Free One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) by Connie Mason, Mia Marlowe Page A

things for me to know about a man if I’m destined to marry him.” She proceeded to tick items off on her gloved fingers. “What books does he like? Does he prefer cricket or lawn bowling? Did he have a pony as a boy? What was its name? What’s his favorite color? Were his—”
    “Since marriage lasts ‘till death do you part,’” Nate interrupted to save her from running out of breath, “I expect you’ll have time to discover the answers to all those burning questions.”
    She swatted his forearm with irritation. “Oh, you don’t understand. It’s not the answers that are important.”
    “Then what is?”
    “It’s the asking of them and listening to the answers. It’s getting to know the man behind those answers. And I hope he’d want to get to know me as well,” she said, her tone decidedly wistful. “Do you know I’ve never even seen the duke up close?”
    Nathaniel had. He was no judge of male attractiveness, but he thought she hadn’t missed much. The duke was pushing forty-five years old and a life of dissipation had taken its toll. Nate wasn’t about to say so, however. Georgette was upset enough already.
    “And if I wed the royal duke, long before I know who he is, he’ll have to…well”—her cheeks bloomed with those patches of pink Nate was coming to love—“to know me.”
    “In the biblical sense, you mean.”
    She nodded and stared down at her fingers which were hopelessly knotted together on her lap.
    “So you’re concerned about the wedding night,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on the seat beside her. A red haze descended on his vision when he thought about another man taking Georgette’s maidenhead, and it had nothing to do with Mr. Alcock’s directive. “Perhaps that’s something you ought to discuss with your mother.”
    She laughed mirthlessly. “I can’t imagine why. I rather suspect she’s still waiting for someone to talk with her about her wedding night. She and Father had an arranged marriage, you know. They quite literally met at the altar.”
    “There you are. You have a perfect example of how a made match can work.”
    Her brows drew together in a frown. “That’s just the trouble. I don’t know that it did. Maybe before Anne died things were different.” Her voice trailed away to a whisper. “I scarcely remember, but now, they both seem to live their own lives and only meet across the supper table.”
    Nate squeezed his eyes shut. Before Anne died, everything was different. He was different. Why should Lord and Lady Yorkingham not be changed forever by their loss as well?
    Suddenly he felt Georgette’s hand on his, soft and slender and warm.
    “I’m sorry for mentioning Anne, Nate,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
    He covered her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. “It’s not your fault. It simply is. Actually, it’s a relief to hear someone speak her name.”
    Georgette made no move to extract her hand from his. “I know what you mean. It’s as if no one wants to even acknowledge she lived. As if we can pretend she didn’t leave a hole in all our hearts.”
    “She wouldn’t want us to feel that way.” He was echoing his mother’s counsel. She insisted it was best to shove away the sadness. An act of the will, that was all it took. If Nathaniel were only made of sterner moral fiber, he could will away his grief.
    “No, that’s not true,” Georgette said. “Anne would want us to feel the way we feel. She was very straightforward like that.”
    He made a soft “hmph-ing” sound. “So she was. I’d forgotten.”
    Georgette sighed. “I’m always afraid of that. Forgetting, I mean. Even now, sometimes I can’t see her face clearly in my mind.”
    Nate’s chest constricted. So many things had happened since he lost Anne—his life of soldiering and subsequent disgrace along with his attempt to live down to his bad reputation. There’d been too many meaningless wagers, too many empty couplings with women who