Page 84 of Marry in Scarlet
They each looked out of their respective windows. Several miles passed in silence. She gave a cross snort and said as if to herself, “As if I would run off with a rake.” A moment later she added in a low mutter that he was sure he wasn’t meant to catch, “I wouldn’t touch another man with a barge pole. It’s bad enough with you.”
A hollow opened up in his stomach. “What do you mean? What’s ‘bad enough’?”
There was a long silence. Color rose in her cheeks, and just when he was sure she wasn’t going to answer, she said in a low voice, “This... these feelings.”
“Feelings?” He held his breath, waiting for her response.
“Sensations, then,” she muttered unwillingly. She’d turned a glorious wild rose color.
His breath came rushing back. His anger dissolved. He moved to sit beside her. “What sort of sensations?” he almost purred.
She glared at him and crossed her arms defensively. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
“You mean this?” He stroked a finger along her arm, almost but not quite touching the soft swell of her breast. “Or this?” He trailed the back of his hand down her cheek.
“Stop it!” She moistened her lips, unaware of how seductive he found it.
“You like my attentions, don’t you?”
She pressed her lips together and looked out the window. Refusing to answer him because then she would have to tell him the truth. Because she always did.
Because she always did... Something unraveled inside him.
A woman who refused to lie. A woman he could trust. Could he believe it? If it were true, what a gift she would be.
Time would tell whether she was making a fool of him or telling the unvarnished truth. In the meantime, there were thesesensationsto explore.
“Georgiana—”
She tossed her head. “I don’t answer to that.”
He was not going to call her George. It was an offense to her deep femininity. She didn’t act particularly ladylike, and she might crop her hair and assume boyish mannerisms—that glorious walk of hers—and she might ride like a boy—better than most boys, in fact—but the way she kissed... He took a deep breath. The female in her called to the male in him with a power he’d never before experienced.
She could never be a George to him. George was a fat German king, not an elegant, leggy, entrancing firebrand.
Why did she affect boyish mannerisms? He was curious as to how that had happened.
“What if I called you Georgie?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No.”
“Georgette? Georgia? Georgiarella?”
She snorted with reluctant humor. “I told you, it’s George or nothing.”
“George, then, since you insist.” He supposed he could get used to it. Not that she gave him a choice.
“I do.”
He lowered his voice. “Well then, George...” He slipped his arm along the back of the seat.
She eyed him suspiciously. “What?”
“We haven’t finished discussing these sensations of yours.”
“There’s nothing to disc—” She broke off as he slid a finger beneath her collar and caressed the nape of her neck. She shivered and arched against his hand like a cat.
“Stop it,” she muttered. Without very much conviction.
