“Do whatever feels best for you,” he said hoarsely, his hands stroking her hips without directing her. “Anything you want.”
Taking a deep breath, Georgie began to move. Slowly at first, and then more quickly as he groaned beneath her, hips bucking against hers. Their movements turned into an effortless glide of pleasure, giving and taking in equal measure. Her hands braced on his shoulders as she soared higher and higher, a tight spiral forming itself in her abdomen until she shattered with pleasure. She cried out even as he rolled her to her back and thrust frantically until he gushed into her.
His head dropped to the hollow of her shoulder and she held him fiercely, wrapping her arms and legs around him. She was astonished and moved by what they had just experienced. She had lost herself in seeking out her own fierce pleasure. With that pleasure ebbing, she feared he would reject her for being too bold.
At last he raised his head, and she saw that his eyes brimmed with tears. He rolled them to the side, their bodies still connected, and kissed her again.
“Never leave me, Georgie. Please. It would destroy me. Even one night away from you was torture.”
“Never,” she vowed, and kissed him.
21
Georgie gasped as Peter’s cabriolet crested the hill and she saw Avondale Hall up close for the first time.
It was surprisingly new for the most part, large portions of it having been torn down due to rot and re-built in the Palladian style. It must have cost a fortune to have the materials brought to this corner of Yorkshire, and she felt a twinge of intimidation.
She was to meet Peter’s family today, and she was not prepared.
The house became grander the closer they came, until it loomed over them as Peter rounded the curve of the drive to bring them to the front door.
Servants swarmed out, two footmen coming to hold the horse as Peter jumped down. Another footman moved to help Georgie down, but Peter waved him away.
“There’s no need. I shall assist my wife.”
Gazing up at the house, Georgie felt the veriest country bumpkin. Visitors to this magnificence would be expected to don the latest fashions from London, and here she was in her greensprigged muslin and coordinating spencer made by the best modiste in York.
Peter drew her hand through his arm. “Ready?”
“No,” she said, and he laughed.
“They will love you. Well, except for my mother, but do not worry about her. She dislikes everyone.”
They mounted the steps and the doors opened to reveal a tall, dignified butler, who bowed deeply first to Peter, and then to Georgie.
“Lord Peter. Lady Peter. You are expected. Come this way.”
As they mounted the sweeping curved staircase, Georgie did not know where to look first. At the marble carvings? At the magnificent paintings? At the thick, rich carpets under her feet?
The more luxury she saw, the more she wanted to be back at the rectory in their comfortable armchairs, discussing politics and philosophy and otters.
But she pressed on, knowing this was important for Peter and for their future.
As the butler opened the doors of the drawing room of Avondale Hall, Peter gave Georgie’s hand one last reassuring squeeze. She swallowed hard and pasted a smile on her face.
The room was more full than she had expected, and as the buzz of conversation faded, the women inside turned to look at her.
It was the Ladies’ Auxiliary, all dressed in their finest afternoon gowns to call on a duchess. Georgie could not help but beam at each of them as her heart swelled. It was not only Mrs. Moxon and Mrs. Clarke and Miss Welburn. It was Mrs. Kilvington and Mrs. Dinsdale and—to her surprise—Miss Dinsdale as well.
Her friends had come to support her.
Three of the women in the room were unfamiliar to her, and the eldest of them seemed likely to be the dowager duchess.From her seat in a large armchair by the fireplace, she all but radiated discontent wrapped in silk and a not-so-subtle frown.
The other two women sat side-by-side on a settee across from the dowager, and both half-turned to look at Georgie and Peter as they entered the room. One was a beautiful dark-skinned woman in primrose yellow whose tight black curls formed a froth around the edge of her fashionable lacy cap. Georgie felt sure this must be the wife of Peter’s twin brother Philip. The other woman was a plump, light-skinned brunette in pink who had very much the look of Peter—one of his sisters, Georgie presumed.
Peter led Georgie to stand in front of his mother despite her sour expression. “Mother, this is my wife, Lady Peter Avondale.” His own expression was pleasant, but Georgie could hear the warning to his mother under his words. “Georgie, this is my mother, the dowager Duchess of Livesey.”
He bowed low as Georgie curtsied, hoping she had remembered the right depth for a duchess.