1
Leviticus – Abomination,
thy name is Percy
“Stop this, Percy, please,” begged Georgina, “We agreed that
we would move forward and that we would not wallow in the murky depths of
society’s fickle values.”
“It is only that I know you are not happy,” replied Percy,
gripping the cushioned arms of the chair so hard that his knuckles turned
white. It was hard to enjoy life when someone as precious as Georgina suffered
so much. She was quite simply a dear. She was too patient and far too kind for
her own good. And she was stubborn when it came to placing her own happiness
first, refusing to listen to reason even when her counter arguments had as much
merit as a house built on the wind whipped sands of perilous Cornish coast.
Percy took deep, pained breaths as if the air in the room was polluted with
minuscule pins that cut at his throat as he swallowed and his stomach twisted
into painful knots. Georgina’s losses were really too much too bear.
Georgina rose from the dining table like a graceful swan to
crouch beside her husband’s chair and gazed into his gentle eyes. Percy was
titled, had enough wealth to support an entire county, he was angelic in looks
and he was blessed with a sweet temperament. To the unknowing eye, it would
appear that Percy had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but Georgina
knew the truth of the matter. His outer beauty hid a dark, swirling pit of torment.
Today, his shoulders bowed under the strain of self-loathing and fear. He
certainly did not need the added pressure of her emotional wellbeing and guilt
which twisted the lines of his sweet face.
“Percy, I love you and I want this for you. I would never
have agreed to marry you if I was not convinced it was moral and right to do
so.”
“Georgie, our situation is neither moral nor legal. I should
never have allowed you to sacrifice yourself for me. Now, we are both consigned
to hell.”
Georgina stood to place a chaste kiss on Percy’s cheek. “I
welcome purgatory in the next life if it means that you have experienced the
wonder of true love in this one. You have the blessing of being loved by two
people. Besides, so many of our peers marry for duty and where has it got them?
A loveless marriage is purgatory and we will never have to know that pain. I live with my best friend and I have come to
love your lover, as if he were my brother. These are gifts from God.”
“Sh, Georgie, someone may hear you,” hushed Percy, his sweet
face stricken with panic. He had long since ordered the servants out of the
room, but like so many noble homes, the walls had ears and a coin or two could
easily loosen an otherwise loyal tongue. Under Percy’s patronage and with
Georgina’s maternal eye, the Harrington servants were exceptionally well
remunerated and cared for, but they continued to feel the drain of large
families, some living as far afield as poverty stricken Limerick in Ireland.
With six, seven and sometimes nine brothers or sisters, refusing handsome
reward for disreputable information was almost impossible to refuse. The
circumstance of his servants’ financial deficiency made Percy’s situation even
more precarious. If anyone of the poor blighters heard the truth of his
proclivities, it would be the end of his privileged, silk-wearing existence. Percy
ran his hands through his golden hair and shook his head before responding to
Georgina’s romantic, but misguided view of their situation.
“No, Georgie, the feelings Horace and I have for one another
are not gifts. We are a constant reminder of the life you should have had and
our devotion is a punishment- Leviticus, Georgie, Leviticus!”
Georgie knew that dratted verse by heart. Percy kept a Bible
hidden in the otherwise empty set of drawers next to his bed, permanently
opened to one worn page with one powerful bleeding ink line circling the condemning
passage. Ten and seven fading words swung over Percy’s head- threatening, 18:12 threatening: You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female, it is an
abomination. Georgie imagined Percy bent over the scripture reading that
verse at night, alone in his chambers, his finger straining over each word, as
if to obliterate them from existence. Only, it was too late for that. The verse
had been written hundreds of years before and the future suffered for it. The
condemnation ‘abomination’ was branded
to humanity’s soul and tainted the purity of the love Percy felt for Horace,
sentencing their relationship to lurk in the shadows of society. It was a small
sacrifice on her part to be Percy’s wife by law, if not in body. At least she
could shield him from certain death. The turn of the century had seen many English
men prosecuted for sodomy and too many executed. Every one of those men was
probably as sweet and sensitive as her dear Percy. Georgina’s dreams were
haunted by the prospect of a swaying body turning slowly to reveal the pained
and twisted face of her best friend, his hands pulling desperately at the rope
coiled about his straining neck and his colourful breeches soiled by terror.
This was not a deserved or dignified farewell for a person whose only sin was
to love another person. Abomination, indeed! The very existence of such a
hateful verse within a theology that preaches patience, forgiveness and the
magnanimity of a Lord, made Georgina’s stomach twist with outrage. In her
humble opinion, man was not and never would be worthy to pen the beliefs of the
Lord, except of course for the Ten Commandments which were carved by the Lord
himself using Moses as an instrument of communication. So, as far as Georgina
was concerned, Leviticus could go to hell and she would continue to tell Percy
this until such time as the truth of the matter obliterated society’s gravelly
morality.
“A lot of fuss and nonsense has polluted your head, my sweet
husband. You know I do not believe that God will punish us in this life or when
we beg entry at the Pearly Gates. He will see at once that our hearts are pure.
No, my prayers are not for forgiveness, but that God sees fit to protect you
and the very special relationship you have with Horace. What kind of God would
our Saviour be if he did not have room in his heart for love, of any kind? There
is enough hate and sorrow in this world without condemning the truly beautiful.
Look at yourself, Percy; you are truly a bang-up to the mark person. Besides,
it would not surprise me if parts of the Bible were written by priggish old men
with dusty grey wigs.”
Percy rose from the table to gaze into his beautiful wife’s passionate
eyes, “Be careful, Georgie, those wigs are some of the most powerful men in
England.”
Georgina sniffed and raised her pert nose. She did not
believe that the aristocracy had a right to be appointed to the upper court
judiciary on the basis of their birth rite. It was also entirely possible that
she had way too much time on her hands. Her esteemed brother, called Oliver
Harper and not plain Oliver or Harper on his firm insistence, warned that
Georgina’s learned ways and search for justice in the written word would only
cause her mind to twist and turn on itself like an unconquerable maze. But her
brother’s advice to spend more time on Bond Street in the haberdasheries and
milliners or with the divine Lady Duff-Gordon whose fashion house had taken the
ton by storm, and less time in the legal repository of his library had fallen
on deaf ears and Georgina was left with the knowledge that England’s laws had
little integrity and the upper echelons of society rode the lucrative waves of
corruption and the lower class drowned in the turbulent wake.
“Alright, let us consider this from another angle, what
about your wellbeing, Georgie?”
“What about me? I told you only minutes before that I am
perfectly happy with the decision I took near on eight years ago.”
Percy shook his head, his golden locks falling over his
forehead and his azure blue eyes like a cloudless sky, filling with tears.
“Stop this, Georgie! I see what is happening to you and I cannot bear it
anymore. You bury yourself in dusty books to avoid anything that reminds you of
the life you should have had. Marrying you was selfish and…”
“Percy, there is no other way that you and Horace can be
together without risking your necks, literally. Did you know that only last
month the Marquis of Custine was beaten and left for dead after propositioning
a soldier at Saint-Denis? The man was one of the most genuinely thoughtful
aristocrats I have had the privilege of meeting and yet, his title, wealth and
sympathetic consideration of others served him ill, naught but ill-forged
armour against the ignorant hatred in man’s heart. You, my dear, sweet friend
and trusting husband, must accept that the danger is as real today as it was
eight years ago. There is still no place in people’s hearts or minds for an
encompassing love. Besides, by the time you realised that danger was knocking
at the door, it was too late to find another way. We had to marry.”
Percy placed his fine hands either side of Georgie’s face,
admiring the perfect arch of her dark brows, her thick lashes and passionate
hazel-coloured eyes. “Once, you had the power to enslave men and, if my memory
serves me correctly, you caused quite a few to behave in the most outrageous
way to gain your affection. Hell, Bertram and Hollingsworth made right fools of
themselves, floating about, forever in your shadow like dogs waiting for
scraps. But instead of flowers and poetry, kisses and romance, you were forced
into a life of servitude. I am belittled by the knowledge of what you have done
for me, what you have sacrificed for me.”
“You know I do not see our marriage like that!” Georgie
snapped, trying to turn her face to hide the threatening tears. Of course, she
felt the loss of a romantic attachment, but the need for love no longer burned
like a branding to her heart. The wound had long since healed, leaving little
but a raised scar and a distant memory of the joys of fanciful youth.
Fluttering butterflies and romantic daydreams were in the past; Percy and
Horace were her future, her family.
“Georgie, for two years you were the most beautiful woman to
grace the halls of Almacks and you would be now if only you would return to the
rout-parties.” Percy could see the thunder cloud drawing across Georgina’s brow.
She could be as stubborn as the English spring season with its soggy days, but
in the end summer always revealed the true miracle of life- rejuvenation and
new birth. And so it would be for Georgina. Percy would pester her until the
clouds parted and the sun’s rays drew forth the seeds of her vitality.
“There is no other way to see it. By marrying me you rescued
me from a life of cruel disdain and more than likely saved my life, but what
did you get in return, Georgie?”
“I want for nothing more than what I have, Percy. Your
friendship means the world to me. I was very young when those men were arrested
from the White Swan and charged with sodomy, but I remember your face when you
recounted the story to Oliver Harper. You were terrified. You were there that
night, at the Swan, were you not?” Percy nodded. He had been in the White Swan,
cosseted away in the farthest, darkest corner with Horace when the Bow Street
Runners stormed the pub, wooden truncheons in hand. The deafening chaos had
given Percy enough time to dive under the table and to pull Horace alongside
him where they cowered on the dirt strewn floor like swine for most of the
night, too afraid to raise their faces in fear of detection.
“You were listening that night I sought your brother’s help?
I am sorry you heard that story. You were very young, too young to hear of such
violent dealings.”
Georgie nodded and rested her head on her husband’s chest.
“I was so scared that the Runners were going to take you
away that I would have married you right there and then if Oliver Harper had
asked me to.”
A tear slipped down Georgie’s pink cheek and her lip
trembled. Percy had been a constant feature throughout her life and because of
his jovial ways, Oliver Harper had been less serious and Georgina’s care as his
ward, more lively. She was grateful for Percy’s lifelong friendship with Oliver
Harper and with her.
“You are very good to me and you love me. I am most blessed,
so please, can we not discuss this again.”
“I do not love you like a man should love a wife and we will
never have children. These are not blessings, Georgie.”
“I know you have tried. It is not your fault that…” Percy
had tried, but to no avail. The turn of a fine ankle or the soft, white rise of
a woman’s bosom did nothing to inspire desire in Percy’s chest. No, he was
drawn to the rumble of a deep voice and the breadth of a well-exercised chest.
For that Georgie could not blame him. It was a prospect that she too
appreciated. It made no difference to Georgie that Percy was a man attracted to
a man. She determined that attraction between the sexes was similar to taste in
food- she liked brown sugar frosting, as did Percy. In Georgie’s mind, sexual
attraction was akin to personal preference and not God’s decree. It was only
that English society was so morally stunted and could not accept free-will. In
her hours of research, Georgie discovered reams of history evidencing ancient civilisations
acceptance of polari love and sexual gratification. Georgie smiled to herself
as she recalled the book of drawings of Greek relief carvings lodged on the top
shelf of Oliver Harper’s otherwise legal repository. Orgy scenes with no
reserve, of any sort- ancient Greek men enjoyed great latitude in their sexual
expression and in Rome, it was considered natural for a man to have same-sex
relations, without perceived loss of masculinity or social standing, merely
because it was expected that a man would submit his body to giving and
receiving pleasure.
“Why are you smirking?
Georgina! Your circumstance is not amusing. And stop defending me, it is
my fault. I should have taken responsibility and publically owned what I am,
instead of allowing you to bear the yoke. You have set me free and in return I
have sentenced you to a life devoid of the very blessings that are at a core of
being a woman.”
“Percy, please, it is not as if you did not try and I do
understand. I too would not want to lie with a person I am not attracted to.”
“Georgie!” exclaimed Percy in frustration. His wife was
entirely too understanding and self-sacrificing. He sat back down and ran his
long, elegant fingers through his tumble of blonde curls again, “You deserve to
be loved, passionately. You need romance in your life. You should have children
to cosset. I want you to have those experiences.”
“Oh, Percy, you are upsetting me by rehashing this so often.
I chose you, we love each other and that is all there is to be said about this
matter,” Georgina cried in frustration, seating herself on the window seat
looking out over Eaton Square and dabbing at her eyes. She refused to dwell on
what she could not have rather than celebrate the opulence of her life- Percy’s
generosity knew no bounds, although she suspected her unrestricted spending
allowance sprung from guilt rather than his sizable income; her eight homes
were obscenely large and well decorated; her title brought her respect and her
beauty brought envy. Moreover, she and Percy were the best of friends and she
loved him dearly. No matter what he said, all of these things were blessings.
Still, she knew he would not relent. Percy wanted more for her and she could
see his dramatic flair would persist until such time as she found herself a
playmate or worse, a lover. Right on cue, Percy drove his point home,
determined to force her into a life of promiscuity. Although, she doubted she
could be labelled licentious when she had never been bedded before. Perhaps
there was another word for taking a lover to your virginal bed? Regardless, it
was a state of being that Georgina was not interested in. For sweet Georgina
Harper-Crewe, the intimate act between a man and a woman was an opportunity to
deeply connect and not merely ‘go at it like dogs’, as she once heard the
footman proposition the kitchen maid only to blush profusely when he realised
his uncouth comment had been overheard by none other than their respected and
beautiful Countess of Harrington.
“Georgina, are you even listening to me? I am trying to make
the point that you did not have a choice when it came to marrying me. I was
desperate for rescue and if I recall correctly, your brother was most insistent
that it was your duty to protect me. You were but ten and seven years of age
and hardly in a position to reject the force of your brother’s argument or to
understand the consequences of marrying me. I tell you what we will do- I will
stop scratching at this wound if you will just try. What do you say, my love?
Will you try to enjoy a ball or perhaps a game or two of whist at Lucilles?”
Georgina wrinkled nose told Percy everything he needed to
know about that particular suggestion. Lucilles,
was an exclusive club of hand-selected ladies of the first water. Georgina
had received no less than three invitations to join the favoured few of Lady
Bovary’s card-toting circle, but Georgina laughed each time an invitation was
delivered and tossed the gold-embossed cards carelessly aside. The more fervent
the Lucilles’ pursuit of Georgina,
the more convinced she was of their insincere nature. The very code of the club
made a mockery of their very existence- ‘The
cultivation of friendship amongst its members, the acquirement individually of
high degree of mental culture, and the attainment of the highest standard of
morality’. La, the Lucilles had
never extended themselves beyond playing whist or the sponsorship of pitied
spinsters, as if being on the shelf beyond the age of four and twenty was the
greatest travesty known to man. As far as the Lucilles were concerned, extreme poverty was an ordained state of
being, the likes of which was beyond their power to influence. Georgina
despised the Lucilles’ very existence
and would rather suffer an evening of swishing silk and being sized up by
envious mamas, unmarried ladies and rakes on the search for an easy romp than
engage in frivolous conversation with Lady Bovary and her shallow followers.
“Firstly, I am no
longer ten and seventeen. At twenty and five, I am well able to make
independent decisions, including whom I choose to befriend,” Georgina reminded
Percy. “Secondly, it is not in my nature to proposition men. I do not need a
lover,” she asserted, turning her devoted hazel eyes to consider her husband.
The poor man was fairy-tale-prince beautiful and even though he was married, he
drew the attention of both married and supposedly chaste woman. She could only
imagine female attention to be a sore trial to a man who was almost wholly
preoccupied by thoughts of one very special man.
“Presumably, by virtue of my choice, having an affair is well within my nature!” defended Percy,
wounded by the implication of Georgina’s words.
“For goodness sake, Percy, falling in love with Horace was
not a choice and had very little to do with your nature, unless you are
referring to your turn for the dramatic. Horace is a miracle and I am thrilled
to have both of you in my life.”
Percy tapped the prongs of the silver fork against the china
plate and stared blindly across the large, polished mahogany table laden with
the finest of everything. Even the pretty free flowing Rococo-style sauceboat
no longer brought him joy. His possessions and wealth had become a splinter in
his side, causing him pain at every turn- a man who has everything, but cannot
bring his wife the happiness she deserves, is not a man.
“Georgie, I cannot live like this anymore,” Percy stated,
deflating before Georgie’s eyes. What kind of man would he be if he lived life
to the full at his wife’s bequest whilst she languished before his very eyes?
“What do you mean?”
“We are living a lie,” Percy started, leaving his position
at the head of the table to sit next to her at the window. He took Georgie’s
hand in his and caressed the soft skin beneath her wrist. She was such a dear
and he did not know what he had done to deserve her protection and friendship.
He did know that the world deserved to experience the sweet and beautiful
Georgina Harper-Crewe, Countess of Harrington and, in turn, she needed Mother
Nature to rekindle the fire that had once caused her eyes to burn bright and
her cheeks to glow. “Is it not obvious to you that I cannot be happy unless you
are happy? I cannot even enjoy Horace’s company because I know you spend the
nights alone in one of my echoing, pointless homes or in your brother’s sombre
library, as if it holds the judicial key to our freedom.”
“Percy…”
“No, Georgina! It is about time you found your miracle.”
2
Vanity, thy name is
Gabriel
“Bloody Hell, Conway,
this is my worst nightmare. Do something?”
“What would you have me do? Punch you in the nose!” laughed
Findley Travers, Baron of Conway and long suffering friend of Gabriel Charles
Weston, the 10th Duke of Huntingdon and a complete rogue- a genius rogue, but a
rogue nonetheless. Despite their long-standing friendship, Conway had long
since itched to gift Huntingdon a thorough beating. The man was outrageously
wealthy in every possible way- his looks were a shade short of beautiful,
admired and most likely desired by both sexes; his mind was as sharp as a new
fishing hook and his wealth was, well, obscene. His downfall was most certainly
his barbed temperament and his apparent unwavering self-regard. Huntingdon was
as selfish as English winters are long and as obstinate as a goat.
“If that is what it takes, then yes, cause me serious bodily
harm and send word post-haste to Lady Audley so that I may escape suffocation
by batting eye-lashes and scheming consideration.”
Huntingdon looked about his person suspiciously and tugged
at his waistcoat. Lady Bristow had long since set her heart on him and had been
casting her line in his direction for the past hour and a half, whilst her
pasty daughter languished at her side wholly aware of her widowed mother’s
attempts to engage the ton’s most beloved rogue. Huntingdon shuddered. Perhaps
he was getting too old for the game, but it was the only one he knew how to
play. His parents had set the worst example of marital bliss north of Watford,
the likes of which left Huntingdon entirely at a loss when it came to happiness
in general. He had long since accepted that his head and heart were more attuned
to business. By forever scanning the horizon for opportunity, Huntingdon had
his finger firmly on the pulse of future demand. The best of it was, because of
his noble heritage, no one person batted an eye at his commercial prowess- he
had the freedom to come and go where he pleased. Perhaps it was because he
prided himself on honesty. People trusted him, well, when it came to commerce,
they did. Women were an entirely different matter and at that moment in time,
Lady Audley’s matchmaking antics were the bane of his morbid existence.
“There was a time when you would not have hesitated to
conquer a room brimming with eager maidens or matrons for that matter,” laughed
Conway whilst accepting a generous drink on behalf of his suffering friend.
“One can only believe that your reticence stems from your advanced age or the
softening of…”
“I have not gone soft!” scowled Huntingdon, “And I am not
old. It is only that my tastes have matured.” It was one thing to start
questioning your own position in life, but quite another beast when called old
and infirm by a so-called friend.
“Have they now?” quipped Conway, taking his friend’s measure
through narrowed eyes as he passed him a snifter of whisky. Huntingdon was
disconcertingly handsome and terribly charming. It would almost be a sin to see
him settle down. Almost, but not quite- Huntingdon’s popularity was a tad bit
embarrassing for less revered men. If he were taken off the marriage market,
the sweet cherries of the season may actually condescend to seek the company of
equally worthwhile, if not a little less handsome prospects.
“Why not marry then? An older, more settled woman may be
more to your seasoned liking,” teased Conway who knew that Huntingdon was far
from weathered. In fact, he was dangerously virile and determined to act the
part of the devil. At six foot in height and with a head of hair as thick and
black as the day of his birth, Huntingdon cut quite the handsome and intriguing
figure. In other words, women found it terribly difficult to resist his charms.
It was far more likely that Huntingdon’s foul mood be accounted for by Lady
Audley’s insistence that the night be filled with conversation and ‘appropriate’
dancing rather than Huntingdon’s preferred occupations of drinking, gambling
and cavorting. As the dear Lady was Huntingdon’s favourite ex-mistress, he did
not behave as uncouth as to turn down her invitation, even with her prior
advice that the night would threaten boredom. In fact, he saw her invitation as
a great compliment to his person. None of his ex-mistresses bore him ill-will
and all continued to enjoy his company, without the promise of ongoing
financial support. Truth be told, he was sensitive to their needs and had not abandoned
any one of them. He always ensured that his care of the lovely ladies ended only
after they had transferred their attentions to another worthwhile benefactor.
In fact, Huntingdon perceived Lady Audley as a prime example of his
benevolence. He had saved her from ruin after her husband’s unexpected demise
which had left the dear woman in the clutches of determined debt collectors. If
the old Earl had died quickly and with pride, taking his debts with him, all
would have been well for Lady Audley, but no, the Earl accomplished dying much
as he did living- with painstaking tedium. It took eight long months for the
Earl to pass and, during that period, the pretty treasure was harassed to wits’
end until news of Huntingdon’s favour spread through society like wildfire,
calming the tetchy proprietors who had been left carrying the burden of the almost
late Earl of Audley’s extravagant tastes and lack of business acumen. One could
almost say that Huntingdon’s desire for the woeful widow had saved the very
skin on her back. And now Lady Audley enjoyed a well-established home of her
own and the care of the Earl of Buckley whose perpetually sour wife meant that
he was likely to require the solace of Lady Audley’s sweet embrace for many
years to come. Regardless, a night of monotony was a little more than Huntingdon’s
benevolent soul could bear and as he no longer felt beholden to the pretty
dowager as he had graced her ball sufficiently, he was deuced determined to
bring the night to an early end.
“Will you just do a friend a favour and figure out a way to
save me from a night of purgatory?” Huntingdon asked through clenched teeth. If
he had to dance with another sugary-sweet, over-powdered debutante determined
to make an impression and severely chaperoned by an overzealous mother, he may
just have to wrap his hands around one of their fine little necks to eke a tad
bit of enjoyment from the night.
“I bloody-well will not! Concoct your own disingenuous
excuse,” Conway scolded, enjoying his friend’s discomfort for a short while
longer.
Only it did not take long for Huntingdon to irritate
Conway’s nerves which saw him agreeing to smooth the way for Huntingdon’s
escape. Huntingdon had been downright rude when delivering his farewell,
leaving Lady Audley’s ruffled feathers in Conway’s sensitive hands.
Lady Audley blushed prettily, tapped Conway lightly on his
shoulder with her fan and then glared across the room to where Huntingdon stood
in the shadow of a solid fluted column. He had already taken his leave and Lady
Audley had been less than pleased with his discourteous attitude. Bolstered by
four fingers of whisky, Huntingdon had not even bothered to present a
half-baked excuse for his rude behaviour. He had quite simply advised his
hostess of his impending departure, informed her that Conway would fabricate a
story for her to pass about, bowed, turned on his heel and cut across the
swirling dancefloor to make a swift exit.
Only, he no longer had the will to make his escape- not with
her sweet, herbal scent clawing at
him like a leech in the throes of bloodletting as she passed him by. For
Christ’s sake, a woman was not meant to smell like pine and woodland after a
burst of spring rain. The smell was unnatural, or too natural. Huntingdon was
not sure which, but he knew it was cursed not right. For the life of him, he
could not think of a way to rid himself of the stench of his attraction to her,
other than introduce himself to the blasted woman. Huntingdon leaned his dark
head against the cold, white pillar as he watched her traverse the ballroom.
Her figure was too rounded to be in the first bloom of youth and her hips
swayed gently beneath a pale pink, sheer silk gown. Her carriage spoke of a
degree of experience and confidence. Her dark auburn hair was arranged in a
soft bun of interlacing plaits on the crown of her head. A braided headband
served as the only other adornment and natural ringlets curled invitingly in
the soft curve of her neck. Huntingdon waited for a glimpse of the woman’s face
he was already determined to bed. It was pathetic to feel the swirl of attraction
without having seen the woman’s face, but here he was – his feet led heavy and
his heart racing like a hummingbird. He could only hope that her looks were
gorgon repulsive, freeing his body from the grips of sexual tension.
Conway eyed Huntingdon from across the room and gestured
discreetly with his hand to indicate that he could make a swift exit without
causing further offence, as Lady Audley was well mollified by Conway’s soothing
presence and sweet talk. But he was surprised to find that Huntingdon had lost
all interest in escape and was instead invested in the cloud of pink silk
drifting across the ballroom. Instantly, Conway recognised sweet Lady
Harrington and sent Huntingdon a scathing look. When Huntingdon eventually
looked up to meet his gaze, Conway mouthed a firm ‘NO’ and shook his head.
Conway was well acquainted with said lady’s brother. He was not only a good
friend, but an accomplished and respected barrister. On occasions when visiting Oliver Harper,
Conway had the good fortune of spending an hour or so in Lady Harrington’s
delightful company and had once fancied a life tied to her strings, but he had
missed his opportunity. Although he still had the occasional wistful thought
about Georgina, he took solace in the belief that his loss saved her husband’s life.
Percy Crewe was the best of men.
Regardless, the short and the dirty of it was that Georgina
Harper-Crewe was too pure and giving for the likes of Gabriel Weston- rogue
extraordinaire. If Fate brought Georgina and Huntingdon together, the liaison
would kill her- one soul destroying moment at a time. Conway could see the
travesty play out in his mind’s eye: Georgina would give and give and give of
her person, in the fullest belief that what she shared with Huntingdon amounted
to love; only to discover he was a creature who thrived on possession. Like a
hoarder gathers things to feed his own carnivorous ego, but never truly
understands the reciprocity of the relationship. And so Huntingdon will go on
to need more objects. One perfect being would never quench the desire for more,
not for Gabriel Weston. Hell, Conway doubted he would recognise perfection if
it stared him in the face, which was seemed frighteningly likely. Huntingdon
had not taken his eyes off her for the past two minutes.
When Conway recognised the predatory glint steal into
Huntingdon’s dark eyes, he moved quickly to intercept Huntingdon’s prey and to
escort her into the safe hands of Lady Audley who knew full-well what her
ex-lover was capable of, or not capable of.
Georgina went willingly in the direction Conway led her. She
liked the Baron immensely and welcomed a chance to further their acquaintance. She
had always been a little in awe of the political debates played out between her
brother and Conway, the likes of which portrayed a world of intrigue and
danger. Georgina looked forward to gaining a deeper understanding through an
intimate discussion with Conway without encountering her brother’s disapproving
glare. Her ‘manly’ mind was a circumstance her brother respected, but could not
understand. To his traditional paradigms, a woman as beautiful and regal as
Georgina should be attracted to bolts of silk, ribbons and the gleam of pearly
buttons. But Georgina was not willing to be defined by womanly wiles and superficial
interests like a sleek, pretty magpie lured by shiny baubles. God bestowed her
with a lively, curious mind and she had the skill of seeing into people’s
souls. These were gifts she intended to use because knowledge made her feel connected
to the world, marginally purposeful and less guilty about the wealth at her
disposal.
Conway’s sly manoeuvre was not lost on Huntingdon. Conway
truly did believe that dignity and compassion were the traits of people who
aspired to be more than singular and part of greater good, and he could not
help exercise this believe. And here was a prime example of his heroic and
selfless behaviour, stepping in to protect a lamb from spoil.
Huntingdon swore and mumbled under his breath, “Findley
Travers, bloody valiant Baron of Conway, always playing at being the frigging
hero!”
Conway’s move did not rescue Lady Harrington. Instead, it
served to set Huntingdon’s instincts firmly to hunt mode. Conway knew that
Huntingdon was a scoundrel, but generally did not interfere in his rakish
business on the understanding that Huntingdon used his discretion and steered
well clear of the innocent. But the
woman standing beside Conway was not an innocent, so why did he feel it
necessary to come to her aid? Huntingdon’s body twitched to discover what it
was about the pristine little lady that caused Conway to step in so quickly. Let the games begin, Huntingdon thought
as a sliver of excitement wound through his body. He smirked, righted himself
and crossed the room to stand beside his friend.
“Conway, Lady Audley, will you do me the honour of an
introduction?” Huntingdon asserted, shooting his friend a warning look. If
Conway played Huntingdon’s game, it was possible that he would be bored before
the evening’s final chords were struck and he would be satisfied with nothing
more than a kiss and fondle in a dark corner or at worst, behind an earthy
hedge. However, if Conway chose to play his cards too close to his chest,
Huntingdon would ensure that the little lady experienced the full Gabriel
Weston ride, simply for the power of it.
Georgina turned her gaze towards the baritone sound of the
Duke’s voice and was immediately irritated by his brazen consideration of her
person and the haughty turn of his smile. There was nothing about her toilette
that invited such scandalous scrutiny- her dress was pretty, but quite
conservative in design, allowing for the merest hint of her bosom. Her hair was
arranged in a dignified waterfall-style, braided bun and her features were not
accentuated by paint. Georgina did not hold by the fashion of clownish white
skin, dripping red lips and heavily rouged cheeks, not even when applied
conservatively. A little crease appeared between Georgina’s full, dark eyebrows
as she contemplated the Duke’s attentive gaze. She could not fathom why the
Duke seemed intent of devouring her with his eyes, except that Percy had warned
she would undoubtedly draw attention if she re-joined society’s festivities and
routs. Still, the Duke’s admiration was so blatant that Georgina was tempted to
slap his chiselled cheek before he offended her with trifling flowery words set
to cause her tummy to flutter, heat to race to her core and her heart to
constrict. Although she doubted he was
the type to lower to such trifling flirtation.
Huntingdon was
entirely surprised by his body’s continued thrumming demands. Georgina was
simple in her beauty, dignified in a puritanical sort of way and apparently
quite oblivious to the attention she was drawing; and she was too long in the
tooth to fall for simpering attempts to get her into bed. Truth be told, she
was a little out of his league and a challenge to be conquered.
Georgina returned the courtesy of laden consideration- Gabriel
Weston was an incredibly handsome man. He stood a good six inches taller than
most men, his thighs rippled beneath his breeches as he shifted his position
and his shoulder to waist ratio was perfectly V-proportioned. And of course, the Duke of Huntingdon’s
reputation preceded him. He was said to have mistresses placed strategically
across England to ensure that his wicked needs be readily seen to. Oh! Georgina thought as Percy’s words
infiltrated her reasoning and she turned her hazel eyes to consider the Duke
again.
Now, what precisely
did Percy say? ‘It is about time you found your miracle…’
Georgina turned to face the Duke squarely and cast another
appreciative gaze over his person. Tall. Trim. Strong... Georgina smiled as she
turned her gaze to his handsome face. She freed her mind from the constraints
of high society’s strictures to consider the potential of engaging a man of
Huntingdon’s reputation and allowing her body to react to his leering invitation.
He may not be the love of her life, but the Duke of Huntingdon would make an
intriguing playmate and he would likely be game without imposing demands on her
loyalty to Percy.
Conway was quick to notice Georgina’s interest in the dark
Duke and sought to intercede with a gentle touch to her forearm, to draw her
attention and a whispered warning, “Oh, no, Lady Harrington, I must counsel
against any association with…”
“Lord Conway, thank you for your concern, but I know of his
Grace’s tainted character,” interrupted Georgina, smiling at her protector with
the intention of reassuring him. Conway was a genuine and caring soul, and his
interest in her had been most welcome over the years, but Georgina had never
felt the stirrings of attraction rise through her body in response to him. The
Duke, on the other hand, had just this affect and it made Georgina wonder how
far his carnal power would take her if she gave him the opportunity.
“Perhaps you have not heard the worst of the stories, Lady
Harrington,” offered Lady Audley who was feeling increasingly alarmed by the
way the Duke was looking at Georgina. Although Lady Audley had experienced
Huntingdon’s particular patronage, he had never looked at her in the way he was
the Countess of Harrington. It was more than lust and impossibly love, as it
was clear that they were virtual strangers. And yet the searing emotion belying
Huntingdon’s eyes came close. Lady Audley’s brow lifted as she recognised the
intelligence behind Huntingdon’s intent gaze- lingering on the cliff edge of
enlightenment.
“If my presence offends you so much, it is a wonder you
deign to invite me to your little soirées,” Huntingdon commented haughtily, not
at all perturbed by the crass exchange about his person.
Lady Audley gasped at his audacity and promptly told him
that it would certainly be the last time he received such an honour from her.
Huntingdon laughed aloud and returned his gaze to Georgina
before answering, “The absence of such scintillating company would be a sad
loss indeed.”
Georgina felt it necessary to step between the protagonist
and his opposition. It least, she felt duty bound to intervene before Lady Audley clawed Huntingdon’s
sensual dark blue eyes out with her fingernails or worse, before she delivered
an insult about his person from which there could be no recovery. Insulting a
man of the Duke’s reputation could damage Lady Audley’s standing. For some
reason, the ton adored the dastardly Duke. With her back turned to him,
Georgina whispered platitudes and reassurances which saw the vexed hostess
retreat willingly with Conway following tentatively in her wake. But not before
Lady Audley aimed a final well-placed barb.
“Your Grace, I raise
the white flag with the fullest belief that in this precious soul, you have met
your match and perhaps even your salvation.”
“Well, that was impressive. Perhaps there is more to you
than a pretty face and determined hazel eyes,” commented Huntingdon, offering
Georgina his undivided, simmering attention. With his impertinent dark eyebrows
arched in intrigue, he proceeded, “May I ask what you said to our hostess that
saw her retract her claws?”
“I merely pointed out the obvious,” Georgina answered
innocently.
“Oh?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“I am afraid that I am still in the dark here, my dear,” he
commented dryly, feeling increasingly irritated by Lady Harrington’s quiet
confidence and blasted earthy smell. What was it- thyme, sage or both?
“Your Grace, you are the obvious. I cannot help but see your
behaviour for what it is and you for what you are.”
The Duke’s lips twitched in amusement. With rampant rumour
about his dalliances, he could well imagine what Lady Harrington thought of his
person.
“With flattering lips and with a double heart they speak,” Georgina
quoted.
The mischievous look in Huntingdon’s eye was replaced by a
look Georgina recognised all too well. She had hurt his feelings and was
instantly repentant. Only, she did not have the foggiest idea why his mood had
changed so swiftly.
“I am sorry, your Grace, perhaps I have misjudged you. It is
unfair of me to take rumour as gospel truth.”
Georgina’s initial intuition had certainly not failed her- the
Duke of Huntingdon was as vain and arrogant as she first believed him to be. He
worked damn hard to hone that particular cloak of defence against the fickle,
perilous ton and he had sworn that nothing short of the invasion of the Empire
would see him shrug off its protection. He probably had his fanatical parents
to thank for his suspicious nature which led him to be as calculating as he was
self-obsessed. He was yet to meet a person of noble birth in whom he would
trust his life. Not even Conway, a life-long
friend, could convince him to place his full confidence in anyone but himself. And
yet, in a matter of minutes, sweet Georgina Harper-Crewe had managed to make a
dent in his armour. He could not let his guard down with her. He was quick to
realise that Georgina was not only beautiful and intelligent, but she was also
a sensitive and compassionate woman and these qualities would essentially be
her downfall if she chose to pit her wit against his. With flattering lips and with a double heart they speak, indeed! He
could use her depth of feeling to bend her to his will and her concern for his
feelings would easily allow him to take advantage of physical closeness. He
schooled his expression into that of a deeper hurt and leaned towards her sweet
person. He knew she would not object under the circumstance of having offended
him. Huntingdon leaned in further to whisper into Georgina’s ear.
“Psalm 12 verse 2.”
And then he withdrew ever so slightly, just enough to allow
her an unfettered view of his pained eyes. She turned surprised eyes to meet
his and her breathing deepened when she realised she had misjudged his
character. He was pleased to see her
startled reaction, but hid his joy beneath the mask of being wronged. Huntingdon
maintained the façade for a moment longer and waited for the tell-tale sign, a
tug on the fishing line. And when Georgina’s startled, hazel eyes grew watery
with compassion and her body swayed towards his, Huntingdon knew she was
well-and-truly hooked and there was no longer any need to hide his true nature.
She would forever strive to reach the sensitive, needy man hidden beneath his
arrogant ego, the one she had caught a glimpse of and longed to protect. Women,
the motherly types, were so predictable.
“Ah, you see, even the devil attends church to heed the Word
and because listening without hearing makes a mockery of our Lord’s teachings,
I listen and learn His ways. Even the devil concedes this point and finds
knowledge of humanity’s principles and values particularly useful in times of
strategy. Although, it appears I present a Christian opportunity too. Let me
explain my thinking: your observation of my person is largely correct. I am
consumed by my own importance and care for no other way. I suppose, some may
call me conceited or vain.”
Georgina tilted her head to allow the rumble of his deep
voice unrestricted access to the needy skin stretching below her neckline. The
heat of his spoken word stroked her in ways she had not previously imagined. She
could not help but be drawn to his male prowess. The Duke of Huntingdon was
like no other man she had ever met. His attractiveness extended beyond his dark
beauty. It had more to do with his insular confidence, as if he was divinely
happy with his own company and determined to spurn true intimacy. He depended
on no-one, toyed with emotions and he laughed at society’s ways, as if he felt
deep scorn for his kind. She did not care one penny for his duplicitous nature
or rather she was relying on it to ensure a smooth journey to his chambers and
into his bed. She certainly had no intention of aiding his reform or caressing
his wounded pride. That would require an emotional investment on her part, the
likes of which she saw no merit. Intuitively, Georgina understood the Duke
wanted little more than a playmate. It was of no consequence to her. After all,
Georgina was happily married to her best friend, so all the Duke had to do was
to fulfil his reputation as a most committed lover. In that moment of feeling
the warmth of his breath on her skin and the brush of his hand against her
thigh, Georgina knew why she lusted for his company- the Duke was predictably
dangerous and her virginity would certainly not be safe in his hands.
“Reform me, Lady Harrington, make me a better person, turn my eyes from vanity.”
“Psalm 119,” Georgina exhaled, wholly excited by the
prospect of sparring with the most dastardly duke to blacken the dominions,
colonies and protectorates of the British Empire.
“Quite, my beautiful Countess,” acknowledged Huntingdon,
surprised by the quickness of her mind. He stepped away from the fairest lady
of his acquaintance, realising that it would be a shame to sully her pure
essence. He decided that she was best
left to the sanctuary of her matrimonial state. After all, her nature was as
blindingly white as his was torrid and tainted, making the conquest of her
person a little too dodgy, even for him. He took another step away from her and
bowed to take his leave, “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but I
fear that my good friend was right about my prospects. You should keep your
distance- my nature is below you, I cannot be transformed and my future is
bleak.”
“Your Grace, I think you misunderstand my intent. I do not
wish to convert you or alter what you are, but I do wish to take full advantage
of your base nature. It is I who invites transformation.”
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