, James suspected—nay, knew—that Georgie was capable of loving as deeply and honestly as Trevor and James did when it came to the most fundamental elements of their desire. They loved both: male and female; mastery and subservience; the steely power of demanding what one wanted and the liberating courage to beg for it.

  He’d seen the way she looked at them when he and Trevor were kissing. He’d seen the longing in her eyes, and it wasn’t mere physical lust; Georgie was filled with longing in her heart. The question was whether James and Trevor would be able to peel away the years of protective emotional armor she’d built up.

  Georgie parted from James and Trevor at the first-floor landing and turned to the guest quarters where she was staying—for a little while longer, at least. The moment her mother got wind of her upcoming marriage, there was no chance Vanessa would countenance Georgie staying at Mayfield.

  They’d agreed to meet in the study in forty minutes—or sooner if they happened to be ready. Georgie was in no mood to primp and had planned to sponge off quickly and put on a serviceable dress for the dinner at her mother’s.

  Mrs. Daley had other ideas. Georgie’s room was candlelit and scented with attar of roses. A large tub had been brought to the room and filled with steaming hot water and aromatic oil.

  “What’s all this?” Georgie asked, looking up to see Mrs. Daley herself, along with one of the younger maids she’d seen in the kitchen. “I don’t require any assistance with my toilette.”

  Mrs. Daley pursed her lips and tilted her mobcap-covered head. “Let’s not bicker, shall we, Lady Georgiana? If you are going to be the lady of Mayfield House, I cain’t show my face in town if you are parading around in—” The solid stump of a woman shook her hand in Georgie’s direction. “That.”

  Georgie looked down at herself and smiled. She’d had the trousers made in Cairo and they were a splendid deerskin, sueded to the softest nap. Her shirt was mannish, but not entirely without feminine flourishes at the cuffs and collar. Her jacket, likewise, was a luxurious velvet that had been embroidered with meticulous care, but in a matching thread that only shone in the sun or candlelight. “I think I look rather fine today.” She struck a pose.

  Without softening her pursed lips, Mrs. Daley shook her head. And continued shaking her head. “You do not look fine. You look like you are on your way to the stables or some bawdy house twenty years ago—”

  “Well, I often am on my way to the stables, so that is as it should be.”

  Striding toward her, Mrs. Daley continued. “This is Franny. She is your new maid.”

  “But I’ve just told you I do not need a maid.” Georgie let Mrs. Daley help her out of the tight-fitting velvet jacket.

  “And I’ve just told you that you now have one. Are you going to put the poor gel out on the street?”

  Franny gasped as if that was the first she’d heard of being sacked.

  “Of course you wouldn’t do such a thing.” Mrs. Daley was now beginning to unbutton Georgie’s shirt.

  Which was simply not on. Georgie swatted her away. “I’m perfectly capable of removing my own shirt. Now off with you both.”

  Mrs. Daley shook her head again. “You need a proper bath, and I’m not leaving until you are in the tub and Franny has scrubbed that beautiful blonde hair of yours—what little of it you’ve left.”

  Georgie smiled despite herself, rubbing the palm of one hand back and forth along the crown of her head. “This is getting quite long actually. I was thinking of shaving it again next week.”

  Franny covered her mouth.

  “Don’t worry, Franny.” Mrs. Daley was taking a pair of very ladylike shoes and silk stockings out of the wardrobe and setting them near the bed, where a lovely gray-green dress lay flat on the coverlet, next to some feather-covered contrivance that must be the hat. “Your mistress enjoys shocking people for no apparent reason. You must learn to pay her no mind much of the time.”

  Georgie laughed and set her shirt on the back of a nearby chair when she’d finished removing it. “That’s rich. I’m to be the lady of the house, but she’s to pay me no mind?”

  Mrs. Daley turned her attention from where she was fussing with the fabric of the dress she’d laid out on the bed, and gasped. “What in the world?”

  Poor Franny was getting one shock after another—if her wide eyes were any indication—but she was obviously too shy to say a word. Georgie was wearing one of her stiff close-fitting vests under her clothes. It was like a second skin in both color and texture, and poor Franny must have thought, at first glance, that it was skin—that Georgie had been born without any female parts whatsoever.

  “It’s a girdle of sorts . . . a corset . . . more or less . . .” Georgie explained as she undid the ties at her waist that worked as a belt and attached to the lacings up the back. She’d had several of them made in a flesh-toned fabric, so when she wore it under her riding clothes, it was invisible.

  “Where’s your bosom?” Franny asked, affrighted.

  Georgie laughed again, stepping closer to the maid so she could see the construction. “If Mrs. Daley is sincere in her declaration that you are to be my maid, you must acquaint yourself with my oddities.”

  “Oh posh. You are not so odd, Lady Georgiana,” Daley said. “You just make yourself out to be so.”

  Georgie looked at Daley, then back at Franny and smiled. “Daley’s always taken me under her wing and tried to make me feel better about it, but I know what I am. And I’m an odd duck.”

  Georgie struggled a bit to get out of the stiff undershirt and started to shimmy it over her head as she always did. “Oh miss, please let me help you, at least.” Franny reached for the ties and loosened them more and helped ease off the contraption.

  “Ah, that does feel nice.” Georgie breathed when it was off her. She watched as Franny held it with the tips of her fingers and well away from her body, as if it might cast a dark spell.

  “Get her boots and pants off, Franny. Don’t be standing about starin’,” Daley said.

  Franny set down the stiff girdle next to the wardrobe and stepped quickly back to help Georgie with the rest of her clothes.

  Franny removed her boots and socks, but Georgie pushed her away again when she tried to help with the breeches. “Honestly, when I’m dressed like a man, you’d best treat me like one. I’ll feel ridiculous having you help me take my own pants off. I’m not infirm!”

  Blushing furiously and looking like she might cry, Franny curtseyed, probably not knowing what else to do.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Franny,” Georgie apologized with a sigh. “I will try not to be so strange around you.” Georgie finished taking off the pants and set them down atop the shirt, so they were both hanging at the back of the chair. She stood naked for a moment and stretched up to the ceiling. She’d never suffered from any false modesty, or any modesty whatsoever for that matter. Public baths from Paris to Alexandria had afforded her the pleasure of communal bathing, and she was grateful to Daley for making the effort after all. “A bath is a perfectly luxurious idea. Thank you, Daley. I appreciate it very much.”

  With that, she lifted one leg and stepped into the large copper tub that had been hauled up and filled just for her. As she lifted her other leg and was about to sink into the deliciously hot water, the door to her bedroom opened and Trevor walked in casually, looking down at the jacket buttons he was fastening as he spoke. “James is taking nigh on forever to fold his cravat with seventeen pleats, and I thought you’d be ready
in a snap—”

  “Lord Mayson!” Mrs. Daley was appalled.

  “Eeek!” Franny squealed, looking right and left as if she were the one who had been caught naked.

  Georgie simply smiled and sank slowly into the wonderfully hot water. “Apparently I’m to be a lady this evening, so it will take me a few minutes longer to finish my toilette.” She smiled at his embarrassed face. “You may go now, Trevor. Unless you wish to scrub my back.”

  “Lady Georgiana!” Mrs. Daley was beside herself, poor thing. “You are incorrigible!”

  Finally recovering his voice, Trevor muttered his apologies and left the room in a hurry.

  She held her nonchalant smile until he quitted the room and then pretended to herself that her wildly heated cheeks were the result of the hot bath, nothing more. But lord, the way he had looked at her—and the way it had made her feel. There was nothing friendly about it, and she would do well to tamp down her foolish libido lest she get drawn into some greater foolishness.

  Georgie slid all the way under the water, then rose up like a seal and let little Franny scrub her clean.

  He hadn’t even recognized her! Trevor was barely breathing. He finally remembered he needed air somewhere around the second or third step from the bottom of the stairs. He inhaled sharply. She’d been so damned beautiful, half turned toward him with one strong, long leg in the tub and her rounded hip tilted at that provocative angle, and her breasts—dear God, he didn’t even think of her as having breasts, much less a pair as splendid as any he’d ever clapped eyes on.

  Trevor had been so aroused this afternoon—with all of James’s talk about how he planned to slowly, ever so slowly, peel away the layers of Georgie’s resistance—that perhaps he was on some sort of residual high alert. He rubbed his moist palms along the superfine wool of his dinner jacket and turned toward his study.

  He hoped reviewing the latest crop rotation analysis in the south pasture would help take his mind off the man and woman abovestairs who were making him feel like a damned teenager. Not that anything would take his mind off Georgie’s splendid body—or James’s imaginative plans for it—anytime soon, but it was worth a small effort.