The Undoing of a Libertine (Somerset Historicals 2)

She backed up. “No. No, please, Papa. Don’t make me!”

“Georgina, enough of these dramatics,” he said tiredly. “It’s time to grow up and face your duty. His offer is respectable. You will want for nothing, will have a place in society, and shall bear a title, for Christ sake! That’s more than your mother got. You will be called ‘Lady.’”

“Oh, Papa!” She covered her mouth and turned from him. The walls were closing in on her. She felt small and powerless, completely at the mercy of others, with no voice of her own. She asked on a shuddering breath, “How can I do this?”

“You can, and you will. You are a Russell and must do your duty to your family and then to your husband, as is a woman’s obligation.”

She answered him with silent sobs, thinking she would start praying for a short earthly life. If she agreed to this, her life would be over anyway.

Mr. Russell’s voice softened, and he drew up behind her. “I know you’ve suffered, my daughter, but I believe this is best. A life of your own, and once they come, your own children to care for. In this way you can forget your—your past indignity. That man needs a son, and you are of a fine and noble family. He honors you. There is no shame in being a wife and mother, Georgina.”

She felt truly broken and tired, the will to resist crushed down to the point that she just didn’t much care anymore. Lord Pellton’s first wife had died in childbed and maybe she would, too. Whatever waited for her if she agreed must be her fate. What did it matter? Nothing mattered to her, not any longer. Feeling dead inside, she moved her head up and down woodenly.

“Success at last!” Mr. Russell blurted. “You’ve made the right decision, Georgina. I’ll just go give the happy news and bring him in for a private audience with you.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

“He—he is here, now?”

“Yes. He arrived an hour ago, special license in hand. Says enough time has passed and will not wait any longer for you. The ceremony will be in the parlor, tomorrow morning, and then you’ll depart for your new home after the wedding breakfast. We can set back the date of your betrothal to the time when he was here before. Let it be known you were secretly engaged all these weeks. The maids should start on your packing right away. I’m sure you’ll have your own maid waiting for you when you arrive to your new home.”

Mr. Russell sounded positively giddy as he chattered about what needed to be done. She hardly paid attention to him, but did notice when the room grew quiet.

A sudden thought entered her mind. Right here, right now, was the last time. This moment was the last time she was a free person, operating under her own will. Because very soon, Lord Pellton would come in through that door and claim her. She would belong to him and would have to serve him. Her life would no longer be hers. It felt rather like a death, she thought.

She focused on the painting above the fireplace. It showed a seascape set along a craggy coastline. The storm-tossed waves at sunset, the glowing orange sun about to dip below the horizon. She’d always liked it, the colors and the subject. The painting could be a metaphor for her short life—this moment was her sunset, her end.

The door opened. She heard boots.

Standing frozen, she stared at the sunset in the painting, utterly unable to move.

He walked purposefully toward her, his steps hitting the floor in hard beats, growing clos

er and closer. She could hear his intense breathing. When he came within striking distance, he stopped behind her. She scented…cloves?

That couldn’t be right. There was only one person she knew who smelled of cloves! Her spine stiffened, afraid to think of him. Jeremy?

“Can you not look upon me, Georgina? I want to look at you, for your face is the only thing I can see in my dreams all these weeks since we have been apart.”

She turned to him, feeling suddenly light-headed and thinking that the painting wasn’t of a sunset after all. It was a sunrise. Yes, most definitely. A glorious sunrise.

Chapter Twelve

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine...

—Ben Johnson, To Celia (1616)

Georgina started to drop, and Jeremy reached out his arms instinctively. He got to her just before she hit the floor. Her head lolling back, limp and lifeless in his arms—he realized she’d fainted dead away.

Carrying her over to the chaise, he laid her down carefully, supporting her neck. He poured water from the pitcher and wet his handkerchief to press against her cheeks and forehead. Her skin looked pale, and she felt thinner to him. She hadn’t weighed enough when he’d lifted her. Please don’t let her be ill, he prayed, feeling himself break into a sweat. He should have never accepted her refusal last time, should have been with her all these weeks.

An errant thought popped into his mind that she looked just like Sleeping Beauty from the fairy tale. Caressing her face, he said, “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Georgina, please wake up!” He shook her a little, still calling her name before he couldn’t wait another second. Cupping both sides of her face, he tilted her so he could reach her mouth and brought his own down close. Jeremy’s lips met Georgina’s lips. Velvety. Warm. So sweet.

Time stopped dead, or maybe he’d just died and gone to heaven. He was kissing an angel, and he could smell roses. The touch of her breath brushed into him, the taste of her infused his blood with incredible need. Cradled in his hands, he kissed her over and over. And for a beautiful instant, all was well in the world. It truly felt like it because she opened her eyes just then and spoke to him.

“Is it really you?” Her voice sounded deep and a little rough.

“You fainted,” he said, stupidly. “I kissed you, and you woke up. Are you well?” he croaked, feeling like he might need to lie down himself.