by Lynne Barron
“I am not bloody fixated,” Henry muttered but no one paid him the least mind, instead continuing to discuss him as if he weren’t standing right there.
Turning on his heel, he stalked from the dining room. In the hall he heard the soft chatter and laughter of his female relations in the front parlor. He contemplated joining them, perhaps engaging his sisters in a game of cards. Except both Olivia and Beatrice had taken to plying him with not so subtle hints that it was time for him to marry and give up his debauched ways.
He turned to the stairs and the quiet of his empty chamber above.
“Hastings, a moment if you please.”
Turning at the whispered words he found Alice emerging from the dining room, softly closing the door behind her.
“Are you truly interested in Miss Buchanan?” she asked as she reached him where he waited for her beside the newel post.
“I don’t intend to court her with marriage in mind, if that is your question,” he answered, wondering if she intended to treat him to further acerbic comments.
Alice waved away his words. “Of course not. The lady is hardly the sort you would take to wife. But you do intend to pursue her for other purposes?”
“If I do?” he hedged.
“You might consider speaking with Piedmont as they have become rather friendly.”
“Georgiana and your husband? Surely you are not suggesting—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alice interrupted. “Piedmont has no interest in the fairer sex. No, he is only interested in his dogs and his castles, which is how he and Miss Buchanan came to be friends. She is something of an expert, having lived within the shadow of Joy on the Mount.”
“Should I know what Joy on the Mount is?”
“It’s a crumbling old castle in Scotland.”
“And Piedmont’s latest addition to his collection?” Henry guessed.
“He broke ground on the eighth, and hopefully final, castle just last week. He has come to know Miss Buchanan while gathering information. They often take tea together while she looks over his plans and corrects his miscalculations. He must get the proportions just right, it seems.”
“What has he told you about her?” Henry asked, not even remotely interested in Piedmont’s need for perfect proportions in the miniature castles that dotted the front lawn of Evergreen.
“I haven’t discussed Miss Buchanan with Piedmont. That would require engaging him in conversation, which, as you know, is something I make every attempt to avoid.”
“You’ve learned nothing?”
“Only what I’ve overheard as I’ve passed by the parlor when she is visiting and what I’ve heard Piedmont saying to Cheeves,” she answered. “Which is precious little as I do attempt to avoid our butler, as well. He’s a sneaky little fellow with an unpleasant odor about him.”
“Alice,” Henry grated out between clenched teeth.
“Gracious, what on earth has come over you?” Alice asked. “I have never seen you in such a state. And all over a woman. Everett is likely correct. It is the novelty of the thing, the thrill of the chase.”
“What have you learned?” he demanded, ignoring her words.
Alice huffed out a breath. “From what I can gather, your Miss Buchanan came to Town last year to escape her wretched relations and the wild set that runs with them.”
“Yes,” he agreed, an image of kilted warriors swarming heather fields taking shape in his mind. Except the libertines who ascended the mountain were Englishmen.
“Or perhaps it was to find one or the other of them,” Alice continued. “Although why anyone would search for a Buchanan if one were lucky enough to lose him, I’ve no idea.”
“Are the Buchanans really so terrible?”
“Heathens, every last one of them. It’s whispered they’ve murdered one another for generations over a craggy plot of land good only for the raising of sheep. They are a family of wastrels, gamblers, debauchers and turncoats if ever there was one.”
Henry waved away her words. Hadn’t Georgiana herself had told him the Buchanans were likened to the boogeymen of children’s nightmares?
“Oh, and she is frightfully well read,” Alice tacked on. “I know this because Piedmont had Cheeves sorting through dusty old tomes in search of a book he must give to her in gratitude for her assistance.”
“She does not strike me as a blue-stocking,” he replied skeptically.
“Perhaps she hides her penchant for knowledge,” Alice suggested.
“Somehow I doubt that,” Henry said with a chuckle. “Miss Buchanan is…well an open book. She is who she is and makes no apologies for it. It seems her grandmother instilled in her the ability to embrace her unique qualities.”
“One must wonder what else the lady instilled in her,” Alice murmured.
“That’s it? That’s all you got?”
“Oh, and she has an interest in angels,” Alice said.
“Angels?”
“Your mother’s angels in particular.”
Henry barked out a laugh that sounded bitter and cold to his ears. “Mother may have possessed the ability to call up the devil’s minions, but angels?”
“Have you never heard the little ditty about your mother’s angels?” Alice asked in apparent surprise.
“Are you referring to the lewd song about Father running off to Idyllwild with Mary Morgan?”
“So you have heard it.”
“Lord Casterbury was kind enough to sing a few bars for my entertainment one night last year when he was drunk on port and too many losing hands of whist,” Henry replied, his fists balling in remembered fury and humiliation.
“Then you know the angels were those ladies who offered solace to your abandoned mother,” Alice replied with a sly smile. “A dozen sweet angels immortalized to the tune of an old lullaby. And your Miss Buchanan has a keen interest in those angels.”
Chapter Seven
Georgiana Buchanan might possess barbarian blood and an interest in angels.
What she apparently did not possess was an interest in was being found by the Earl of Hastings.
This Henry knew because he’d taken to riding around Bedford Square and lingering in the park at its center nearly every day. Not once did he see the lady careening around corners or cutting off unwary travelers in her bright yellow curricle. Nor did he see her coming or going from any of the houses that lined the square.
She did not attend the theater or ride in Hyde Park.
This Henry knew because Alice and Everett were only too happy to tease him with the knowledge.
She was not seen loitering outside his town house in Grosvenor Square or his club on St. James’s Street, nor had she attended a single wedding or funeral at any church in the vicinity of Mayfair.
This Henry knew because he’d stationed his servants as lookouts at all three while he skulked about in Bedford Square.
For three full weeks he’d been searching for a tall, slender woman in ridiculously wide skirts, red curls escaping from beneath an outrageous bonnet bedecked with ribbons, bows and flowers.
Just that morning he’d molested a woman with a stuffed bird perched atop her hat only to learn she wasn’t a woman at all and the bird was not stuffed.
It was at that precise moment, as he ducked the swinging fist of a foreign sailor while a parrot flew circles around his head, that Henry realized he’d lost his mind.
And determined to reclaim it, along with his dented ego and his bruised masculinity.
Thus he found himself at Angelique Henri’s ball on the fringes of Hanover Square.
Angelique was the reigning queen of the demimonde and a decidedly lovely woman, one Henry had contemplated bedding on more than one occasion. Alas she had not offered up the opportunity, which struck him as the height of hypocrisy.
She bedded only the wealthiest, most powerful gentlemen of the ton.
And those reputed to be exceptional lovers.
Henry fit all three requirements and still sh
e’d never been more than mildly flirtatious when he’d attended her various entertainments.
“Lord Hastings, what a pleasure to see you.”
Henry looked away from his hostess’ piled-high raven locks and rather amazing bosom only to find himself face-to-face with a woman nearly as blessed.
Vivienne Culpepper was an astoundingly beautiful woman with blonde ringlets framing her face and dark eyes tipped up at the corners. They’d flirted with one another for a time last season without ever coming to the sticking point.
Henry swept his gaze over curves that invariably overflowed whatever gown she’d been stitched into for the evening.
Tonight was no exception. Her breasts swelled over the bodice of a crimson gown until the crests of her rouged areolas peeked over the top, one after the other, like eyes winking at him with each breath she took.
Henry wondered if she practiced utilizing first the left lung then the right to breathe, thereby obtaining the perfect alternating winks. It certainly appeared so.
“Vivienne.” Henry made her a bow, careful not to bend too near her breasts lest he give one or the other a poke in the eye. “Where have you been hiding yourself? It seems an age since I’ve seen you.”
“Have you missed me, you naughty man?” she cooed, dropping into a curtsy that caused her bodice to gape, giving him an unobstructed view of her nipples.
They weren’t pretty ripe berries but they were certainly lovely, pert and pouting.
“But of course I’ve missed you, dove.”
The beginning strains of a waltz soared over the chatter in Angelique’s ballroom.
“I don’t suppose I could be so lucky as to find you without a partner for this set?” Henry inquired.
“Tonight is your lucky night,” she purred, her dark gaze sweeping over him, lingering none too subtly at his groin before coming up to meet his eyes once more.
In that moment Henry knew precisely how the night would play out. He would twirl her around the dance floor while she tossed out flirtatious hints as to her availability for the night. Afterward the lady would suggest a walk in the gardens, a visit to the orangery or an inspection of a portrait in one of the many empty chambers abovestairs.
As they took up their places amid the other dancers, Vivienne’s dainty hand swallowed in his, Henry waited for the first pulse of desire to take up residence in the vicinity of his crotch.
“You have not commented on my gown, Hastings,” she admonished playfully, her left breast winking.
“Astounding,” he assured her. “And you look ravishing in it.”
“I purchased an entire new wardrobe while in Paris…”
As he led her around the dance floor she rambled on about dresses made to order and the naughty underthings she’d acquired to wear beneath them. Garments one must see to believe, she assured him.
Henry found his gaze riveted to her breasts, entranced by the never-ending show that was the winking, blinking, perfectly synchronized appearance of the tops of her areolas.
“Champagne sounds divine.”
Henry fought his way out of a hazy fog to find the music fading to a close and Vivienne standing motionless in front of him with a rather peevish expression on her lovely face.
“Forgive me. I was entranced by your beauty.” Henry pitched his voice low in the way that women everywhere adored.
Had Georgiana adored it?
Pushing away the unwelcome thought, he brushed his thumb over Vivienne’s knuckles while he trailed his fingers over her palm.
“I am drunk on your beauty, but if you wish for champagne, I shall not deny you. I could deny you nothing.” The words tripped off his tongue, stiff and unwieldy.
If Vivienne noticed, she gave no indication.
Why should she notice? She hardly knew him beyond the playful banter they’d exchanged while dancing together a handful of times.
“It is terribly warm in here,” Vivienne proclaimed as Henry led her from the dance floor toward a hovering servant with a tray in his hand. “Perhaps we might share a glass in the garden?”
As propositions went, her technique was flawless.
Brazenly coy.
“I am yours to command.” Handing her a glass, he watched as her lashes fluttered over dark eyes and her tongue darted out to sweep over her lower lip.
Henry knew the look. He ought to. He’d seen desire on a woman’s face dozens of times since Lady Churchill had proclaimed him talented beyond words.
And dozens of times he’d felt an answering pull, tightening his balls and throbbing down his shaft.
And now? Nothing.
Had one night with Georgiana left him emasculated?
“The garden awaits,” he muttered, pulling her out the french doors and onto the terrace.
“My goodness, you are a surprisingly forceful man,” Vivienne said with a trilling laugh as Henry hauled her down a shallow flight of stairs. “I hadn’t heard that about you.”
“I am impatient to have you in my arms,” he called back over his shoulder as he pulled her along behind him.
“Ooh, I do love a man who knows what he wants.” Her voice had taken on a breathless quality, whether from passion or the sprint along the garden path Henry neither knew nor cared.
He would have her, by God. He would take her to the gazebo and pull her to his lap, burying his face in her astonishingly coordinated breasts. He would drop his trousers and lift her skirts and take her, thrusting into her heat.
He would be damned if she would drive him to the brink of madness with her clenching cunny and soft sighs. Not until she’d reached her crisis. Twice.
And if she dared to laugh while he labored, he would fuck her until she could not walk.
Reaching the gazebo, Henry tugged her in and spun about to take her in his arms.
But she was already there, her arms wrapping around his neck, her fingers fisting in his hair as she dragged his mouth over hers.
“Mmm, yes,” she moaned against his lips before prying them apart with her tongue.
Henry reached around and cupped her bottom, lifting her off her feet and pulling her tight against his cock.
His flaccid cock.
“Fuck.” He sank onto the cushioned bench behind him, taking her with him.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Use your naughty words.”
A ragged laugh forced its way past her stabbing tongue and puckering lips.
“My lord?” She lifted her head to look at him.
“Oh, pardon me,” a soft voice intruded.
Saved, was Henry’s first thought.
Or not, was his second.
Angelique Henri stood just outside the arched opening, one hand resting on the wood, the other holding a bottle of whiskey.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Culpepper just arrived.”
“Oh no!” Vivienne lurched off his lap. “Is he in a temper?”
“Quite so.”
“Damn and blast, now he’ll cancel my dress order!” Leaving her wailing words echoing around the gazebo, Vivienne fled into the night.
Angelique approached Henry with bottle in hand.
“You owe me, my lord,” she informed him as she took the seat beside him.
“Is Mr. Culpepper truly here?” he asked, taking the bottle from her unresisting hand.
“I never invite them both. It makes for screaming matches and fisticuffs.” Angelique plucked the cork from the bottle. “Take a swallow. You look as if you could use it.”
Henry lifted the bottle and poured the good Scots whiskey down his throat, welcoming the burn.
“Why?” he asked when he could get enough breath for the one word.
“Vivienne Culpepper will harass you unmercifully should you bed her.”
“Harass me?”
“When Horace Michaels broke things off with her last year she stalked him to Paris.”
“I’ve already one woman stalking me. Or I did until I mucked it up somehow,” Henry replied, his throat raw.
>
From the whiskey.
“Perhaps you might unmuck it?” Angelique suggested.
“I’ll be damned if I know where she’s run off to.”
“Love is a bitch. Or so my grandmother always said.”
“I do not love Georgiana Buchanan!” Henry jumped to his feet, his head spinning.
From the whiskey.
He held the bottle out to Angelique, surprised to see it shaking in his hand.
“Georgiana Buchanan?” she asked around a giggle. “Keep it, my lord. You’re going to need it.”
Chapter Eight
Three days later Henry rode into the village of Deerfield atop a winded stallion whose gray coat perfectly matched the clouds rolling in from the north. Too restless to countenance another day confined in his carriage with only his thoughts for company, he’d left his entourage of servants at the Pig and Hen inn that morning.
Deerfield was a quiet hamlet, little more than one narrow road of shops bisected by half a dozen dusty lanes dotted with small cottages. A gray-stone church sat on a rise just within the village proper, an ancient graveyard sporting listing tombstones surrounding it on three sides.
Some sort of ceremony had just ended. Villagers dressed in their finest garments lingered in the shade of an old tree while others had already begun the journey through town. A line of ladies in groups of two and three wandered along the high street, bright colored muslin and faded calico skirts lifting on the warm breeze that blew in with the clouds.
Henry looked up at the darkening sky and wondered how likely he was to make the last leg of his journey to Idyllwild before the sky opened up. No mind, the rain was much needed and he would happily get wet if it would just arrive already.
A lilting laugh carried on the wind and he turned to watch a young lady skip ahead of another, a straw bonnet hanging down her back from bright green ribbons. Seen in profile as she passed him on the walkway, Henry decided she was lovely, with pretty pink cheeks and a tilt-tipped nose. Softly rounded breasts rose above the bodice of a pale green dress tightly cinched at the waist before flowing over a bottom that looked plump enough for a man to hold on to while he lunged between thighs that promised to be soft and dimpled.