by Lynne Barron
“Shh,” she crooned as he fought to draw air into his starving lungs.
“Christ…I’ve never…” he panted against the warm flesh of her shoulder.
“I know,” she whispered, her hand sweeping down his spine.
Henry closed his eyes, drifting in a haze of satisfaction so complete his limbs were heavy with it. “That was…I haven’t words.”
“Lovely, my lord,” she murmured against his temple. “Simply lovely.”
Laughter, dark and gravelly, erupted from him and he thought he understood her just a bit better in that moment. “You laugh.”
“Mmm.”
“When you reach your crisis you laugh.” Shaking his head in wonder, he blew out a stuttering breath.
“Not always,” she cautioned. “Sometimes the joy is simply too great to contain.”
“The joy,” he repeated. “You did not laugh this last time. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Hush, my lord.” She shifted down on the bed until they were face-to-face, their legs tangling, her nipples brushing his chest.
In the dark he saw only her eyes, enormous in her pale face and surrounded by long lashes that cast shadows over her cheeks.
“I like it rough,” she whispered. “Hard and fast. Wild and out of control. Messy. Forbidden.”
“Always?” He had yet to make slow love to her and wanted very much to do just that as soon as he could move.
Laughing softly, she shook her head, her nose bumping against his. “I invited Jacob to my bed when I was ten and seven. He was gentle and careful and it was wonderful.”
“He would not marry you?” Henry asked, trailing one hand over the curve of her waist, unsettled by the thought of another man enjoying her uninhibited lovemaking.
“To be sure, there was never any question of our marrying,” she explained, her voice dipping into the cadence of her native land. “Jacob was the son of a physician of the Hebrew faith and I was…I am a Buchanan. Had Killjoy or my grandmother gotten wind of our affair all hell would have rained down on Jacob and his family.”
“Did you love him?”
“I was fond of him in the way all awkward, skinny girls are fond of charming, handsome rogues who single them out for attention.”
“How many lovers have you had?” The question was out before he thought better of it. “My apologies. That was beyond gauche.”
“I’ll tell if you will,” she answered with a grin, her teeth flashing in the dark.
Henry hesitated, not at all certain he cared to travel down this path with her.
“I’m teasing, dearest,” she said, her eyes searching his. “I would hardly expect—”
“Twenty-seven,” he interrupted before he lost his nerve.
“My goodness,” she breathed. “You’ve kept count?”
“I…well, yes.”
“Do you make a notch on the bedpost for each one? Keep a tally in your journal? Plant a tree?”
“Plant a tree?” he repeated on a laugh.
“You’d have a lovely forest one day,” she said, her voice breaking as she fought to keep her amusement under wraps. “Especially if you continue to plant your seed throughout Mayfair. Have you considered branching out?”
“Saucy wench,” he replied, sweeping his hand over the curve of her hip, his thumb finding the lovely bone that so mesmerized him.
“How is it there aren’t little Henrys sprouting up all over London?” Giving up the battle, Georgiana laughed softly, her breath warm against his lips, and he felt an odd fluttering in his belly, not quite arousal but some new, foreign sensation, a close cousin.
Pressing his lips to hers, he caught her joy, pulled it deep into his chest, and the fluttering intensified, multiplied until he felt lightheaded with it.
“Truly,” she whispered against his lips.
“Truly,” he agreed.
Breaking the soft kiss, Georgiana put enough space between them to meet his eyes. “How is it you do not have a dozen illegitimate children running about? Or do you?”
“I don’t.”
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be,” he replied. “Surely had I gotten some lady with child she would have told me.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But you do not make a practice of negating the chances.”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement. One oddly phrased for the lady who customarily said precisely what she meant, often times in the bawdiest manner imaginable.
“I realize it might appear that way given my behavior with you,” he admitted.
“Your misbehavior,” she chided gently.
“Yes…well…I am not generally so…er…overcome that I cannot remember to do my duty by the ladies,” he said, before deciding to simply tell her the truth, consequences be damned. “I have a system.”
“A system? For making love to a woman?”
“Yes, actually. But I was referring to a method by which I do not spend within a woman’s body.”
“Oh, Henry, no,” she said, her voice wobbly.
“Not to worry. It’s foolproof, my system, and works every time,” he answered, heat rushing up his neck. He was tempted to change the subject, to steer them onto smoother ground, but he was loathe to disrupt this new intimacy. He tried to remember when last he’d lain face-to-face with a woman, sharing laughter and affection and confidences, and decided he’d never before known the simple pleasure.
“I suppose you’d best tell me,” she replied, her eyes shining like two stars in the darkness.
“I wait until they are finished—”
“How do you know? Do they all scream and thrash about?
“To one degree or another, though some ladies are less vocal than others. None so quiet as you, with your soft sighs and breathless laughter.”
“You do not feel them coming apart?”
“Again, to one degree or another, but none possess your…er…tight milking clasp.”
“How is it you did not know you brought me to climax?”
“Georgiana, I was out of my head, rendered mad and not at all adhering to the proper order of things.”
“There’s a proper order?” she asked.
Henry chose to ignore her quiet question. “Add to that, and correct me if I’m wrong, you were already climaxing before I was fully inside you that first time.”
“And you thought it was a whore’s trick.”
“A witch’s trick,” he corrected.
“I see,” she replied doubtfully. “So when the ladies are finished screaming and thrashing about to one degree or another?”
“Twice, sometimes thrice.”
“How do you know how many times a lady will climax? You might think she’s finished when in fact she is working toward the next.”
“I hope I can tell when a woman is wrung dry,” he said.
“How?” his too curious lover asked.
“Generally by the manner in which she droops over me,” he explained.
“But what if she is beneath you?”
“She isn’t.”
“Ever? I know you think that all the ladies prefer to mount you, but surely some of them prefer to be ridden.”
“Oh, no. They all want to straddle me,” he replied, not at all certain why he felt off-kilter by the admission.
“Henry, what nonsense,” she argued. “Not all women are the same. Take me, for instance I don’t like to be on top. Not in the least.”
“You haven’t been atop me.” He could not keep the arrogance from his voice. In fact he made no effort whatsoever.
Georgiana giggled. Two hours previously he would have taken offense. Hell, an hour ago he would have raged at her as he had in the front parlor. Now he only smiled at her amusement.
“I give over. All the ladies prefer to ride the beautiful stallion,” she said. “And when you are near to spending you tell them and they what? Scramble off your cock?”
“If you must know—”
“Oh, make
no mistake, I must know.”
“When a lady is ready for the night’s revelries to come to an end, I roll her to her back,” he explained, fighting the urge to look away from her bright eyes. “At which time I finish my business, withdrawing to spend on the sheets.”
“Finish your business,” she repeated softly. “You roll her over and continue until you are at the point, and then withdraw.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“More or less. Always you flip the ladies to their backs?”
“You sound as if you find that odd.”
“No, no of course not,” she hurried to assure him. “Truly, coupling is a strange business on the whole. As far as I can tell, every man and woman has their own little quirks and predilections. I would never judge anyone’s proclivities as odd. To each his own.”
Tucking her head beneath his chin, Georgiana settled down beside him, her warm breath puffing against his shoulder, her fingers drifting lightly over his arm. Silence surrounded them but for the quiet sounds of crickets chirping and wind blowing over the dry grass outside.
Henry went over their conversation, wondering if he’d been a bit too forthcoming. Likely he should not have mentioned his system as she seemed somewhat distressed by the notion. But hell, women were a tricky lot and he had a reputation to uphold. All it would take was one lady screaming from the rooftops that he’d left her wanting and he would be a laughingstock, fodder for jokes and bawdy ballads.
As his father had been when he’d abandoned his new bride to go harrying off to Idyllwild in pursuit of Mary Morgan.
His only solace would be found in the knowledge that he hadn’t taken a wife down with him.
“Four.” Georgiana’s sleepy voice interrupted his rather gloomy ponderings.
“Four?” he repeated, not understanding into what context the single word belonged.
“Four lovers before you.”
“Were you fond of them all?” Henry asked, blatantly fishing.
“I cared for them all in one fashion or another,” she replied drowsily. “One I even fancied myself in love with for a time.”
“You could not marry him either?”
“Perhaps. Grasper did ask.”
“Grasper?”
“He was forever grasping and climbing, determined to rise above his station. Grasper had his sights set higher than a country lass from Loch Canon without the wherewithal to open the right doors for him.”
“So named because he is decidedly so,” he murmured. “You refused him?”
“What woman wishes to tie herself to a man who would forever resent her for stopping his rise and spoiling his future?”
Pondering this new piece to the puzzle that was Georgiana Buchanan, he waited to see if she would offer up further sleepy confessions. When she only cuddled against him with a soft snuffle, he gave in to his curiosity.
“Who were the others?”
“Benedict,” she replied on a sigh.
“So named because?”
Georgiana laughed, the sound soft and sleepy. “He needed no renaming as he was a blessing when I felt cursed.”
“But again, you did not marry him.” Henry sifted his fingers through her hair, gently releasing a hairpin tangled in her curls.
“He possessed not a single notion of fidelity. To be sure, he was content to share and share alike, never mind that some things ought not to be shared with all and sundry.” Georgiana yawned, her breath warm on his neck. “Do you know, I just might sleep for a bit.”
Smiling at the surprise her heard in her voice, he continued to search out the pins tangled in her curls. “Who was the fourth man?”
“Mmm, that feels wonderful,” she whispered around a yawn. “I do not wish to speak of him, to give him a name is to give him life and he is dead to me.”
Not caring for the way in which her voice broke over the last three words, Henry pulled her tight against him. Unwinding the long coil of her hair, he found three more pins and tossed the lot of them to the floor.
“Georgiana,” he breathed, lifting her hair and allowing it to fall through his fingers to spread out like a fiery cloud around her shoulders and down her back.
“You are the fifth,” she mumbled, burrowing against him. “And I am terribly…”
“Terribly?” he repeated when her words ended on a soft wheeze of breath.
But his lover only let out a small snort and began to snore softly, then louder, and louder still, until her breathing sounded like a small orchestra.
Chapter Twelve
It might have been the sweet aroma of a burning cheroot that woke Henry in the middle of the night.
More likely, it was the fine mist that swirled about the room, cooling his skin.
Rolling to his back, he lifted heavy lids and spied the source of both.
Candlelight shone from one corner of the chamber, washing over Georgiana where she sat on the sill of the open window, his dressing gown tied lightly around her waist, covering her breasts before falling open to reveal long legs bent at the knees, crossed feet resting on the wooden frame. Tiny drops of water, no more substantial than mist, floated on the breeze, glowing like so many jewels in the golden light.
He watched her lift the thin black cheroot to her lips, the end burning red as she puffed daintily before turning to blow the smoke out into the night.
“It’s raining,” he whispered, hoping not to startle her.
“Barely spitting,” she replied, staring out at the night. “Do you remember the names of the other twenty-six women you’ve taken to your bed?”
As non sequiturs went, it was a doozy.
“In truth, I took very few of them to my bed,” he answered, hoping to buy a bit of time.
Georgiana tossed the cheroot out the window and spun about, scooting back until her bottom was perched on the narrow sill, feet dangling off the floor.
“Come away from the window, love.”
“I won’t fall.”
“All the same, I’d feel better if you had both feet firmly planted.”
In response she eased forward and stretched her legs out before her, careful to whisk the dark silk down to her ankles and he smiled at the modest gesture from a woman who’d thus far exhibited little in the way of modesty.
“Better?” she drawled.
Henry sat up and stretched his arms over his head, gratified when her gaze dropped to sweep over his chest, before lifting it to his once more.
“My name is not Georgiana.”
Another doozy.
“No? I clearly remember you giving your name as Georgiana.”
“We were not lovers then,” she replied with a shrug of one shoulder, her borrowed robe slipping down her arm with the movement. “I should like you to know my true name, as I hope you will remember me.”
“You are hardly a woman I would forget.” Throwing off the rumpled bed linens, Henry swung his legs over the side.
“Twenty-seven is an awfully large number of women to remember. And who knows, you may double that number in the coming years, triple it before you die.” She spread her arms wide, and wider still as she spoke, leaning back with the motion.
“Come away from the bloody window.” Rising he made his way toward her, intent upon pulling her from harm.
With a huff that might have been laughter or annoyance, she slid off the sill and yanked the window closed before dropping into the chair beside it. Tugging his dressing gown over her legs, she looked up at him, her lips slowly lifting, one side then the other, into a bright smile.
Henry found his trousers draped over one corner of the chest of drawers and pulled them on before dropping to his haunches before her. He sifted his fingers through her curls, found them damp. “There isn’t a chance in the world I will ever forget you.”
“Georgie.”
“Are you telling me your name is Georgie?”
“Truly my name is George but no one ever calls me such except Killjoy who only does so to bedevil me.�
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“Your parents named you George?”
“My mother named me after my father, who had no say in the matter as he did not know of my existence until after the fact,” she replied.
“Ah,” he breathed as the import of her words hit him. He should not have been surprised to learn she was illegitimate, not with what he’d been told of her relations, not after she’d shoved him to his ass to prevent his spilling his seed within her womb.
“Are you hungry, my lord Henry?”
Relieved by the change in topic, he lifted her to her feet and took her place, pulling her into his lap. “Famished.”
“Your larder is well stocked with fresh bread and cheese. And I warmed a few slices of Mrs. Porter’s corned beef for you.” Georgie curled one arm around his neck and reached for a piece of bread liberally spread with butter and missing only one bite.
“You aren’t having any?”
“Oh, I don’t eat beef.”
“Not eat beef? I’ve never heard of anyone not enjoying a good roast with potatoes.”
“I don’t eat anything with a face,” she answered. “Well, occasionally I’ll have a bite or two of lobster. But only if the heads have already been severed so that I might pretend they never possessed a face.”
“You don’t eat beef or pork or even fish?” he asked.
“Nor chicken or pheasant. And I certainly do not eat lamb or mutton.”
“Why?”
“I was raised on a sheep farm,” she replied, frowning so that a tiny line formed between her arched brows, like an arrow drawing his eye to her long, crooked nose. “I was forever making pets of the sheep and throwing temper fits when they were slaughtered.”
“You drink milk and eat butter, in rather large quantities,” he said with a nod to the liberally buttered bread she waved about as she spoke.
“Milking a cow doesn’t kill her,” she tossed back with a grin. “I imagine she likes a set of hands wrapped around her teats, tugging in a gently rolling fashion.”
“And you? Do you like a set of hands wrapped around your breasts, tugging on your nipples in a gently rolling fashion?” he asked, remembering the way she’d climaxed long and hard as he’d clamped lips and teeth around her nipple.
“Don’t start your nonsense until we’ve fortified ourselves, lest we wither away to nothing and the Porters find us collapsed on the floor when they return,” she warned.