A woman who refused to lie. A woman he could trust. Could he believe it? If it were true, what a gift she would be.

Time would tell whether she was making a fool of him or telling the unvarnished truth. In the meantime, there were these sensations to explore.

“Georgiana—”

She tossed her head. “I don’t answer to that.”

He was not going to call her George. It was an offense to her deep femininity. She didn’t act particularly ladylike, and she might crop her hair and assume boyish mannerisms—that glorious walk of hers—and she might ride like a boy—better than most boys, in fact—but the way she kissed . . . He took a deep breath. The female in her called to the male in him with a power he’d never before experienced.

She could never be a George to him. George was a fat German king, not an elegant, leggy, entrancing firebrand.

Why did she affect boyish mannerisms? He was curious as to how that had happened.

“What if I called you Georgie?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No.”

“Georgette? Georgia? Georgiarella?”

She snorted with reluctant humor. “I told you, it’s George or nothing.”

“George, then, since you insist.” He supposed he could get used to it. Not that she gave him a choice.

“I do.”

He lowered his voice. “Well then, George . . .” He slipped his arm along the back of the seat.

She eyed him suspiciously. “What?”

“We haven’t finished discussing these sensations of yours.”

“There’s nothing to disc—” She broke off as he slid a finger beneath her collar and caressed the nape of her neck. She shivered and arched against his hand like a cat.

“Stop it,” she muttered. Without very much conviction.

“Don’t you like it?” He stroked her again.

Her response was silence. Glorious, golden silence. Because she refused to lie to him. He moved his fingers to the tender skin behind her ear, and caressed her lightly. “Such pretty ears.”

She gave a kind of shrug, as if rejecting his compliment—she wasn’t comfortable with compliments, he’d noticed that before—but she didn’t move away. He bent and sucked on her earlobe.

She jumped. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” He ran his tongue around the delicate whorls of her ears. She shivered against him and hunched her shoulder up, pulling back a little.

“That’s very . . .”

“Very what?” he purred. “Pleasant? Agreeable? Delightful? Tantalizing?”

She gave him a baleful look. “Strange.”

He laughed softly and continued caressing her nape and the tender skin behind her ear. “But you like it, don’t you, George?” There was, he decided, a delightful contrast between the very down-to-earth masculine name and the deeply feminine response he was getting.