Page 39 of The English Wife

Georgie closed her eyes against the sting of tears. “You’re feeling sorry for me, that’s all. In the morning, tomorrow, you’ll think better of it all. I won’t be your ruin, Bay. I won’t.”

“You’re not my ruin. You’re my—”

“Millstone?” Georgie provided, with gallows humor. “Your doom?”

“The doom of the Van Duyvils?” The corners of Bay’s eyes crinkled. It was an expression that was so uniquely his: humor and patience and a certain wry resignation that sat oddly with his golden charm. “Never that, Georgie. You’re not my millstone or my doom. But I would be proud to call you my wife. If you’d have me.”

If she would have him? He had it the wrong way around.

Georgie placed her palms flat on the upholstered arms of the chair, using her arms to lever herself to her feet. “It’s a beautiful dream, Bay,” she said, and every word hurt. It hurt to kill a dream, like tearing the petals off a rose in full bloom. But what if the plant was diseased? What then? “But even if all else weren’t as it is … it wouldn’t work, Bay.”

Bay’s face closed in on itself. “I had thought—forgive me if I presume too much—I had thought that you had come to care for me a little.”

The hurt behind his words made her shrivel up inside. This was the moment, she knew, when she should draw herself up and tell him coolly that he was quite mistaken and that while she valued his friendship she would never care for him in that way.

She had told him so many lies already, by omission if nothing else. What was one more?

But she couldn’t.

“I care for you too much to let you throw yourself away on me.” There were so many things she could say, flippant and foolish, but she owed him this, owed him honesty, even if it tore her to pieces. Georgie forced herself to look at Bay, to meet his eyes and tell him the truth, even if it was only a partial truth. “A broken vessel, that’s what they’d call me. There are homes for women like me. Fallen women. Giles—”

How strange to go missish after all this time, to find the words sticking on her tongue as though she were the young lady she once had been.

“Deserves to be shot.” Bay’s lips turned white around the edges. “Georgie, that’s his crime, not yours. If he forced you—”

“Stop, please.” She couldn’t bear it, not this. Forced her? She’d fancied herself in love with Giles. Until that horrible moment when he’d yanked her arms from around his neck, pushing her back against the wall, muttering words of poison into her ears as his body punished hers. She could remember the mingled pain and disbelief as her dream had turned nightmare. “It doesn’t matter, Bay. Even if I weren’t, I don’t know if I could be a true wife to you.”

There. It was out. The words she wasn’t sure she could voice.

She could see the confusion in Bay’s face. “I don’t understand.”

“I … when I think of anyone … touching me…” Georgie’s throat closed on the words.

“My poor Georgie.” Bay crossed the space between them in one long step. He reached for her and then thought better of it.

Georgie’s voice seemed to come from far away, crackly and brittle. “So, you see, it’s quite impossible.”

Bay held out a hand to her, very slowly and very carefully. Georgie rested her hand in his, let him draw her to her feet. “Do you fear my touch?”

The words came with difficulty. “Sometimes. There are times—” Times when she couldn’t distinguish between what was real and what wasn’t; times when the past pressed in on her. Seeing the expression of pain on Bay’s face, she said quickly, “But not because of you! I know that you would never hurt me.”

Not physically, at any rate. It was her heart that was aching, the heart she had told herself that she had hardened beyond all feeling years ago.

“May I?” Carefully, so carefully, Bay cupped her cheek in one hand. Knowing that she was flirting with danger, Georgie let her eyes drift closed, let herself lean into the warmth and tenderness of that hand, pain and pleasure mixed in one.

Her senses were heightened, aware of every breath, every motion, of the soft susurration of cloth as he moved; the changes in the light behind her closed lids as his face came closer to hers; the whisper of his breath against her cheek, her lips. Bay, she reminded herself. Bay.

His lips brushed hers with infinite gentleness, a fleeting touch, there and then gone.

Slowly, Georgie opened her eyes, her breathing shallow, her muscles aching as though she had just traveled a long way.

In a courtly gesture, Bay lifted her hand to his lips. “You do know I would never force you?”

“I know.” In her head and in her heart. But she couldn’t vouch for the rest of her.

He didn’t make any move to kiss her again. Georgie wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Instead, his fingers toyed with hers, as lightly as his kiss. “It will be an experiment … for both of us. You see, I’ve never … I’ve never lain with a woman.”

The backs of Georgie’s knees bumped into the frame of the chair as she started back in surprise. She tipped her head back to see him. “Truly?”