low-slung entrance to the coffeehouse. It was on the bottom floor—really
the cellar—of a half-timbered building in a narrow back lane. “The place
isn’t going to fall, is it?” He eyed the second floor looming over the lane.
“It hasn’t yet.” Harry ducked and entered the smoky room, Will sticking
close to his side. He’d asked de Raaf to meet him here.
Behind him, he heard Bennet swear as he caught his head on the lintel.
“The coffee had better be good.”
“It is.”
“Harry!” A large, pockmarked man hailed him from a table.
“Lord Swartingham.” Harry made his way to the table. “Thank you for
coming, my lord. May I present my brothers, Bennet Granville and Will?”
Edward de Raaf, fifth Earl of Swartingham, frowned. “I’ve told you to
call me Edward or de Raaf. This /my lord/ stuff is ridiculous.”
Harry merely smiled and turned to the second man at the table. “Lord
Iddesleigh. I hadn’t expected you. Bennet, Will, this is Simon Iddesleigh.”
“How d’you do?” Bennet bowed.
Will merely ducked his head.
“Charmed.” Iddesleigh, a lean aristocrat with ice-gray eyes, inclined
his head. “I had no idea Harry had relations. I was under the impression
that he’d sprung fully formed like Athena from a rock. Or maybe a
mangel-wurzel. It goes to show one can’t always go by impressions.”
“Well, I’m glad you came.” Harry held up two fingers to a passing boy
and took a seat, making room for Bennet and Will.
Iddesleigh flipped a lace-trimmed wrist. “Wasn’t much else going on
today, anyway. Thought I’d tag along. It was either that or attend
Lillipin’s lecture on compost layering, and fascinating though the
subject of decay may be, I can’t think how one could take up three whole
hours on it.”
“Lillipin could,” de Raaf muttered.
The boy banged down two steaming mugs of coffee and whirled away.
Harry took a scalding sip and sighed. “Do you have the special license?”
“Right here.” De Raaf patted his pocket. “You think there will be
objections from the family?”
Harry nodded. “Lady Georgina is the Earl of Maitland’s sister—” But he
cut himself off because Iddesleigh was choking on his coffee.
“What’s wrong with you, Simon?” de Raaf barked.
“Sorry,” Iddesleigh gasped. “Your intended is Maitland’s sister?”
“Yes.” Harry felt his shoulders tense.
“The /older/ sister?”
Harry merely stared, dread filling him.
“For God’s sake, just spit it out,” de Raaf said.
“You could have told me the bride’s name, de Raaf. I only heard the news
this morning from Freddy Barclay. We happened to meet at my tailor’s,
wonderful chap on—”
“Simon,” de Raaf growled.
“Oh, all right.” Iddesleigh suddenly sobered. “She’s getting married.
Your Lady Georgina. To Cecil Barclay—”
/No./ Harry closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the other man’s words.
“Today.”
TONY WAS WAITING OUTSIDE, hands clasped behind his back, when George
emerged from her town house. Raindrops speckled the shoulders of his
greatcoat. His carriage, which had the Maitland crest in gilt on the
doors, stood ready at the curb.
He turned as George descended the steps and frowned with concern. “I was
beginning to think I would have to come in after you.”
“Good morning, Tony.” George held out her hand.
He enveloped it in his own big hand and helped her into the carriage.
Tony took his seat across from her, the leather squeaking as he settled.
“I’m sure the rain will stop soon.”
George looked at her brother’s hands resting on his knees and noticed
again the scabbed knuckles. “What happened to you?”
Tony flexed his right hand as if testing the scrapes. “It’s nothing. We
sorted out Wentworth last week.”
“We?”
“Oscar, Ralph, and I,” Tony said. “That’s not important now. Listen,
George.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to
go through with this. Cecil will understand, and we can work something
out. Retiring to the country or—”
“No.” George cut him off. “No, I thank you, Tony, but this is the best
way. For the baby, for Cecil, and even for me.”
She took a deep breath. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to herself,
but now George faced it: Somewhere deep inside, she’d secretly hoped
Harry would stop her. She grimaced ruefully. She’d expected him to come
charging up on a white stallion and sweep her off her feet. Perhaps
wheel his stallion around while fighting ten men and go galloping off
into the sunset with her.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Harry Pye was a land steward with an old mare and a life of his own. She
was a pregnant woman of eight and twenty years. Time to put the past
behind her.
She managed a smile for Tony. It wasn’t a very good one, judging by the
doubt on his face, but it was the best she could do at the moment.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m a grown woman. I have to face my
responsibilities.”
“But—”
George shook her head.
Tony bit off whatever he was going to say. He stared out the window,
tapping long fingers against his knee. “Damn, I hate this.”
Half an hour later, the carriage pulled up before a dingy little church
in an unfashionable part of London.
Tony descended the carriage steps, then helped George down. “Remember,
you can still end this,” he murmured in her ear as he tucked her hand in
the crook of his arm.
George just thinned her lips.
Inside, the church was dark and somewhat chilly with the faint smell of
mildew lingering in the air. Above the altar, a small rose window hung
in the shadows, the light outside too dim to tell what color the glass
might be. Tony and George walked down the uncarpeted nave, their
footsteps echoing off the old stones. Several candles were lit at the
front near the altar, supplementing the feeble light from the
clerestory. A small group was gathered there. She saw Oscar, Ralph, and
Violet as well as her imminent husband, Cecil, and his brother, Freddy.
Ralph was sporting a yellowing black eye.
“Ah, the bride, I presume?” The vicar peered over half-moon glasses.
“Quite. Quite. And your name is, umm”—he consulted a piece of notepaper
stuck in his Bible—“George Regina Catherine Maitland? Yes? But what an
odd name for a woman.”
She cleared her throat, tamping down hysterical laughter and sudden
nausea. /Oh, please, Lord, not now./ “Actually, my given name is Georgina.”
“Georgiana?” the vicar asked.
“No, /Georgina./” Did it really matter? If this silly man said the wrong
name during the service, would she not be married to Cecil?
“Georgina. Quite. Now, then, if we are all here and ready?” The
assembled nobility nodded meekly. “Then let us proceed. Young lady,
please stand here.”
He shuffled them around until G
eorge and Cecil were side by side with
Tony at George’s side and Freddy as best man at Cecil’s.
“Good.” The vicar blinked at them, then spent a prolonged minute
ruffling his paper and Bible. He cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved,”
he began in a strange falsetto.
George winced. The poor man must think it more carrying.
“We are gathered here—”
/Bang!/
The sound of the church doors smacking against the wall reverberated
throughout the church. The group turned as one to look.
Four men marched grimly up the aisle, trailed by one small boy.
The vicar frowned. “Rude. Quite rude. Astonishing what people think they
can get away with these days.”
But the men had reached the altar now.
“Excuse me, but I believe you have my lady,” one of them said in a
quiet, deep voice that sent veritable chills down George’s spine.
/Harry./
/Chapter Twenty-one/
The shriek of steel against steel echoed from the walls of the little
church as every man in the wedding party drew his sword simultaneously.
Followed immediately by Bennet, de Raaf, and Iddesleigh unsheathing
their weapons. Bennet looked very serious. He’d shoved Will into a pew
as soon as they’d neared the altar, and now he held his sword high and
his body angled. De Raaf’s pale, pockmarked face was alert, his arm
steady. Iddesleigh had a bored expression and handled his sword
carelessly, his long, lace-draped fingers nearly limp. Of course,
Iddesleigh was probably more dangerous than any of them with a sword.
Harry sighed.
He hadn’t slept in two days. He was muddy and no doubt smelled. He
couldn’t remember his last meal. And he’d spent the last
terror-stricken, heart-stopping, god-awful hour riding hell for leather
across London, thinking they would never make it in time to stop his
lady from marrying another man.
/Enough./
Harry strode through the mess of weapon-wielding aristocrats to his
lady’s side. “If I might have a word, my lady?”
“But, I mean . . .” the skinny blond man by her side, presumably the
groom, damn his hide, protested.
Harry turned his head and looked the man in the eye.
The groom backed up so fast he nearly stumbled. “Jolly good! Jolly good!
No doubt it’s important, what?” He sheathed his sword with a shaking hand.
“Who are you, young man?” The vicar peered over his spectacles at Harry.
Harry gritted his teeth and pulled back his lips in something like a
smile. “I’m the father of the child Lady Georgina is carrying.”
De Raaf cleared his throat.
One of his lady’s brothers muttered, “Christ.”
And Lady Violet giggled.
The cleric blinked his myopic light blue eyes rapidly. “Well, then, I
suggest you indeed have a word with this lady. You may use the vestry.”
He closed his Bible.
“Thank you.” Harry latched one hand around his lady’s wrist and pulled
her toward the little door off to the side. He needed to make the room
before his pain exploded from him. Behind them there was absolute silence.
He dragged his lady into the room and kicked the door closed. “What the
/hell/ did you mean by this?” Harry took out the legal document deeding
Woldsly to him. He held it up to her face and shook it, his anger—his
anguish— barely contained. “Did you think I could be bought off?”
Lady Georgina retreated before the paper, her face confused. “I—”
“Think again, my lady.” Harry tore the paper into shreds and threw them
on the floor. He gripped her upper arms, flexing his trembling fingers
against her flesh. “I’m not a lackey to be dismissed with a too-generous
present.”
“I only—”
“I won’t be dismissed at all.”
Lady Georgina opened her lips again, but he didn’t wait for her to
speak. He didn’t want to hear her reject him. So Harry covered her lips
with his own. He ground down on her soft, lush mouth, thrusting in his
tongue. He placed his hand under her chin and felt the vibration of her
moan in her throat. His cock was already hard and aching. He wanted to
pound it against her, pound it into her. Put himself inside her and stay
there until she told him why she had run away. Until she promised never
to do it again.
He crowded her against a heavy trestle table and felt her body yield to
his. That submission brought him a small measure of control.
“Why?” he groaned against her lips. “Why did you leave me?”
She made a small sound, and he nipped her bottom lip to silence her.
“I need you.” He licked her bruised lip to soothe it. “I can’t think
straight without you. My world is all turned around, and I go through it
in pain, wanting to hurt someone.”
He kissed her again, open-mouthed, to reassure himself that she was
really here in his arms. Her mouth was warm and wet and tasted of her
morning’s tea. He could spend the rest of his life just tasting her.
“I hurt. Here.” He grabbed her hand and placed her palm against his
chest. “And here.” He pulled it lower and thrust his prick crudely into
her fingers.
That felt good, to have her hand on him again, but it wasn’t enough.
Harry picked his lady up and sat her on the table. “You need me as well.
I know you do.” He flung up her skirts and burrowed his hand under them,
feeling along her thighs.
“Harry—”
“Shhh,” he murmured against her mouth. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just
feel.” His fingers found her cunny, and she was wet. “Ahh, there. Do you
feel it?”
“Harry, I don’t—”
He touched her pea-shaped bit of flesh and she moaned, eyes closed. The
sound inflamed him.
“Hush, my lady.” He unbuttoned his breeches and parted her thighs wider,
stepping between them.
She moaned again.
He didn’t care much, but she might be embarrassed. Later. “Shhh. You
have to be quiet. Very quiet.” His flesh pressed against her weeping
opening.
Her eyes suddenly flew open at the touch of his cock. “But, Harry . . .”
“My lady?” He gently pushed in. /Ah, God, so tight./
She clutched him as if she would never let him go. And that was fine
with him. He was more than glad to stay right here for eternity. Or
maybe a little farther in.
He shoved again.
“Oh, Harry,” his lady sighed.
Someone pounded on the door.
She started, squeezing him inside. He bit back a groan.
“George? Are you all right?” One of the brothers.
Harry withdrew a little and thrust carefully. Tenderly. “Answer him.”
“Is it locked?” His lady arched her back as he thrust. “Is the door locked?”
He grit his teeth. “No.” He wrapped his hands around her bare rump.
The pounding started again. “George? Should I come in?”
His lady panted.
He somehow grinned through his terrible desire. “Should he?” He thrust
deeply, burying himself in her heat. Whatever happened, h
e wasn’t
fleeing. He didn’t think he could, anyway.
“No,” she gasped.
“What?” From the door.
“No!” she yelled. “/Unh./ Go away, Tony! Harry and I need to converse a
little longer.”
Harry cocked an eyebrow. “Converse?”
She glared at him, her face flushed and damp.
“You’re sure?” Tony apparently cared deeply for his sister.
Harry knew he would appreciate that fact later. He brought one hand to
where he was joined with her. He touched her.
“Yes!” she screamed.
“Fine, then.” Footsteps retreated.
His lady wrapped her legs high over his hips and leaned forward to bite
his mouth. “Finish it.”
His eyes half closed at the feel, the perfection, of her. This was his
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