Page 5 of Prince of Scandal

The reprimand was swift, but his gaze lingered a fraction too long on the single button currently struggling to contain her breasts, and her nipples tingled. A-ha! This man wasn’t nearly as immune to her as he pretended to be. “I prefer Mrs. King. Or Gigi, if we are to become close friends,” Georgiana finished mischievously.

“Gee-gee? What kind of name is that? And why aren’t you wearing a wedding ring? Surely your husband insists.”

Bloody hell. Such an obvious detail and she hadn’t even thought of it. Gah.

She sighed theatrically. “Naturally, I never wear my ring while out riding. What if I lost it? The last link to my late husband would be gone forever.”

Mr. Latimer went very still. Even his equally enormous black stallion ceased pawing at the ground. “Forgive me,” he ground out. “You aren’t in widow’s weeds. Or the colors of half-mourning.”

Argh!

“It’s, er, been over a year. And it wasn’t a love match, so I don’t think it unreasonable to assume that Mr. King would want me to carry on and live my life,” she added hastily.

“I see.”

“Oh, and Gigi is short for Georgiana, the stuffiest name in history. I don’t know what my parents were thinking, apart from flattering the king. Do I look like a Georgiana to you?”

“Yes. Exactly like a Georgiana.”

Georgiana bit her lip. She’d heard her full name in a variety of tones; exasperation, fury, pleading, and lovesick to name a few. Rupert had been mostly impatient. But never had it been said quite the way Mr. Latimer did. That underlying hint of accent made her name seem special rather than stuffy. Musical, almost. Sensual.

“Well then,” she mumbled, faint heat sweeping across her cheekbones.

“But I will of course refer to you as Mrs. King, for we shall not become close friends. I do not befriend trespassers.”

Her eyes widened in affront. The man might be deliciously handsome, but he was entirely disagreeable! “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You aren’t bleating on about that again, are you? I’m not a damned trespasser. I’m staying at Rose Cottage and must have missed the fence line.”

“So it was you who arrived yesterday,” said Mr. Latimer, his brow remaining furrowed. “How did you find it? The cottage has been empty for years. Probably providing sanctuary for every spider within five miles.”

Accurate.

Gabriel had generously provided two footmen-cum-bodyguards, two kitchen maids, and a cook, and after a few days of travel, the six of them had spent an entire morning airing the rooms, wrestling with cobwebs, and shooing away an entire regiment of spiders. At least there were no rodents, though. That would have been too much to bear. In keeping with the pretense of widowhood she’d managed to convince her family that a companion wasn’t necessary…but Gabriel had smiled slightly and informed her that the local vicar’s wife, Mrs. March, would call on her every other day, and that a village girl, Mary, would act as her lady’s maid. Gah. Although in fairness, this was a very small price to pay for what she’d gained: more than a hundred miles between herself and Grandmother.

“The cottage was indeed a dusty spider haven, but soon put to rights,” Georgiana replied. “I needed respite from London, and am very thankful the Duke of Exton offered it to me. His Grace is…er…a dear friend of the family.”

“How long will you stay?”

Until I get my menses and know that I’m not carrying a scoundrel’s child.

“I’m not entirely sure,” she said, determined to keep her smile bright and breezy. “Are you planning to keep a diary? Stop by for tea and cakes?”

“I am planning to repair that wretched fence. So you remember to ride in the other direction in your too-small shirt and breeches, with your unbound hair flapping like a golden flag.”

Georgiana blinked. On another occasion such a setdown might have been devastating. Except…this gruff, stern man was telling on himself. He must have been watching to know her silly little cap had whipped away in the wind and tugged her hair free of a poorly secured chignon. And he’d called her curls golden. Not yellow or blond. Golden. Even better, he was tapping his riding crop against one hard-looking thigh in a very enticing manner.

Mr. Ashton Latimer wasn’t immune to her at all. No matter how much he apparently wanted to be. Which just meant she had to try harder. Be even bolder. Chip away at that wall of ice around him until he succumbed and…

And what?

She shivered and pressed her thighs together. The possibilities were actually endless. They were neighbors, and to the world here in Norfolk, she was a young widow. He could teach her about pleasure! Not foolishly, like with Rupert and those ghastly coatroom assignations, but discreetly in that delightful riverside dwelling. She hadn’t had time to peer through the window to assess any furniture, but it looked big enough to fit a daybed or chaise.

“Ah yes, my hair,” Georgiana said huskily. “Unruly mop that it is. Tonight, before I retire to bed in my lacy nightgown, I shall have to spend hours brushing it.”

Mr. Latimer sucked in a breath. “Beg pardon?”

“My hair will be an utter bird’s nest and need lots of brushing,” she replied innocently, batting her lashes for good measure.

His hands flexed and he swiftly moved them behind his back.