Loving Lady Georgianna (Spirited #2)

Chapter Two

Lord Vincent, Viscount Thorne, clenched his teeth as he watched Lady Georgianna walk over to the Duke. A sweet smile graced her lips as she shashayed with all the grace of a full-grown woman and all the poise of a bloody queen.

It took everything Thorne had not to intercept Georgie, to take her hand and place it on his arm as Thorne turned their backs to the duke.

Even better, perhaps show the man a certain finger.

The kicker? Thorne had lost all right to take any such action the night of the fire. Casting off the vision of flames that frequently burned on the back of his eyelids - and left him tossing in his sleep - Thorne tamped down his displeasure and gave the duke a cold once over instead.

It seemed that the duke fit Lady Georgianna - the elegant lady she was now - to perfection.

Her expression was neutral - neither too jovial nor too stoic. Her strides were long, the hem of her green dress kicking out slightly from her brown half boots, and the swinging curls of her amber hair dancing with each measured step. Her green gown sloped down trim shoulders, hugging her waist before the fabric billowed from her hips - just enough curve to let Thorne know she had filled out splendidly, but not enough to tempt the average fellow.

But, Thorne knew, it was more than enough to tempt a man well acquainted with the lady's body. Or at the least the parts of it that hadn't been cloaked in darkness in the stables or fumbled in rolling satin about his hands and the placket of his breeches.

Thorne rolled back his shoulders, blinking to rid the image from him. It seemed a disgrace - a blatant disregard for the lady's body - to be imagining such a scene in front of the lady's betrothed.

Indeed, it seemed Burkeley was her perfect companion.

His tall and lofty personage - an inch taller than Thorne's own six feet two - was dressed in a gray tailcoat, tailored to fit his large shoulders. His boots were so spit-shined, Thorne wondered if his grace had stepped into a puddle of sunlight it would blind his very eyes. The cravat, likewise, was starched, tied in an intricate knot that made Thorne's own neck itch with the feeling of strangulation. The duke's shoulders were back, his big hands clasped behind him and his face held tight - as if everyone in his vicinity was beneath his notice.

Thorne had to wonder how a man so put together, such as the duke, did mundane things. Taking a bath. Reading a book. Eating his blasted porridge.

It must be duly hard with that stick up his bottom.

Why, Thorne bet the man made love with all the finesse of a birch rod. Stiff as a board and agile as one too.

The thought of Georgie beneath that man, her head thrown back in pleasure - the way it had been with him - made him feel feral. He could understand the heathens idea of throwing the lady over his shoulder and carrying her away to his cave.

Instead, Thorne forced himself to stand still even when it felt like his boots were getting sucked into sinking sand.

It seemed Thorne couldn't go anywhere in London without hearing the Burkeley family name. The duke had wealth at his fingertips. HIs stables were beyond compare, his investments in the steam engine and railway making him above reproach. He had four houses in the country, a townhouse in Mayfair and a cottage - that was no cottage at all - in Bath.

And yet, Thorne still didn't understand the appeal Georgie had for the man.

Enough to marry the old codger.

"Am I interrupting?"

Even the way the duke spoke, made Thorne's teeth grind. His deep voice made pomposity and arrogance a new fashion statement.