Page 60 of Lessons for Marquesses
“And forgive me for libeling your father. He was a great man.” Another trait of which Oliver was not ashamed: tearing up. Which he did. “By God, I loved him.”
“And he loved you.”
“Do you know he made me his executor when I was five?”
“My mother said it was meant to distract you from your tantrums. It was that or throw you to the wolves.”
After a chuckle and curse, Oliver cocked a brow at her hair. “Go on and wear your wig. I’ll have the other replaced.”
Georgiana wasn’t surprised at her cousin’s concession. It was his politicking way. Blustering and compromising.
“Thank you,” she said.
They both removed their hands from each other’s shoulder. Oliver sketched a bow.
“Back to work,” he said.
“England eagerly awaits your guidance,” she replied as he departed and firmly closed the door behind him.
Georgiana executed a giddy jump and turn—it could not be called a pirouette—and hurried to fetch her wig. Since she hadn’t a valet and would never risk her flesh with curling tongs, both her wigs were simple tie wigs without buckles. But Lord, this one had seen better days, she thought as she carried the tangled affair to the dressing table.
As she picked off the black ribbon, a heavy thump resounded in the sitting room. If her hearing was true, it sounded as if a door had been attacked. Or speared. When nothing followed she sat down, powdered her wig, and began the tedious task of brushing.
Some time later, nearly bored to tears, she switched the brush to her left hand to relieve the right. Shortly thereafter, a note skid across the carpet from beneath the salon door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Why did he do it?There was no reason to, no reason that would benefit him. In fact, if Nicholas assumed the obvious, that Georgiana would test Oliver’s threat and wear a wig for the principle of it, he would be free of the shackles of fascination. And those shackles, forged by Hephaestus, had loomed as Georgiana had fled the morning room.
Zeus was ready to chain him to a rock, infuriated by Nicholas’s refusal to destroy Georgiana outright. Instead of an eagle devouring his liver nightly, it would be Georgiana, her eyes black against her moon-washed skin. She would slide down his body with her arresting Celtic hair, gorging on his flesh, her long fingers like the talons of a bird of prey impaling his hips, her fierce, carnal hum vibrating through him as she feasted.
Nicholas had departed the breakfast table and gained his room just in time. No one detected that the image of Georgiana devouring his liver had shifted to her devouring something else entirely.
His cock knew but everyone else, none the wiser.
William St. Clair had been correct on one account. Her hair did give men ideas, aggravating ideas that Nicholas walked offand when his body still pulsed and strained at the image of Georgiana servicing him with primeval greed, he seized the scalping knife.
He was never going to toss off to Georgiana St. Clair.
But his body was unhinged and taut as the fantasy gained strength. Georgiana crawled up his chest. She was at his mouth, her breath fanning against him.Bad men always win, she rasped between her bared white teeth. She licked his mouth. He nipped at her lush bottom lip and split it open, mesmerized by the blood trickling to her chin. She forced open his clenched jaw with her talons and plunged into him, their tongues, their blood, metallic and hot, joining like a malevolent potion.
How insane was he? She was William St. Clair’s daughter, the man who had killed his brother and stolen his life.
Nicholas hurled the knife, spearing it to the door leading to the salon.
For reasons unanswered, Nicholas sat down with the treasured edition ofThe Odysseyurging him on and wrote Georgiana a note. Not just a note but one he hoped would comfort her, words to soothe her pride and strengthen her spirit.
It wrecked her, for him to be witness to Oliver’s tirade, to her aunt’s assertions that her hair was pretty and with a few ministrations the problem of the Celtic whore hair would be solved. But Georgiana took it with a mild protest as always.
Nicholas unstuck the scalping knife from the door, crossed the salon, and thrust the note under it. In the event kind words did not restore Georgiana’s dignity, he roused his groom to accompany him to a nearby inn.
Astride Teague and waiting in the yard, he was once more master of his mind and body. It was as if the lurid, disturbing fantasies had never happened.
Setting the wig to the dressing table, Georgiana picked up the note and studied the clean, masculine script.
George. Georgiana. Ana.Below that, Mr. Wolf had written:Georgie.
She heard the master’s door shut. Long, determined strides thudded down the corridor. Did she hold in her hand a goodbye? Was the disgraceful scene she and Oliver had created too much for even a man who relayed killing a foe with his thumbs?
