Page 34 of Lessons for Marquesses
Tap.
The last was right at her window overlooking the rear garden. A bird pecking at the moon’s reflection? She started to fall back to the mattress when a crack of breaking glass split the night and a rock bounced twice, tumbled across the carpet, and landed at her feet.
What a blundering way to commit burglary.The entire house would be upon them before…
Everyone had gone to the assembly.
Georgiana swiped at a candlestick, prepared to chastise the idiots and send them on their way. Careful to avoid the shattered glass, she crept to the window and stuck her head in the opening. A rock smacked her brow.
Stumbling backward, she sliced the bottom of her foot on a piece of glass and bit her lip to squelch a howl.
Her forehead bleeding, she dug the glass out from her heel.
Tap.
“Oooh! That is enough!”
Hastening into her shirt and breeches, candlestick in hand, she scurried down the stairs. Maybe she needed more than a candlestick, however bumbling these thieves were. Rummaging in a desk, she found a penknife and marched toward the backof the house. Peering through the drapery in the morning room, she searched the informal garden and spied the culprit near the boxwood. Only one thief, but by his proportions, he was capable.
Stupid but capable.
She would use the element of surprise like Mr. Wolf. Escaping through the front door, she crept about the house. Thwarted by an overgrown rose bush, she was forced to walk past the shadowy man who continued throwing rocks to every window.
She circled back to the thief, penknife and candlestick at the ready. Blood from her forehead dripped in her eye. She rubbed it away and then she knew. Those who died were aware of their fatal mistake before death struck them. Her elbow had scraped a branch. As soft as a sound it made, it was as if Zeus hurled a thunderbolt for the breathtaking speed of the shadow. It spun around, pinned her arms at her sides, and launched her over the garden.
She skid along the grass. She knew the sensation, the momentary terror of having no breath. But she didn’t panic for that. It was the shadow, in a black voluminous coat of a reaper. His steps crunched along the gravel, drawing near, nearer until he loomed over her.
The shadow’s blue-black hair hung in waves at his dark jaw. His scar smoldered in the moonlight.
A blink of long black lashes marked his surprise. “George?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dropping to his knees,the hem of Mr. Wolf’s coat rose up with the speed of his descent like raven’s wings. His hands circled her ankles and ran up her bare calves. There was a definite tension in them, as if he assessed for broken bones. At her knees, he pressed his fingers into the sensitive backs, judging her reaction—shocked silence—and resumed.
Up.
Sheathing her thighs, he inspected every skinny, muscled inch, made a query of her hips, squeezing them to test their stability, and once more judged her reaction. He slid up over the top of her breeches and grasped her ribs, thumbs to the front, fingers splayed at her back.
Up.
He skimmed the bottom curves of her breasts.
Up.
And over.
A strange shock tightened her nipples to peaks, like his thumbs had conjured up the coldest of nights. He stopped, his gaze pinned to her linen shirt. Horror of horrors, Mr. Wolfrealized she had breasts. He had touched them and he might be—no, certainly was—horrified at the discovery.
He yanked his hands away and clenched them at his thighs, averting his gaze to the grass.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
What else could she say? Breasts were a nuisance. They had actually,still,stirred with a luxuriant warmth from his touch. Which was incomprehensible.
Drawing in a breath, he blew it out between his teeth. “No. I’m sorry.”
Georgiana detected the definite sweet scent of liquor.
