Page 35 of Lessons for Marquesses
“No matter,” she said, righting her cap. “Everyone has breasts.”
Mr. Wolf veered his gaze straight into hers, saying, without saying,but you, George, you have them. And she had never been so aware of having them before. Not that they weren’t in the way—they were definitelyin the way—but that they could stir anything but displeasure? Incomprehensible.
His arm encircled her waist, an arm requiring no effort to lift her off the grass. Nose to nose, he eased her down the granite wall one might call a chest. She swore she felt his heart galloping toward hers.
He plied her face toward the moonlight.
Was it possible that her knees were weak? Yes, they were. From all the excitement. Not because Mr. Wolf touched her with the gentlest care or that his finger pads were rough or that he was so very tall and strong.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“I…” She gathered her wits. “Someone hit me with a rock.”
He stepped back unevenly. Her breasts were free to go back to being just breasts, but her heart keened with an odd loneliness.
Mr. Wolf surveyed the back of the house where every window had been assaulted. “Christ, I’m drunk.”
“Is that a particular enjoyment when one is drunk, to knock out windows?”
Disbelief formed a furrow between his brows. “I was trying to get your attention.”
“Oh.” This sounded as if she understood when she had no idea. “Why not come to the door?”
“You’re not serious.”
“That is the normal way of announcing oneself.”
“You don’t… haven’t ever…”
“Been pelted with a rock at a broken window? No.”
He shook his head as if she were a simpleton. “When a male wishes to let a female know he would like to meet her, without announcing himself at the door because she has been guarded by a feisty aunt around the clock, he might signal thus by tossing a pebble or two at her window.”
“Ahhh!” Mr. Wolf wanted to meet with her! And here he was, which, she decided quickly, she must take care not to show weakness and appear too eager. She regarded the broken windows. “You, uh, most definitely persevered.”
The choking sound from his chest sounded like a laugh. He followed it with a frown and stalked down the garden path, retrieving the candlestick and giving it a curious study before bending to the penknife, glinting a few feet away.
“Care to elaborate?” he asked.
“I thought you were a thief.”
He rubbed his face with his sleeve, weaving slightly. “George, how many thieves do you know announce themselves by throwing pebbles at windows?”
“I know none, but I suspected a bumbling one.”
He grabbed her arm. “Let’s get you inside.”
She hid her limp—show no weakness—and they entered the front door after having found the rear locked. Two maids met them in the hall with saucer eyes. Both began to quiver upon sight of Mr. Wolf removing his greatcoat.
His eyes narrowed at Georgiana’s bare feet. “What the hell happened to your foot?”
“I stepped in glass.” But who cared? She’d never be able to sleep alone again once the maids told Charlotte that Georgiana had been seen with a man in a state of undress. Charlotte and Oliver might force marriage upon her.
She said under her breath, “I need to speak to you in private. Quickly.” To the maids, she said, “Stay here, please.”
He stalked to the sitting room, glared at the cherubs on the ceiling as if they’d failed him somehow, and poured himself a bumper of brandy.
“Mr. Wolf, I realize that I am not a woman.”
