If I Loved You Less

By DJ Clawson

Last time on our series, an emotional wounded Georgiana Bingley ran from a physically wounded Geoffrey Darcy by spending a year in a womens' school in France. There she learned trust herself, open up to other people, and that if you start killing people, it's going to just pile on itself.

Author's Note: Oh, oh, so now you comment? Knowing perhaps I'll give in? Well.. Happy New Year!

This chapter is rated M for mature.

Chapter 10 – Knight in Weathered Armor

"Who taught you how to fight? This Maret guy?"

"No! Mugen, you git."

"Who's Mugen?"

"Mugen's ... I don't know, Mugen. It's his sword."

"And you used it to kill Maret?"

She nodded.

"Were there witnesses?"

"Heather and Robert?"

"Who?"

She elaborated, annoyed that her speech was so slurred and that she was distracted by the cramps in her arms. They became more and more pressing and she became more aware as she finally opened her eyes to the dimply-lit room. Her arms hurt because they were tied to the cot. "What?" she said, forgetting his last question

"We were talking about the Wolf. I should be writing this down. I find it very fascinating. I might not have to violate you after all. I may get the inheritance without even marrying you."

"You won't marry me," she said, "Geoffrey will – "

"Yes, yes, we've been through that," he said. "About six times already."

"Sorry. I don' know what I've been – saying." She was tempted to nod off again, but he mentioned the Wolf. She hadn't talked about the Wolf since France to anyone, not even Heather. They occasionally discussed it, when it came up, but didn't use the name. It was sacred to her, and Heather understood that. He came from the forest and then when he wasn't needed, he went back in. But they were so far away from the forest. They were in Town, in smelly London, and she was alone with him in her musty attic, tied to the musty cot that had belong to the previous owners, who must have been musty themselves –

Wait, what?

"Miss Bingley?"

"Wha' have you done to me?"

"Hardly anything. Except doped your drink, gotten myself alone with you in a place out of hearing distance of the servants, and had you tell me all of your secrets. I thought there might be something about a fistfight when you were younger or a dalliance with this lover of yours but – this is much better. You are a fascinating woman. The Ton would love to hear of it. I wonder how much your father would pay for them not to hear of it. Would he pay the whole fifty thousand, or should I violate you as well? You said he's an amiable man. It may take a lot to get his blood up."

She frowned. She was trying to make sense of what she was hearing, but it was like the words kept slipping away from her. "Gimme my sword," she said.

"Absolutely not, Miss Bingley. Do you think me insane? Besides, you're more likely to hurt yourself right now."

"Give. Me. My. Sword," she said, with as little slurring as she could manage.

He grinned in the lamplight. "Or you'll do what, exactly?"

She had her feet. Even without geta shoes, they'd never failed her, and she managed to swing her legs around and grab his neck and give it a solid kick, knocking him over and into the pile of whatever was back there.

When he stood up he looked furious, his face red as he pulled loose his cravat and rubbed his neck. "I'll make you pay for that."

"Come nearer and I'll make you," she said.

"You're hardly in a position to do so," he said. "I know everything about you – I can't possibly imagine there's more – and you are in a very compromising position right now, if you have not realized it," he said, also removing his waistcoat. He went around her, out of range for her legs, and put his hand over her mouth. "Don't scream. And don't cry. It won't hurt because I'll be going down paths already traveled, but I still hate it when women – "

He would have said more, but the punch to his jaw sent him backwards hard enough that he hit the ground with a considerable thud.

Geoffrey Darcy considered himself a reasonable person. He was calm and patient, and not given to impulse. His father had taught him that, and he tried his best to keep his first reaction in check and judge the situation dispassionately. His condition also taught him considerable patience with other people and the world at large, because otherwise, he might have exploded in frustration long ago. Instead he had come to accept that if the professor had a low voice and mumbled he would have to use an ear horn, and ignore their giggles. Other people had it far worse than him.

The last few weeks, however, he had been devouring the post with a certain passion. It began on the day of Georgiana's first letter to him and continued ever since. It wasn't worth his time to deny that each time he saw her handwriting and return address on the envelope he smiled, so he usually sorted his own mail before the others got up or got in, depending.

It was such a day: Frederick was at a lecture, George still in London, and Charles just having returned from a meeting with his tutor when the mail arrived. Naturally, Geoffrey jumped up at the announcement and Charles didn't bother to try to get in his way. Today his efforts were rewarded, for there under the letter from his father was another one on smaller, more feminine stationary, with handwriting he'd long-since memorized. He abandoned the rest of the pile by dumping it on Charles' lap in the common room and returned to his own.

To Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, Derbyshire, and King's College

He frowned; he hated all of the formalities between them.

I am writing you now from a very early hour. We have been out all night dancing with Izzy, who is to Chesterton in a few days and will miss all of this social life.

I admit I may even be becoming accustomed to it. Tonight I danced mostly of my own free will with a Mr. Dartmouth for the second time. He has an intended in Scotland, but nonetheless has his own social requirements set by his family. He is quite the conversationalist.

I hope there is no serious news from Cambridge, where you all are supposed to be studying so hard and not drinking and fooling around. Say hello to my brother for me. And Frederick, I suppose.

Sincerely,

Georgiana Louisa Bingley

He read the second paragraph several times before finishing the rest of the letter, which he paid little attention to after deciding its worth by comparison. She what? Who was Mr. Dartmouth? Had she made him up to taunt him? No, she would not be that cruel. He had to be real. And he was charming, and smart, and all of the things Geoffrey wasn't around to be and afraid to be in front of her. It wasn't the first time he pined for the days when he could just talk to her and it wouldn't be "making conversation" but just them speaking to each other, but this was the first time he was truly angry over it.

She intended this. Don't let it get to you. You have a lecture in two hours and a paper to hand in with your tutor tomorrow morning. He stood and paced, occasionally glancing in fury at the dreaded letter. Don't let it get to you.

But Georgiana dancing, laughing, talking to another man did get to him. What if she let him court her? No, she would never do that. She was loyal to him, no matter how little Geoffrey was loyal to her. Was she not permitted to have a social life?

No. Not with men, he thought before he could stop himself. Her plan had worked and he was jealous. She won, again. Why did this particular time make him so angry? Oh Georgie – what have you done to me?

He had to see her – talk to her. He didn't know what he would say, and he would probably mess it up, and be behind on his schoolwork, or forced into making the dreaded confession, and then he would have to propose, because there was no other logical way –

But he had to do something.

"Reynolds," he said, calling in his man. "I need a horse." He said it in such a tone that Mr. Reynolds looked at him, nodded once, and ran out of the room. He concerned himself only with throwing whatever items he thought he would need into his saddlebag, and removing his robes and putting a coat on over his vest.

"Geoffrey? Is something wrong?" Charles sounded so calm and innocent compared to everything that was going on in his mind.

"No. It's fine." He took his half-finished paper and gave it Charles. "Will you give this to my tutor with my apologies? Lie and say it was a family emergency."

"Is it?"

"No. No, of course not," he said. I just need to get to London very badly right now and I honestly can't explain why.

Fortunately Charles took the paper and let him leave without further questioning, and before Geoffrey knew it, Cambridge was disappearing behind him. It took the rest of the day and the early morning hours to get to Town, and along the road he forced himself to stop, lest he kill the horse (and possibly himself). He swallowed some wine, ate a few rolls, and when his horse was ready, was back on it. He was sore by the time he saw the outskirts of London, and when he finally climbed off the saddle his legs were quite cramped. He practically limped up the stairs of the Bingley townhouse and knocked on the door.

It was a long while before the doorman answered. "Hello, Mr. Darcy. I am sorry, but the house is to bed."

"It doesn't – may I just come in?" He needed a drink, be it water or tea or anything. "My house is all shut up."

"Of course, Mr. Darcy," said the bed-clothed servant, who removed his coat and brought him a drink. "May I – "

But he had come too far. If she was asleep, so be it. He charged up the stairs. "Georgie!" he said, banging on her door. Nothing. "Are you asleep?" A stupid question, but if she did not answer –

Wait. Why was Charles' door half-open? He wasn't at home. In fact, Geoffrey was positive he was at Cambridge, having seen him there before leaving. He pushed the door gently open. No one was inside, but the window was open. "Huh." Still sweating from exertion, he paused contemplatively, and that was when he heard a crashing sound from above him. Someone was in the attic. Was that where she hid?

The servants had not even found him yet when he ran towards the attic. He was well acquainted with the Bingley house, having played there in his youth, and he knew there was an attic with a small set of stairs leading up. He paused at the bottom, listening again mostly to his own heavy breathing, and heard muffled voices. Two people upstairs. Well, he would make it three. He was determined –

Whatever he was determined to do was derailed by the scene he found. Georgiana, tied to the cot. A man, unknown, was holding her down. He didn't care who the man was, or what he was doing there, or even bothered to fashion a guess. All he cared about was the fact that the man's jaw was unbroken, and he was determined to fix that inconsistency by clocking him in the face as hard as he could. A day's ride had not robbed him of all of his strength, and the man hit the floor so hard he paused to see if he had killed him. No, the chest was still rising and falling; still alive. And his hand hurt.

Then he heard her cry. It was more of a whimper, but he heard it nonetheless. "Georgie," he said, collecting himself and his thoughts enough to remove his pocketknife. "It's all right," he said, cutting her arms free and helping her sit up with her legs over the side of the cot. Thank G-d she was still clothed. "It's all right."

She did something he had never seen her do when not angry at him – she collapsed into sobs and incoherent mumbling. "Georgie," he said, putting his arm around her and drawing her head into his chest. "It's all right."

"'snot," she said, her voice slurred. "'snot. Never going to be. Why ... why did I – "

"Shhh."

"I did terrible things! 'n France. And Derby – Derbyshire." She had trouble with the name, but she didn't seem drunk. He knew her drunken speech. He picked her head up and looked into her eyes and smelled her breath. Not drunk. Drugged, most likely. He let her rest her head on his chest again. "I said everything. He – "

"Did he touch you?"

"Doesn' – matter. I'm no good as a lady – at being a good lady – at being any kind of lady."

"Georgie – did he touch you?"

She shook her head. "He didn't – he was going to – "

His sigh was heavy and he glanced over at the unconscious young man, lacking a cravat and a waistcoat. His intentions were obvious. "Is that Mr. Dartmouth?" Geoffrey felt her trembling nod. "Did he give you something? Drug you?"

"I think – I thin' he said so. Oh G-d. Geoffrey, I broke so many promises, I promised Papa I would be good – "

"It's all right – "

"And I promised myself – I meant to be there for you," she pulled away and looked up at him, her eyes red. "You were supposed to be my first."

"He didn't harm you, Georgie. He was going to, but I stopped him."

"I – Robert. Oh G-d, I told him about that. I'm ruined. Even you – you'll hate me." She tugged at her hair. "You'll never want t'see me again."

"Who is Robert?" he said, putting his arms on her shoulders. "Georgie, I promise I won't get mad. I won't get mad at anything you say. I just want to know who hurt you."

She shook her head. "He didn't hurt me. It hurt – a little. You know. But he didn't mean it. He said he loved me. He said he wanted to marry me but I told him to fuck off, I was going to marry you, but I was so angry at you and lonely, and he was the only who cared whether I lived or died – "

He was beginning to grasp her meaning, and he didn't like it, but he would keep his promise. "When was this?"

" France. The Wolf. The marquis. The whole business." She shook her head again. "I'm a – am a bad person, Geoffrey. I'm not noble and I'm not a warrior. I'm just a murderer. They were going to hurt Heather and he hurt Sophie and he tried to kill me so I killed him, I guess it was in self-defense, but it's so hard – why don't I feel worse? Why am I such an awful person?"

"You're not," he said.

"Geoffrey – how could you – "

"You are not an awful person," he said. "You are the bravest, strongest, most clever person I know. And the most beautiful."

"You hate me."

"No."

"Because of Robert, and France, and now I got tricked by Dartmouth and you think – "

"Georgie, I don't hate you."

" – I didn't mean it, I didn't mean any of it, I wanted to hurt you then because I was so lonely, but I've always loved you, even if you hate me now and you hate me forever – "

"Georgie," he said, taking a firmer grasp of her. "I don't hate you. I love you."

She collapsed into his arms again, and wept. Why wouldn't she stop? How many tears could one woman have? "I love you, Georgie. I always have." He kissed the top of her head, stroking that lovely hair of hers. "I'll never hate you. I'll never be mad at you."

She looked up at him, with hope for the first time in her eyes.

"I love you," he repeated, and kissed her again, this time properly. There was a taste in her mouth, but it wasn't alcohol, and even if it had been, he didn't care. He didn't care about anything else at that exact moment – even breathing – except her.

It was a long time – far, far too long – before Geoffrey managed to pull away. The physical separation was painful as he rolled off her (because he had somehow got on her) and buried his head in the pillow.

"Geoffrey," she said, after a breathy silence. "You're bleeding." She seemed better now, as she slowly emerged from her drugged stupor.

Because he was. His hand, which still stung, was scratched where the punch had connected. Though it was a small amount of blood, any amount of flexing hurt tremendously. "Ow!"

"Let me see it," she said, and he could hardly bring himself to contradict her as she sat up and examined his hand. She pulled each of his fingers, and he screamed. Well, it was more of yelp, or so he hoped. "It might be broken."

"We should probably ... get someone. I don't think I can ride with – ow! Okay, Georgie, we've established I'm injured. You can stop now."

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "Uncle Maddox."

"I hate to point out the obvious – "

Georgiana rolled her eyes. "He'll bring George."

"George?"

"He's been apprenticed. Where have you been?"

" Cambridge," he said. "And there's the matter of – " He gestured to Dartmouth, still unconscious on the floor.

"He might know what to do about him, too," she said. "Discreetly. So I'm not the talk of the Ton tomorrow. But I don't want - ," she stumbled. She was not back to her old self quite yet. How could she be? "Geoffrey, I don't want to marry him."

"His behavior really puts his reputation as a suitor beyond repair."

She fell into him. It was not want he wanted – Georgiana crying again – but the physical touch, he did not mind so much. Now, he realized, for all the wrong reasons. "Georgie," he whispered. "Believe me when I say, your father is not going to make you marry him. Whatever – did he - ?"

She shook her head rather fervently.

"Even if," he said. "Your father loves you too much to care about this propriety nonsense. He'll go to jail, perhaps, and it will be okay – "

"My reputation will be tarnished," she whimpered. "Gone."

He said, "Then I'll marry you."

He'd said it without thinking, without any consideration, and it hung there in the air, too awkward to address, to real to dismiss.

"Uncle Maddox," she said at last, after an unbearable silence.

"Uncle Maddox. Right." He stood, and walked over to Mr. Dartmouth, kicking him in the side a bit, but there was no response. "If you write a note, I'll deliver it. Or see it delivered." His hand was now really starting to bother him, and he held it with his left hand. He doubted he could write legibly in this condition. Georgiana quickly opened up a pencil set and made up the note. "Give it to the doorman."

"Do you want me to – "

"No," she said. "Don't leave me."

Of course, it was quite necessary not to leave Georgiana Bingley in the room with the man who had nearly forced himself on her, however disabled he was. That was entirely the reason, or so his head tried to reason as he sat on the stairs, not facing her, because he couldn't. They needed separation, he needed to think, he needed to ... He didn't know. He just didn't know.

The bleeding was so minor it had stopped by the time Doctor Maddox arrived with George Wickham in tow. "Georgiana?"

"Uncle!" she ran to him, embracing him as he finished climbing the stairs. "I'm so glad you're here. We didn't know who else to call."

"We?"

"Me," Geoffrey said. "I – came down. She might not have mentioned that. Also, I'm the reason Mr. Dartmouth is unconscious."

"He is?"

"On your left," said George, carrying the doctor's bag. "On the floor."

Doctor Maddox's cane eventually found the body. "Where's he hurt?"

"In the jaw," Geoffrey answered before George could. "Or, that's where I hit him."

Maddox gave a look in the general direction of Geoffrey's voice. "Are you all right, Mr. Darcy?"

"No, actually," Georgiana said quickly. "He hurt his hand. I think something's broken."

"George," the doctor said, "take care of your cousin first, Mr. Dartmouth second. Now," he scratched his head. "We must call the constable, if what you said is true. When he arrives, I'll take care of it. Where are the servants?"

"I – I waited until they were asleep to go out." She buried her face in his coat. "I know, I shouldn't have. I brought this all on myself, Uncle."

"No," he said softly, but firmly. "No, you did not. You'll come home with me, and we'll sort this out, and discover that nothing was your fault, my dear." He found, and stroked, her hair.

The constable did call and arrived, and as Dartmouth was taken away in irons, the doctor talked quietly with the constable. Georgiana was too upset, but even in a haze of pain, Geoffrey could tell he passed him a bribe to keep this under wraps before he left. At which point, George Wickham pronounced two of his fingers broken. "You should punch with your knuckles, not your hand."

"Thank you for your advice," Geoffrey seethed.

"It can wait until we reach the house to be bound. Mr. Darcy, I assume you are in no condition to return to Cambridge tonight."

Geoffrey had the sense that his uncle would, if he could have, be giving him a very accusatory stare. "Yes, sir."

The Maddox townhouse was not very far away, and even at that hour, Lady Maddox was still up and dressed, or had risen when her husband was called. "Georgiana! Oh – Geoffrey? Why are you not at University?"

"I believe it will all be explained in time," Doctor Maddox said to his wife, somehow succeeding in finding her arm. "First, please sit with Georgiana for a bit while we bind Geoffrey's hand."

His wife didn't question him, and Geoffrey was pulled away and led into the laboratory, which the servants quickly lit up as he was sat down and his hand placed on the table beside it. "There should be – George, there should be boards in the left cabinet, third drawer." He felt at the bottles, which were all differently sized, until he found the one he wanted and set it on the table. "And a spoon."

The servants brought them water, and his hand was cleaned and the small scratch patched before George set the hand aside and poured a spoonful of the green concoction. "Open up."

George fed it to him and Geoffrey gagged.

"Yes, yes, it tastes terrible." Doctor Maddox took a seat across from him, resting his cane against his shoulder. "But very effective. George is going to set the bones, so you're going to appreciate it in a few minutes. That, and it will make my questioning of your sudden appearance in Town that much easier." He smiled. "It has a remarkable effect on Darcys, I've found."

"Can I possibly – have a real doctor do this?"

"Shut up," George said as he placed his hand into position, causing Geoffrey to cry out.

"Bedside manner, Mr. Wickham. Very important," his tutor reminded him. "And yes, Geoffrey, George is very good at this. I've stumbled and broken things I don't know how many times as of late. No matter how much I remind people not to move furniture around without telling me, they seem to do it anyway."

"I am sorry about that," George said.

"You haven't been the only one, I assure you. I think Frederick may be doing it intentionally at this point, despite the biblical injunction against stumbling blocks. Which fingers are broken?"

"The middle and the ring."

"Multiple places, or just once each?"

"I think, just once each."

"Good. Proceed, then."

Those were not exactly words Geoffrey wanted to hear, but he managed to grit his teeth and keep from shouting as George Wickham (the third) bound his fingers to boards and tied them up so they would stay in place. "Try and keep your hand dry and clean."

"Have someone else take notes for you," Maddox said, "when you do return to University."

George disappeared. Not in a puff of smoke, but he slipped off to the side to begin packing up implements as Geoffrey withdrew his hand. His vision was a little blurred, his body suddenly exhausted, but the pain was lessened. All he could really concentrate on was the lamplight flickering off Uncle Maddox's black glasses.

"Very good, George," Maddox said to his assistant, and called for a servant to help Geoffrey up. Walking was more of a bother than he wanted it to be, but it was only a townhouse, and the guest room was not terribly far away. He collapsed on the bed, and was helped very carefully out of his waistcoat and boots.

"Now I know all you want to do is go to sleep," the doctor said, announcing his presence, which honestly had escaped Geoffrey's limited notice, "but first you will be so kind as to explain to me, to the best of your abilities at the moment, how it is you came to be knocking the daylights out of Mr. Dartmouth."

"Well, he – "

"Yes, yes, that part I know," the doctor said. "But you'd best start at the beginning."

Slowly, he spotted the place and time in his mind. "I – received a letter. From Georgie."

"About Mr. Dartmouth?"

"Yes."

"What did it say?"

He was aware enough to tell he had no choice but to answer all questions. "That – that she's spoken with him, and she danced with him."

"What else?"

"That was it."

"When did you receive this missive?"

"Uhm – this morning, with the post."

Doctor Maddox cocked his head curiously. "At Cambridge?"

"Yes."

"So one must conclude that you, upon receiving a letter that contained nothing particularly unexpected or exceptional, immediately leapt on a horse and rode all the way to Town, went straight into the Bingley house, and punched Mr. Dartmouth."

Those were a lot of big words. Geoffrey frowned. "Yes."

"And why in the hell did you do that?"

He had never heard Uncle Maddox curse. Granted, it was rather minor, and not at all in a severe sort of voice, more amused, as if he was being led along. "... I don't know, sir."

His uncle settled back into the armchair, saying nothing for a moment, his expression unreadable. Geoffrey was tempted to close his eyes and maybe sleep, but the silence was at last broken again. "Did you ask Georgiana if she was compromised?"

"She wasn't."

"She said that or you were a witness to the entire event?"

"I came inside – he was forcing her down - ," his memory was getting muddled. "But no, she was not."

"So you performed a thorough inspection afterwards."

"No." Though, that was not entirely true. He certainly hadn't been a bystander to her personal condition while they were getting their senses about them. "I believe her, Uncle."

"I have no doubt. Nor do I doubt she would lie. Not to you, certainly." Maddox rose. "I shan't bother you any more tonight. You've given me enough to think on, Mr. Darcy."

Geoffrey could manage no further response. He closed his eyes and all he heard was the tapping of the cane and the shutting of the heavy door before he was asleep.

"Daniel," his wife said, drawing his attention to the hallway after he dismissed George. He already knew she was there or at least in the general vicinity. He had memorized her scent – not her perfume, though he knew that well enough, but her personal scent, as if the very air about her. She joined him. "I've just helped Georgiana retire. She will probably go to Kirkland tomorrow."

"If she wishes," he said. "Did you lock the door?"

"Yes."

He kissed her on her forehead. "Clever thinking as always."

"What are we going to do?"

"Retire to our room as if nothing momentous has happened and deal with it in the morning," he said. "Besides, my aim with a shotgun is terrible these days."

He let her, instead of the cane, guide him up the stairs. Stairs, he always had trouble with, because space was so unpredictable once his foot was in it. Not like walls, which generally stayed where they were.

It was a chilly autumn and there was a fire roaring in their room. Doctor Maddox was helped out of his waistcoat and then excused his manservant. "Did you speak with Georgiana?" he said to Caroline as he heard her emerge from her dressing room.

"No, we sat in silence for an hour. Of course I spoke with Georgiana," she said, and took her place on the bed beside him as he removed his boots. At times it was a laborious and frustrating task, and once he had gotten his own hands so knotted up in the laces that his wife wouldn't let him go about it for a week, but he would handle his own boots, thank you very much. However long it took him.

"How is she?" It was a very open question, he knew. He also knew she knew how to answer it. His hand strayed to the bed and she held it.

"Appropriately shaken. Terrified. If Geoffrey hadn't shown up – " She leaned on his shoulder. "I thought she was doing all right."

"So did everyone. Except our young Master Darcy, who raced down here on instinct." But he did not give her time to respond. "I take it she is – "

"Yes."

"Thank G-d. Though, I had very little doubt of it. I asked Geoffrey."

"What? Did he give her a thorough inspection?"

He smiled. "I asked him the very same question. Clearly he did. He was probably blushing terribly. In a way, they owe Mr. Dartmouth a debt."

"That and a credit to the Darcy heritage of being the instinctual savior of all that is good in the world. Now matter how stupidly they must always go about it."

Geoffrey Darcy was quite sure he would have slept through the night if two things hadn't happened. First, at some point while he was still asleep, his pain medicine began to wither in strength. Second, he was startled awake by a voice and that made him quite aware of the first thing. What in the world was Georgiana doing at Cambridge? Women weren't allowed in the dormitory – officially, anyway. Not that it mattered much to Frederick Maddox. But this was not Frederick Maddox, or Charles Bingley, or any other person other than her, and between her and his hand, he could piece together that he was not, in fact, at Cambridge. "Georgie?"

"When you call me that, I feel like I'm eight," she said. She was very close to him, but still over the covers, but he was having trouble adjusting his eyes to the dim light.

"Georgiana," his voice a little more emotional than he wanted it to be. "What – what are you doing here?"

"Can you believe that my own aunt locked me in my room?" she said. "Not that a door lock would stop a Bingley."

He sat up abed, against the headboard. "Georgiana," he said with more authority. "You've – had a bad night."

"I know."

He swallowed. He knew he had to say it, and yet, he didn't want to tell her to go.

"I have bruises," she said. "I have little red spots. They'll be bruises in the morning. You know I bruise so easily."

He nodded.

"What I'm saying, you stupid git, is that I don't want to be alone tonight."

It took all of his self-control to muster, "That doesn't mean it should be with me."

"Would you like me to wake George?"

His eyes must have told the whole story of his sudden rage, because she giggled and leaned into him. This, he could not bring himself to stop. She by his side – on his side – was very distracting from the pain in his hand. Thoroughly distracting.

"Why did you come to Town?"

It was so easy a question, so hard to answer. "I don't know."

"Geoffrey," she said, "Tell me, what was going through your mind when you read my letter this morning?"

"I – I don't know how to phrase it," he said. "I ... guess ..." He trailed off, but she did not relent. She could have a terrifying gaze when she wanted to, even though it was obvious she wasn't the least bit angry with him. Finally he answered, "I couldn't stand the idea of you with Mr. Dartmouth."

"You didn't know Mr. Dartmouth."

"I suppose; then ... I couldn't stand to see you with someone – else."

"And by implication ..."

"The same as you, if you picked the lock and did the very improper thing of coming into a man's room in the middle of the night. Especially when you know he's drugged and has already, without the aid of medication, lost his head once tonight." He swallowed. "By implication, I love you. There, you have it. Now go and leave me alone before I – "

"Before you what?"

He answered her with exactly what it was, which was a kiss. The kind that lasted, too; the kind where they were taking in each other's soul, not ending it until it became a physical necessity. It was followed by another, and then another, so much so that the physical positioning on the bed had changed, and he only pulled away when the pain of trying to support himself with his hands reminded him he was not capable of doing so. And that they were in a very dangerous position. "Georgiana – "

She took his arm, and steadied him, so he did not have to weigh down the hand. "Thank you," he muttered. "Georgiana, you're making it very hard for me to be a gentleman."

"I don't want a gentleman," she said, her voice soft, exposed. "I want you."

Where was the Georgie that he knew and loved, and who was this daring woman before him? No, he shook his head, she had always been a daring woman, or a daring girl, always frightfully stubborn and secretive. Except to him; he was always different. He was always hers. "Marry me."

"This second?"

"I'm serious," he said, and he was not lying. "I can't – you know I can't. Shouldn't. Unless I'm dreaming this all, from the opium, or from some drink my cousin slipped me, and I really didn't ride all the way from Cambridge in the middle of the semester to see you because I couldn't stand the thought of another man even looking at you, much less – " But he couldn't bring up that memory. "And all that didn't happen, I didn't realize that I won't stand it if you're not mine. Permanently."

"You know I am."

Was he taking advantage of her? It didn't seem like it. She wasn't crying or fighting him. She had snuck into his room while he was asleep. Yes, he was asking her for something very great, but it seemed like she was willing to give it. While he was contemplating all of this, she leaned in and kissed him again, whispering, "Yes, I will marry you." She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down with her, and the last of his fortitude was gone. After all, they were now engaged, so some indiscretion was permissible? Emphasis on some.

It was all instinctual. All of the advice imparted to him, either awkwardly and subtly by his father, or openly and lewdly by his classmates, seemed to be irrelevant and certainly, an unqualified comparison. If he fumbled, Georgiana gave no overt notice as she undid the buttons of his shirt, being the only one with two usable hands.

She was right – she did bruise easily, or it showed more easily because she was so pale. "Ow," she said as he ran his hand over her wrists and up her arm.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little. Not much."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

That was all the incentive he needed, and kissed her on her neck. Even though it was London, she tasted like nature, like flowers and fields and all of the wild things that described her nature. Except maybe flowers.

"What're you giggling at?"

"Nothing," he said, and silenced her with a kiss. "I love you." He could feel her tense when he said it, like something holding on to the moment, waiting to see if it was real or not. He could feel better than he could hear, and at the moment, it was doing him a world of good. "It's all right. I'm not leaving. I'm never leaving you again."

"I love you."

"I know."

When he was less distracted, he noticed the sky lightening, and despite his very strong desire for sleep, he whispered to the similarly-exhausted Georgiana, "I think you'd best be back in your room."

"Are you tossing me out?"

"I don't want to," he said as he kissed her neck. "But I think I have to."

"Is that the procedure? After being with a woman?"

"I don't know. I never have – had." He bore the brunt of her look. "What? Is that so terrible a thing? Admittedly, I had to lie to Frederick about it so I wouldn't have to endure the endless ribbing he gives your brother about the same subject, but for some reason, other women didn't seem to – interest me."

"I will assume we are keeping this between us," she said, and then clarified, "the engagement, I mean. If you were serious about that."

"I was. And yes, our secret. Unless ... it's not possible to keep."

She understood his meaning perfectly. Or, he hoped she did, as she kissed him once more, hurriedly dressed herself, and slid out of his room with the same stealth with which she had entered. The rooster was crowing by the time he was asleep.

Next Chapter – The Knight in Disgrace