The Regency Season Collection: Part One. Кэрол Мортимер

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СКАЧАТЬ to your family, to society?’ he prompted cruelly.

      Those striking eyes became misty with unshed tears. ‘I am well aware there can be no forgiveness, in any quarter, for the way I have behaved,’ she spoke so softly Zachary could barely hear her, as her tears fell unchecked down the paleness of her cheeks.

      Zachary felt instant regret for his deliberate cruelty. Whatever this woman might have done to him personally in the past, there was an undeniable vulnerability about her now, an aloneness, that Zachary knew he could relate to.

      He breathed deeply through his nose. ‘Perhaps that situation is not quite so bleak as you think it is.’

      She tilted her head curiously. ‘What do you mean?’

      He owed this woman nothing except his contempt and distrust, Zachary reminded himself impatiently. Certainly not absolution for her deeds of ten months ago.

      And yet...

      He was not a deliberately cruel man, no matter what others might say or think to the contrary. He considered their past association.

      Could Georgianna really be blamed for what had happened in their past? She was a young girl of only nineteen who’d feared, to the extent of running away from marriage to a man who had not even troubled himself in getting to know her before offering for her. He’d been a man who had not even spoken to her before making that offer. And once made, she’d had that offer accepted by her father without knowing a thing about it—or him.

      Much as it galled him, Zachary knew he must accept some of the blame for the way in which Georgianna had run away back then.

      But not for what had happened since that time, or the possible depth of her continued involvement with Rousseau.

      He hardened his heart against the idea of telling Georgianna of the way in which he and her father had, between them, managed to salvage her reputation at least, if not their own embarrassment.

      ‘A place can always be found in a gentleman’s life for a beautiful woman,’ he rasped insultingly.

      Her throat moved as she swallowed. ‘As his mistress, you mean?’

      Zachary bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘But of course.’

      ‘I believe I should rather become an old maid,’ she answered with quiet dignity.

      ‘Do not make your decision based on your experience with Rousseau, Georgianna,’ he advised coldly. ‘Being the mistress of a gentleman would not be like it was with him. You would have a house of your own. Servants. An elegant carriage. A generous allowance, for clothing and such.’

      Her chin rose. ‘You, of course, would know of such things.’

      In actual fact, Zachary had no personal knowledge of such an arrangement. He had never been enamoured enough of any of the women he had bedded in the past to have so much as ever considered making any his permanent mistress.

      What sort of mistress would Georgianna make? The depths to those violet-coloured eyes, the sensual pout of her lips, and the uncontrollable response of her breasts to his lightest touch, all spoke of a passionate nature. Of a woman who was more than capable of meeting his physical demands with an equal fire.

      And that she was untrustworthy?

      Perhaps that might even add to the excitement, the danger, of such an arrangement?

      He was a fool for even considering taking Georgianna Lancaster as a mistress, when there was no question that she had been mistress to Rousseau. Might still be so, for all Zachary knew of that situation.

      ‘Not recently, no,’ he answered bitingly. ‘Which means the position is currently available, if you are interested in applying?’ He raised goading brows.

      Georgianna drew herself up proudly. ‘So that you might insult me by refusing, no doubt?’

      ‘No doubt.’

      She gave a shake of her head. ‘I am not, nor will I ever be, interested in such a role, in your life or any other man’s.’

      Zachary gave a hard smile. ‘It is the only one still available to you.’

      ‘I said I am not interested,’ she repeated firmly.

      ‘Then I will see that the bedchamber adjoining this one is prepared for your use. Yes, I too appreciate the irony of having you now occupy the bedchamber intended for my duchess,’ he drawled as Georgianna’s eyes widened. ‘But it would seem that for the moment, at least, I am to have little choice in the matter.’

      ‘You have the choice of releasing me—you just refuse to take it,’ Georgianna pointed out sharply.

      ‘I do, yes.’ The duke gave a haughty inclination of his head. ‘But I do not intend to keep you prisoner all the time, Georgianna. When I return later this evening you will join me downstairs for dinner. And I wish you to wear the lilac gown I brought from your lodgings rather than the black.’

      ‘I will not be told by you what I shall do or what I shall wear.’

      ‘You will if you do not wish to find yourself face first over my knee, with your skirts thrown up to your waist, whilst I thrash your bare bottom a rosy red for daring to disobey!’ Hawksmere assured harshly.

      Georgianna gasped at the crudeness of the threat. A threat she knew this man to be more than capable of carrying out. ‘You are a barbarian, sir.’

      He bared his teeth in a smile. ‘All men are barbarians at heart, my lady.’

      Georgianna repressed a shudder as the conversation brought back the painful memory of the violence she had suffered at André’s hands. A violence she would not have believed possible of the once gentle man she had thought she knew and loved. A violence which had left her both blind and fighting for her life.

      Again she wondered if Hawksmere would believe her, trust that she only spoke the truth, if she were to tell him of that terrible night when André had tried to kill her. When he thought he had killed her. It was only luck, and the arrival of a local farmer who had heard the shots being fired and feared for his livestock, that had ensured she had not died that night.

      ‘What are you thinking about?’ Hawksmere demanded shrewdly.

      Would he believe her if she were to show him the scars her body carried from that night?

      They were undoubtedly the scars left by a bullet wound, but there was no guarantee, even if Georgianna were to bare her flesh, that Hawksmere would any more believe it was André Rousseau himself who had inflicted them than the duke believed the information she had brought to him regarding Bonaparte’s intended escape from Elba.

      Georgianna had little in her life now except the small amount of pride left to her. She feared she might lose that, too, if Hawksmere were to both ridicule and scorn, and to disbelieve the physical scars she bore as proof of André Rousseau’s complete disregard for her.

      Hatred was far too strong a word to use to describe the calculated way in which André had come to the conclusion that she had outlived her purpose. He had been completely unemotional that night in the woods before he shot her, having assured her it was not СКАЧАТЬ