“I . . . I don’t know.” George squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think.
He wasn’t making this any easier for her. “Tony is pressing me to make a
decision about us. And I don’t know what to do.”
“Are you asking me what to do?”
“I . . .” She drew a breath. “Yes.”
“It seems simple enough to me, poor commoner that I am,” Harry said.
“Let us continue as we have.”
George looked down at her hands. “But that’s just it. I can’t.”
When she looked up again, Harry’s expression was so blank she might’ve
been staring in the eyes of a dead man. Lord, how she’d begun to hate
that wooden face. “Then you’ll have my resignation by tomorrow.”
“No.” She wrung her hands. “That isn’t what I want at all.”
“But you can’t have it both ways.” Harry seemed suddenly weary. His
beautiful green eyes were dulled by something close to despair. “You can
either be my lover or I will leave. I’ll not stay as some convenience
for you, like that gelding in your stable here. You ride him when at
Woldsly and forget him the rest of the year. Do you even know his name?”
Her mind went blank. The fact was, she didn’t know the horse’s name. “It
isn’t like that.”
“No? Pardon, but what is it like, my lady?” Anger was breaking through
Harry’s wooden mask, painting scarlet flames across his cheekbones. “Am
I a stud for hire? Nice for a romp in bed, but after the tupping, not
good enough to show your family?”
George could feel a blush heat her own cheeks. “Why are you being so crude?”
“Am I?” Harry was suddenly in front of her, standing too close. “You
must forgive me, my lady. That’s what you get when you take a common
lover: a crude man.” His fingers framed her face, his thumbs hot against
her temples. She felt her heart skitter in her chest at his touch.
“Isn’t that what you wanted when you chose me to take your maidenhead?”
She could smell spirits on his breath. Was that the reason for this
hostility? Was he drunk? If so, he showed no other signs. She inhaled
deeply to steady her own emotions, to try to counter his terrible
sorrow. “I—”
But he would not let her speak. He whispered in a cruel, hard voice
instead, “A man so crude he takes you against a door? A man so crude he
makes you scream when you come? A man so crude he doesn’t have the grace
to melt away when he’s no longer wanted?”
George shuddered at the awful words and scrambled to frame a reply. But
it was too late. Harry claimed her mouth and sucked on her bottom lip.
He pulled her to him roughly and ground his hips against hers. There it
was again, that wild, desperate desire. He bunched her skirts in one
hand, pulling them up. George heard a tear but couldn’t bring herself to
care.
He reached underneath and found her mound with ruthless accuracy.
“/This/ is what you get with a common lover.” He speared two fingers
into her sheath.
She gasped at the sudden intrusion, feeling him stretch her as he
stroked with his fingers. She shouldn’t feel anything, shouldn’t respond
when he—
His thumb pushed down on her most sensitive spot. “No finesse, no pretty
words. Just hard cock and hot cunny.” His tongue trailed across her
cheek. “And your cunny is hot, my lady,” he whispered into her ear.
“It’s fairly dripping on my hand.”
She moaned then. It was impossible for her not to respond to him, even
when he touched her in anger. He covered her mouth with his own,
swallowing her wail, ravishing her at will. Until she broke all at once
and waves of pleasure rushed over her so fast she felt dizzy. George
shook in the after-tremors, clinging to Harry as he bent her backward
over his arm and fed on her mouth. His fingers left her to stroke over
her hip soothingly.
His mouth gentled.
Then Harry broke away to hiss in her ear, “I told you, decide what you
want before coming to me. I’m not a goddamned lapdog you can pick up and
pet and then send away again. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
George stumbled, both from his words and from the fact that he’d let her
go. She clutched at the back of a chair. “Harry, I—”
But he’d already left the room.
/Chapter Thirteen/
Harry woke with the taste of stale ale in his mouth. He waited a moment
before opening his eyes. Although it had been a very long time, he never
quite forgot the painful torture of sunlight and a hangover. When he
finally cracked open his dry eyes, he saw the room was too bright for
early morning. He’d overslept. Groaning, he lurched up and sat for a
moment on the edge of his bed, head in hands, feeling uncommonly old.
God, what an idiot he’d been to drink too much yesterday eve. He’d been
trying to track down the rumors about the woman poisoned on the moor,
had gone first to the White Mare and then to the Cock and Worm, but Dick
wasn’t at his tavern, and no one else would speak to him. In every face
he’d seen suspicion and, in some, loathing. Meanwhile, what the scarred
man had said to him in West Dikey had sounded in his skull like a chant.
/Man-whore. Man-whore. Man-whore./ Perhaps he’d been trying to drown the
words when he’d drunk multiple tankards of ale last night.
A clatter came from the cottage’s main room.
Harry swiveled his head carefully in that direction and sighed. Will was
probably hungry. He staggered to the door and stared.
The fire blazed and a steaming teapot sat on the table.
Will crouched on the floor, strangely still. “I dropped the spoons. I’m
sorry,” he whispered. He hunched his body as if he was trying to make
himself smaller, maybe disappear altogether.
Harry knew that posture. The boy expected to be hit.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His voice sounded like the scrape
of a shovel on stony ground. He cleared his throat and sat down. “Made
tea, have you?”
“Aye.” Will stood up, poured a cup, and carefully handed it to him.
“Ta.” Harry sipped and scalded his throat. He winced and waited, but his
stomach felt better, so he took another mouthful.
“I cut some bread for toast, too.” Will brought a plate for his
inspection. “They’re not so nice as yours, though.”
Harry looked at the uneven slices with a jaundiced eye. He wasn’t sure
his belly could take solids at the moment, but the boy needed praise.
“Better than Lady Georgina’s try.”
His painful smile died as he thought about what he’d said and done to
his lady last night. He gazed at the fire. He’d have to go apologize
sometime today. Assuming she would still talk to him, that is.
“I’ll toast them.” Will must be used to sudden, awkward silences. He
went about skewering the bread on the crooked fork and finding a spot to
hold it over the fire.
Harry watched him. Will had no father, thanks to Granville, nor mother,
either. Just that old woman, his grandmother, and a less loving woman
he’d rarely seen.
Yet here he was, competently tending to an adult sick from too much
drink. Perhaps he’d had to care for his grandmother after a night of
swilling. The thought was bitter in Harry’s mouth.
He took another sip of tea.
“Here we are, then,” Will said, sounding like an elderly woman. He set a
pile of buttered toast on the table and bustled around to another chair.
Harry bit into a piece of toast and licked melting butter off his thumb.
He noticed that Will was looking at him. He nodded. “Good.”
The boy smiled, revealing a gap in his upper teeth.
They ate companionably for a while.
“Did you have a fight with her?” Will swiped up a drip of butter and
licked it off his finger. “Your lady, I mean.”
“You could say that.” Harry poured himself more tea, stirring in a large
spoonful of sugar this time.
“My gran said gentry was evil. Didn’t care if regular folk lived or
died, so long as they’d gold plates to eat off of.” Will traced a circle
on the table with a greasy finger. “But your lady was nice.”
“Aye. Lady Georgina’s not like most.”
“And she’s pretty.” Will nodded to himself and took another piece of toast.
Aye, pretty as well. Harry looked out the cottage window, a feeling of
uneasiness beginning to build in him. Would she let him apologize?
“’Course, she’s not much of a cook. Couldn’t cut the bread straight.
You’ll have to help her with that.” Will wrinkled his forehead in
thought. “Does she eat off of gold plates?”
“I don’t know.”
Will eyed him suspiciously, as if Harry might be withholding important
information. Then his look turned to pity. “Haven’t you been invited to
supper, then?”
“No.” Well, there’d been that dinner in her rooms, but he wasn’t telling
Will about that. “I’ve had tea with her, though.”
“She didn’t have gold plates for that?”
“No.” Why was he explaining himself?
Will nodded sagely. “You’ll have to go to supper before you know.” He
finished his toast. “Have you brought her presents?”
“Presents?”
Will’s pitying look was back. “All girls like presents; that’s what my
gran said. And I think she must be right. I like presents.”
Harry propped his chin in his hands and felt wire-stiff stubble. His
head was feeling bad again, but Will seemed to think presents were
important. And this was the most the boy had talked since he’d shown up
the day before.
“What kind of presents?” Harry asked.
“Pearls, gold boxes, sweetmeats.” Will waved a piece of toast. “Things
like that. A horse would be good. Have you got any horses?”
“Just the one.”
“Oh.” Will sounded disappointed in him. “Then I suppose you can’t give
her that.”
Harry shook his head. “And she has many more horses than my one.”
“Then what can you give her?”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t know what she wanted from him. Harry frowned into the dregs of
his tea. What could a man like him give a lady like her? Not money or a
house. She already had that. And the physical love he gave her—any
halfway competent man could do as well. What could he give her that she
didn’t already have? Maybe nothing. Maybe she would realize that soon
enough, and especially after last night, choose never to see him again.
Harry stood. “More important than a present, I need to speak to Lady
Georgina today.” He moved to the cupboard, took down his shaving things,
and began stropping his razor.
Will looked at the dirty plates on the table. “I can wash these.”
“Good boy.”
Will must have refilled the kettle after making tea. It was already full
and boiling. Harry divided the hot water between his basin and a big
bowl the boy could wash the dishes in. The little mirror he used for
shaving showed a ragged face. Harry frowned, then carefully started
scraping the stubble from his cheeks. His razor was old but very sharp,
and a nick on his chin wouldn’t help his appearance. Behind him, he
could hear Will swishing in the water.
By the time Will finished the dishes, Harry was as ready as he was ever
going to be. He’d washed, brushed his hair, and changed into a clean
shirt. His head still pounded steadily, but the circles under his eyes
had begun to fade.
Will looked him over. “You’ll do, I guess.”
“Ta.”
“Am I to stay here?” The lad’s face was too stoic for his young age.
Harry hesitated. “Would you like to see the Woldsly stables while I
speak to my lady?”
Will was immediately on his feet. “Yes, please.”
“Then come on.” Harry led the way out the door. The boy could ride
behind him on the back of his horse.
Outside, clouds gathered in the sky. But it hadn’t yet rained today, and
saddling the mare would take time. It was unreasonable, but he was
anxious to see Lady Georgina.
“Let’s walk.”
The boy followed at his heels, silent, but with suppressed excitement.
They were almost to the Woldsly drive when Harry heard the rumbling of
carriage wheels. He quickened his pace. The sound grew rapidly closer.
He broke into a run.
Just as he burst from the cover of the copse, a carriage passed, shaking
the ground beneath his feet and sending up globs of mud. He glimpsed her
ginger hair, then the carriage turned the corner and was gone, only the
diminishing sound of wheels marking its passage.
“Don’t think you’ll be able to talk to her today.”
Harry had forgotten Will. He stared blindly down at the boy panting at
his side. “No, not today.”
A fat raindrop splattered on his shoulder, and then the clouds let go.
TONY’S CARRIAGE JOLTED AROUND the corner, and George swayed as she
peered out the window. It had begun to rain again, soaking the already
sodden pastures, dragging tree branches earthward, and turning
everything into the same gray-brown color. Monotonous veils of dingy
water fell, blurring the landscape and trickling down the window like
tears. From inside the carriage it appeared that the whole world wept,
overcome by a grief that would not fade.
“Perhaps it won’t stop.”
“What?” Tony asked.
“The rain,” George said. “Perhaps it won’t stop. Perhaps it will
continue forever until the mud in the highway turns to a stream and
rises up and becomes a sea and we float away.” She traced a finger
through the condensation on the inside of the window, making squiggly
lines. “Do you think your carriage is buoyant?”
“No,” Tony said. “But I shouldn’t worry. The rain will stop sometime,
even if it doesn’t seem so at the moment.”
“Mmm.” She stared out the window. “And if I don’t care if it goes on?
Perhaps I wouldn’t mind floating away. Or sinking.”
She was doing the right thing, everyone assured her so. Leaving Harry
was the only proper choice left to her. He was of a lower
class, and he
resented the difference in their ranks. Last night, he’d been ugly in
his resentment; and yet, she couldn’t fault him. Harry Pye wasn’t meant
to be anyone’s lapdog. She hadn’t thought she was confining him, but he
obviously felt demeaned. There was no future for them, an earl’s
daughter and a land steward. They knew that; /everyone/ knew that. This
was a natural conclusion to an affair that should never have been begun
in the first place.
But, still, George couldn’t shake the feeling that she was running away.
As if reading her thoughts, Tony said, “It’s the correct decision.”
“Is it?”
“There was no other.”
“I feel like a coward,” she mused, still looking out the window.
“You’re not a coward,” he said softly. “This course wasn’t easy for you,
I know. Cowards are people who take the least difficult path, not the
hardest.”
“Yet I’ve abandoned Violet when she needs me most,” George objected.
“No, you haven’t,” Tony said firmly. “You’ve turned her problem over to
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