by Lynne Barron
He hoped the wanton woman who'd dipped her finger into her sweet quim had not disappeared as well.
As her carriage turned onto the long winding drive that led to Idyllwild Cottage, Georgiana craned her neck to see the sights.
“You’ll be able to see Idyllwild once we clear the woods,” he told her with a chuckle.
“Idyllwild. Quite a lovely name, rather poetic. An idyll in the woods,” she murmured, her voice nearly drowned out by the noise of the carriage wheels. “Lady Easton was raised here?”
He was only mildly surprised she knew the particulars of Beatrice’s early life. Georgiana likely knew quite a bit about his family. She’d followed him about London for months, no doubt watching him interact with his sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, and learning much in the process.
“When you told Mrs. Cooper you’d known my mother, did you speak true?”
“I like to think I always speak the truth,” she answered readily before wrinkling her misshapen nose in an adorable fashion. “No, that isn’t strictly true. I ought to have said that I speak the truth when I am able, but I am not above stretching, sidestepping, or fleeing from it altogether when needs be. Most often when I want to avoid a ruckus, you understand.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Henry had been avoiding ruckuses for as long as he could remember.
They entered the shady woods and what little sunlight had managed break through the clouds disappeared altogether. Birds still chirped in the trees and crickets were warming up for the evening performance, but the dusty drive was barely visible ahead of them.
“I’ll take the lead,” he said, reaching over to squeeze her fingers resting on the edge of the carriage window. “It’s a bit of a winding lane and perhaps not in the best shape. Mrs. Morgan and the Jenkins have been away for some months and I doubt my man Porter has had time to fill in any ruts.”
Setting actions to words, he nudged his mount into a canter and quickly overtook the lumbering carriage. Soon they would pass from the woods into open fields of wheat and barley blowing in the breeze. And beyond, rolling green hills and valleys dotted with wildflowers.
But when he cleared the forest, he saw only fields of dry golden grain waving listlessly in the wind. The clouds had taken on a green shimmer and the sun no longer struggled to make an appearance.
Looking back he found Georgiana hanging out of the window, her head swiveling about as she too took in the wilting crops and swirls of dry dirt rising in the air and spinning like miniature cyclones.
Henry urged his horse into a gallop, taking the small knoll at a fast clip, eager to see the meadows and the house, to assure himself that all was well after the evidence of the damage wrought by months of drought.
What he saw when he reached the top of the rise was rolling hills of sparse yellow grass and valleys without the colorful flowers that typically bloomed all spring and summer. A fallow field lay to the right, one that ought to have been planted with oats.
Idyllwild Cottage sat atop another smaller rise, gray stones nearly hidden by trailing ivy that was a mottled mix of pale green and yellow. The rosebushes surrounding the front of the three story house were barren of blooms, their thorny branches wilted until they appeared as gnarled fingers pointing to the ground.
A cloud of dust gathered and swirled into the air, rising until it hid the front door before scuttling off to race across the dry brown lawn.
The air had taken on the loamy smell of coming rain underlain with a slightly smoky odor, as if the crops and grass were slowly smoldering.
Swinging his horse about, he watched Georgiana’s carriage crawl up the hill, the mismatched horses bent to the task, their hooves fighting for traction on the dirt lane.
“The beasties will make it,” Silas called out from his perch on the bench.
“This measly hillock is nothing,” Brain added with a jaunty salute.
Knowing he could do nothing to aid their ascent, Henry merely watched and waited until the antiquated conveyance crested the knoll. He turned and galloped down the hill and up the next, stopping when he’d reached the circular drive.
Dismounting, he called out a cheerful greeting, expecting Mr. Porter to alight from the stables to take his horse or his wife to come barreling through the front door wiping her hands on her apron. When no one appeared he looped the reins over a post and waited.
Georgiana’s carriage rounded the drive, kicking up a cloud of dust. Brain hopped to the ground and opened the door with a flourish before lowering the step.
“All’s well, my ladies?” the boy asked of its inhabitants.
“Leave off,” Tag muttered as she descended from within, ignoring the footman’s outstretched hand. She landed on her toes, her gray skirts hiked up nearly to her knees.
She seemed an odd girl, prone to grumble with the least provocation and glare at anyone unfortunate enough to draw her attention. Dark hair cropped short framed a face that might have been pretty had her sun-bronzed skin not been marked by a bout of what must have been smallpox. As slender as her mistress with none of her height, she barely reached Henry’s chest, not that she’d come anywhere near him. Not when he’d collected Georgiana at the inn, not now as she waited beside Brain in the open door of the carriage.
“Kindly hand this to his lordship,” Georgiana instructed, holding forth a bundle wrapped in blue velvet and tied with a red ribbon.
Tag took the parcel and marched to where Henry stood before the front door.
“Here.” Careful to keep her distance she shoved the package into his hands before dragging her gaze over his rumpled hair and wrinkled attire.
He lowered the parcel to cover the cockstand in his trousers. Too late.
“Men are disgusting,” Tag muttered, spinning about to face the carriage as Georgiana exited with the help of the fair-haired boy.
Heat washed up Henry’s neck to settle on his cheeks.
“Your house is small,” Tag added with a sniff.
“I beg your pardon?” he replied around a huff of laughter.
“It’s barely a cottage.”
“I’ve larger estates with larger houses,” he answered, fighting not to grin at her sullen proclamation.
“None so grand as Joy on the Mount.”
“Ah, the crumbling Scottish castle.”
“The Mount is not crumbling!”
“It is rather,” Georgiana said as she joined them. “The entire south wing is little more than a ruin.”
“Even so,” Tag replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “This cottage wouldn’t fill the great hall.”
“Never fear, dearest, you shall see Joy on the Mount again in good time,” Georgiana said with a soft smile.
“Are we to wait here while you do whatever it is you’ve come to do?”
“Honestly Tag, you would try the patience of a saint.”
“You are hardly a saint.”
“I’ve never claimed to be.” Georgiana patted the girls shoulder before looking to Henry. “Did your servants not make the journey with you, my lord?”
“I rode ahead,” he explained. “But my man Porter is about somewhere, likely in the garden and his wife puttering in the kitchen.”
“Oh, did you not know? They’ve gone to Burnbridge for the birth of Meg’s babe,” Georgiana replied.
“Meg?”
“Their youngest daughter.”
“How do you know…never mind. Not to worry, my servants can’t be more than a few hours behind me.”
“It’s settled then.” She turned back to the carriage where Silas stared up at the dark sky and Brain lounged in the open door, his long legs spread out before him. “Please take Tag back to the inn before the rain sets in. His lordship will see me home when his servants arrive.”
Thinking he couldn’t have planned it any better himself, Henry offered Georgiana his arm. “Shall I give you a tour?”
“No need, my lord,” she replied, shooting one final look back as Tag stepped into the carriage and
Brain slammed the door closed.
Henry turned the knob on the front door only to find it locked.
“There may be a key beneath that planter.” Georgiana pointed to a small pot housing a wilted flower of some sort.
Without thought, his entire being focused upon the knowledge that in moments he would have the lady to himself, he handed her bundle back to her and bent to feel beneath the small pot. “Got it.”
Anticipation hummed in Henry’s veins. To say that he was relieved to be sporting a bulge in his trousers after his debacle with Vivienne was to put too fine a point on the matter.
He could not wait to peel Georgiana’s dress from her willowy body—decided he wouldn’t even bother. There was a long settee in the parlor. He’d have her astride him in seconds, his cock buried in her quim in less than a minute, her screams echoing around the room shortly thereafter.
Opening the door and all but dragging her across the threshold, he found the hall dark and filled with shadows.
“There is a lantern just inside the parlor, to the left on the table, and a tinderbox in the drawer,” Georgiana said.
“No need.” Henry kicked the door shut and spun her about, his hands on her shoulders pinning her to the heavy wood.
“Oh.”
He allowed her just that one word before he found her mouth, warm and open in invitation. He thrust deep, groaned when she sighed, the soft sound vibrating against his lips, making him dizzy with the need to possess her.
Her velvet-wrapped parcel fell to the floor with a dull thud and she curled her hands around his wrists, her fingers digging into his flesh. Twisting in her grip, he caught her hands and pushed them up over her head, pressing them to the door.
“Yes,” she whispered into his mouth, more breath than sound.
Her tongue tangled with his, stroked beneath, over the ridge of his teeth. He caught it, pulling it into his mouth to suckle.
Georgiana trembled, her fingers curling around his until they were palm to palm.
Wedging his knees between her legs, he gave her his weight, gratified by the small whimper she gave him in return. He pressed his throbbing cock against her belly, dipped down to thrust against her mound, dragged his length over her, back and forth, and again.
Tearing his mouth from hers, he raced his lips along her jaw until she tossed her head back, gifting him with her neck. Trailing hungry kisses down the slender column, he thrust against her, grinding his shaft almost painfully against her flesh.
“Christ, I want you,” he growled into the juncture of her shoulder.
Georgiana sighed, her fingers clenching around his, one long leg curling around his hips, pulling him hard against her. She caught the frantic rhythm he’d set, rolling her hips to receive each thrust, whimpering softly at each retreat, spurring him on until the blood pounded in his veins, roared in his head.
Henry released her hands, dragged his own down to cup her bottom, lifting her off her feet. Her long arms wrapped around his shoulders, her hands clawed at his back as she wound both legs around him.
“By God,” he muttered against her neck, “I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”
Georgiana moaned softly, her lips pressed to his temple, one hand coming up to fist in his hair, the other clinging to his back.
Turning with her in his arms, he stumbled across the hall into the parlor, finding the long settee and dumping her unceremoniously upon it.
His hands fell to the front of his trousers while she twisted about, untangling her skirts and petticoats and hitching them up to her waist. He had only a moment to marvel that she’d left off her drawers again before she pushed aside his fumbling fingers and released the buttons, tugging his trousers past his hips.
Dropping to his knees between her spread legs, he took his cock in hand.
“You mustn’t spend inside me,” she told him, catching his gaze and holding it.
“Yes, my dove,” he replied, barely registering her words as he wrapped one arm around her and pulled her to the edge of the sofa.
“Promise me.”
“Yes, I promise.” He would have promised her the moon and the stars and all of the jewels in the Tower just to get his cock in her cunny.
Georgiana wound her arms around him, her hands skimming his back to grip his ass, pulling him flush against her.
Dragging his shaft through her folds, he found the entrance to her body, wet and welcoming. She tilted her hips to receive him, a sigh falling from her lips. He pushed the head of his cock into her quim, pulling another choppy breath from her. Capturing her lips, he drove into her and was immediately surrounded by hot, rippling flesh.
“Christ, don’t start that,” he begged, his balls tightening painfully and his cock pulsing with the need to spend.
In answer she giggled softly against his lips.
“Damn it,” he growled, withdrawing and driving home once more.
Caught by the jagged edge of an orgasm that promised to be glorious, Henry lost what little control he’d managed to retain, thrusting wildly between her legs.
“You mustn’t…” she gasped.
“I must.” The pleasure was an exquisite agony, release but a few strokes away.
“…spend inside me.” she finished, her words gaining volume, her hands coming between them to push against his chest.
Over the roaring in his ears Henry heard the desperation in her voice and attempted to withdraw from her clasping, clenching cunny, knowing it was too late.
Georgiana chose that moment to give him a mighty shove that sent him tumbling backward.
He landed hard on his ass, legs sprawling, hands waving about in search of purchase, jism shooting into the air, spraying them both.
He groaned in mingled pleasure and pain as his back made contact with the floor, his cock still pulsing, dowsing his belly.
Struggling to find breath, he looked up at Georgiana perched on the edge of the settee with her skirts bunched about her waist. Her legs were open, presenting him with a perfect view of her pink nether lips beneath fiery red curls. Dragging his gaze up he found her staring at him from wide eyes.
Her lips twitched and slowly lifted into a grin.
“Do not laugh,” he grunted around a raspy breath.
She paid him no mind whatsoever, erupting into gales of laughter that swept around the shadowy room, echoing off the walls and bouncing back at him where he lay on the floor divested of every last shred of his dignity.
Chapter Ten
Georgie had only just managed to rein in her mirth when the rumpled lord scrambled to his feet, tugging his trousers up and reaching into his breast pocket for a handkerchief.
“By all that’s holy,” he grumbled, shrugging out of this coat and tossing it over a chair. “What is it about you?”
“Me?” she repeated, one hand coming to rest between her legs where she felt about trying to determine if the wetness there was born of her body or his.
“I have never in all my life encountered a woman so well-suited to the task of shredding my control,” he continued, dabbing at the evidence of his clumsy completion spotting his linen shirt.
“Perhaps it needs shredding.” Easing one finger through her folds, Georgie decided he’d not spilled his seed inside her but rather only spattered her belly and thighs.
The Earl of Hastings falling on his arse, an arc of semen streaming in his wake, was a sight she would never forget. When she was old and gray and wandering around Joy on the Mount with dozens of redheaded, purple-eyed grandchildren rioting around her, she’d remember this day, remember this man.
Unable to hold back a giggle, Georgiana shifted about to untangle her skirts and sweep the wrinkled silk down over her legs,
Giving up on his shirt, he whipped the garment over his head. “Do you find me amusing?”
“I do rather,” she admitted, not at all understanding what had him a state. So he’d gone flying arse over heels, spritzing them both. Coupling was a messy business when done rig
ht.
With a muttered curse he turned away to pace the perimeter of the cozy little parlor, past the cold hearth, behind two rocking chairs bracketing a small table, in front of the windows with their pale blue drapes parted to allow weak gray light to drift across the floor.
“Dozens of women I’ve had and not a one of them laughed at me.”
“I wasn’t so much as laughing at you but rather at the absurdity of your falling to your bum with jism shooting about,” she replied.
“You are a witch,” he said. “A Scots witch with a bag of tricks sent to bedevil me.”
“A Janet, am I?” she asked with a grin. “Oh, I like that, I do.”
“Janet?” Henry stopped his pacing long enough to toss a befuddled look over his shoulder.
“A Scottish witch is a Janet, named after Lady Glamis who was burnt for witchcraft.”
“She likely figured out how to milk a man’s cock,” he replied, resuming his march about the room.
“Millie never said anything about a man’s cock when telling the tale but I suppose anything is possible.”
“Who is Millie? Never mind. And quit changing the topic.”
“Was there a topic?”
“You have ruined me.” He fell into a chair and leaned over to tug at his left boot.
“I hardly think I’ve ruined you,” she protested, watching the muscles bunch along his shoulders and arms as he wrestled the tall black boot from his foot and tossed it to the floor.
“Sawing off my arm,” he murmured.
“I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” he interrupted, looking up to glare at her. “I know that feeling all too well. Instead I wake to find you long gone.”
“I told you—”
“That you’d gotten what you wanted.” Bending over his right boot, he shook his head, one golden curl falling over his forehead. “But you didn’t, did you?”