Hoyt, Elizabeth - The Leopard Prince2.txt

by The Leopard Prince

  lady, and he was going to claim her. His chest filled with gratitude

  that he’d been given this second chance.

  But she was still waiting. “As you wish.” He pressed his thumb firmly on

  her and at the same time thrust hard and quick, shaking the table.

  “Oh, my Lord!” she moaned.

  “Bite my shoulder,” he panted, picking up his pace even more.

  He felt the pinch even through his coat’s broadcloth. And then he burst

  within her, flinging his own head back and grinding his teeth to keep

  from shouting in ecstasy. “/God!/”

  His entire body trembled in the aftermath, and he had to prop one arm on

  the table to brace both of them. He locked his knees to stay upright and

  gasped, “Will you marry me, my lady?”

  “You’re asking /now?/” Her voice was weak.

  At least he wasn’t the only one affected. “Yes. And I’m not leaving

  until you give me an answer.”

  “WHAT COULD THEY POSSIBLY be talking about this long?” Violet asked no

  one in particular. She shivered and wished she’d thought to bring a

  wrap. The church was chilly.

  The vicar muttered and settled more deeply into a front pew. His eyes

  were closed. She suspected he’d fallen asleep.

  She tapped her foot on the flagstones. When Harry and his friends had

  first shown up, it had been quite tense, exciting really, with all those

  swords waving about. She’d thought for sure that some type of fight

  would break out. She’d been all ready to start tearing up her

  underskirts in the proscribed manner should any blood be spilled. But as

  the minutes wore on, the gentlemen had begun to look, well, /bored./

  The big man with the scarred face started poking the tip of his sword

  into the cracks in the church flagstones. The elegant-looking man was

  glaring at the big man and lecturing him on the proper maintenance of

  blades. The third man in Harry’s group had brown hair and was wearing a

  terribly dusty coat. That was all she knew about him because his back

  was to everyone else as he idly inspected the church’s stained-glass

  windows. He had a small boy by his side and appeared to be pointing out

  to him the biblical scenes depicted in the glass.

  Meanwhile, Oscar, Ralph, Cecil, and Freddy, the defenders of George’s

  honor, were arguing about the correct way to hold a sword. Ralph’s eye

  was swollen and turning greenish yellow, and Oscar was limping. She’d

  have to find out about that later.

  Violet sighed. It was all rather disappointing.

  “I say, aren’t you de Raaf?” Tony had returned from knocking on the

  vestry with an odd, almost embarrassed expression. He addressed the

  scarred man. “The Earl of Swartingham, I mean?”

  “Yes?” The big man frowned ferociously.

  “Maitland here.” Tony stuck out his hand.

  Lord Swartingham stared at the proffered appendage for a moment, then

  sheathed his sword. “How d’you do?” He tilted his head toward the

  elegant man. “This is Iddesleigh, viscount.”

  “Ah, indeed.” Tony shook hands with him as well. “Heard of you, de Raaf.”

  “Oh?” The big man looked wary.

  “Yes.” Tony was unperturbed. “Read a manuscript of yours a while back.

  About crop rotation?”

  “Ah.” The big man’s face cleared. “Do you practice crop rotation on your

  lands?”

  “We’ve begun to. We’re a bit farther north than you, and peas are a

  major crop in the area.”

  “And barley and swedes,” Oscar cut in. He and Ralph wandered over.

  “Naturally,” Lord Swartingham murmured.

  /Swedes?/ Violet stared. They were discussing farming as if they were at

  an afternoon tea. Or rather, in this case, at the neighborhood tavern.

  “Sorry.” Tony indicated his brothers. “This is Oscar and Ralph, my

  younger brothers.”

  “How d’you do?”

  Another round of masculine handshaking.

  Violet shook her head dumbly. She would never, never, /never/ understand

  the human male.

  “Oh, and this is Cecil and Freddy Barclay.” Tony cleared his throat.

  “Cecil was to marry my sister.”

  “Not anymore, I fear,” Cecil said ruefully.

  They all chuckled, the boobies.

  “And you must be the little sister,” a male voice said in her ear.

  Violet whirled to find Harry’s third friend standing behind her. He’d

  left the boy kicking his heels in a pew. Up close, the man’s eyes were a

  beautiful green, and he was suspiciously handsome.

  Violet narrowed her own eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Granville, Bennet Granville.” He bowed.

  Violet didn’t curtsy. This was too confusing. Why would a Granville be

  helping Harry?

  “Lord Granville nearly killed Mr. Pye.” She scowled up at Bennet Granville.

  “Yes, I’m afraid he’s my father.” His smile slipped a bit. “Not my

  fault, I assure you. I had very little to do with my conception.”

  Violet felt her mouth start to relax into a smile and suppressed it

  ruthlessly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, that is a story—” Mr. Granville cut himself off, and his gaze

  moved over her head. “Ah, I think they’re emerging.”

  And the questions Violet had been about to ask slid from her mind. She

  turned to see if George had decided which man she would marry.

  GEORGE SIGHED LUXURIOUSLY. She could fall asleep right here in Harry’s

  arms. Even if she was perched on a vestry table.

  “Well?” He nudged her with his chin.

  Apparently he wanted an answer now. She tried to think, hoping her brain

  hadn’t turned to mush like her legs. “I love you, Harry, you know I do.

  But what about your reservations? That others would think you my

  pet”—she gulped, hating to say the word—“monkey?”

  He nuzzled the hair at her temple. “I can’t deny that it will bother me.

  That and what they will say about you. But the thing is”—he raised his

  head and she saw that his emerald eyes had grown soft, almost

  vulnerable—“I don’t think I can live without you, my lady.”

  “Oh, Harry.” She cradled his face in her palms. “My brothers like you,

  as does Violet. And, really, they’re all that matter in the end. The

  rest can go hang for all I care.”

  He smiled, and as always, her heart sang at the sight. “Then will you

  marry me and be my lady for all our lives?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I’ll marry you.” She felt tears start in her eyes.

  “I love you desperately, you know.”

  “And I love you,” he said rather absently, in her opinion. He carefully

  removed himself from her sensitive flesh.

  “Oh, must you?” George tried to hold on to him.

  “I’m afraid so.” Harry was swiftly rebuttoning his breeches. “They’re

  waiting for us out there.”

  “Oh, let them wait.” She wrinkled her nose. He’d just proposed to her in

  a most romantic manner. Couldn’t she savor the moment?

  Harry leaned forward to flip down her skirts and kiss her nose. “We’ll

  have plenty of time to lounge about after.”

  “After?”

  “After our marriage.” Harry frowned at her. “Yo
u did just agree to marry

  me.”

  “But I didn’t imagine right away.” She checked her bodice. Why wasn’t

  there a mirror in here?

  “You were ready to marry that popinjay out there right away.” Harry

  gestured with an outflung arm.

  “That was different.” Did she look like she’d been doing what she had

  been doing? “And Cecil isn’t a popinjay; he’s—” She noticed that his

  expression had darkened alarmingly. Perhaps it was time to change the

  subject. “We can’t get married. We need a license.”

  “I already have one.” Harry patted his coat pocket. It crinkled.

  “How—?”

  He cut her off with a kiss that could only be described as masterful.

  “Are you going to marry me or not?”

  George clutched at his arms. Really, some of Harry’s kisses left her

  quite weak. “I’m going to marry you.”

  “Good.” Harry tucked her arm through his and marched her to the door.

  “Stop!”

  “What?”

  Men could be so obtuse. “Do I look like I’ve just been tumbled?”

  Harry’s lips twitched. “You look like the most beautiful woman in the

  world.” He kissed her soundly again. He hadn’t exactly answered her

  question, but it was too late now.

  He opened the door.

  The two camps had merged into one lump, crowded around the altar. Good

  Lord, they hadn’t been fighting, had they? Everyone turned expectantly.

  George cleared her throat, trying to put together the right words. Then

  she saw something and stopped dead. “Harry . . .”

  “My lady?”

  “Look.” She pointed.

  A Persian carpet of lights danced on the formerly dingy floor: cobalt

  blues, ruby reds, and amber yellows. She followed the beam of light back

  to its source, the rose window above the altar. It glowed, lit from

  without by sunshine.

  “The sun has come out,” George whispered in awe. “I’d almost forgotten

  what it looked like. Do you think it’s shining in Yorkshire as well?”

  Harry’s green eyes sparkled down at her. “I have no doubt, my lady.”

  “Ahem.” George looked up to see Violet staring at them in a rather

  exasperated manner. /“Well?”/

  She smiled. “I shall be marrying Mr. Pye today.”

  Violet squealed.

  “About time,” someone, probably Oscar, muttered.

  George ignored that and tried to look contrite as she turned to poor

  Cecil. “I am so sorry, Cecil. I—”

  But Cecil interrupted, “Don’t worry your head, old thing. I shall dine

  out on this tale for the next year. It isn’t every day a fellow is left

  at the altar.”

  “Eh?” A cry from the front pew brought everyone around. The vicar

  straightened his wig. He returned his spectacles to his nose and

  searched the gathering until his eyes lit on George. “Now, then, young

  lady. Which of these gentlemen will you marry?”

  “This one.” She squeezed Harry’s arm.

  The vicar inspected Harry and sniffed. “Doesn’t look that much different

  from the other one.”

  “Nevertheless”—she fought to remain sober-faced— “this is the man I want.”

  “Very well.” The vicar frowned at Harry. “Have you a license?”

  “Yes.” He produced the piece of paper. “And my brothers will serve as

  groomsmen.”

  Bennet walked to Harry’s side and stood with Will just a little behind

  him. The boy looked both terrified and excited.

  /“Brothers?”/ Violet hissed.

  “I’ll explain later,” George said. She blinked back sudden tears.

  “My dinner is waiting, so let us commence.” The vicar cleared his throat

  noisily. He began again in the same falsetto voice he’d used before,

  “Dearly beloved . . .”

  Everything else was different.

  The sun shone through the rose window, lighting and warming the little

  church. Tony looked relieved, as if a terrible burden had been lifted

  from his shoulders. Ralph grinned next to him. Oscar winked at George as

  she caught his eye. Violet kept shooting puzzled glances at Bennet, but

  in between she grinned at George. Bennet stood a little awkwardly beside

  Harry, but he seemed proud as well. Will was bouncing on his toes in

  excitement.

  And Harry . . .

  George looked at him and felt a great bubble of joy well up inside her.

  Harry watched her as if she were the center of his soul. He wasn’t

  smiling, but his beautiful emerald eyes were warm and serene.

  When it came time to pledge herself to Harry, George leaned toward him

  and whispered, “I forgot one thing when I told you about the end of the

  fairy tale.”

  Her almost husband smiled down at her and asked gravely, “What was that,

  my lady?”

  She savored the moment and the love in his eyes, then declared, “And

  they lived happily ever after!”

  “So they did,” Harry whispered back, and kissed her.

  Vaguely she heard the vicar moan, “No, no, not yet!” and then, “Oh,

  never mind. I pronounce you man and wife.”

  And that was how it should be, George thought as she opened her mouth

  beneath her husband’s. She was Harry’s wife.

  And Harry was her man.

  /About the Author/

  *Elizabeth Hoyt* lives in central Illinois with three untrained dogs,

  two angelic but bickering children, and one long-suffering husband.

  There is some debate on whether a golden hamster resides with her family

  as well. The hamster was a free-thinking rodent and decided to live

  /sans/ cage sometime in the summer of ’05. It has not been reliably

  spotted since, although Elizabeth’s youngest child holds out hope of its

  return. The hermit crabs are best not mentioned at all.

  Winters are long, cold, and monotonous in central Illinois. Elizabeth

  would be most appreciative of any mail you’d care to send her. You may

  e-mail her at elizabeth@elizabethhoyt.com or mail her at PO Box 17134,

  Urbana, Illinois 61803. Please visit her website at elizabethhoyt.com

  for giveaways, book excerpts, and author updates.

  “Hoyt dials up the heat!”

  —Connie Brockway,

  /USA Today/

  bestselling author

  * /Want more steamy

  historical romance from/ *

  *Elizabeth Hoyt?*

  then turn the page for a preview of

  * /The Serpent Prince/ *

  *AVAILABLE IN MASS MARKET*

  *FALL* 2007.

  /Chapter One/

  MAIDEN HILL, ENGLAND

  NOVEMBER 1760

  The dead man at Lucinda Craddock-Hayes’s feet looked like a fallen god.

  Apollo, or more likely Mars, the bringer of war, taken human form and

  struck down from the heavens to be found by a maiden on her way home.

  Except that gods rarely bleed.

  Or die, for that matter.

  “Mr. Hedge,” Lucy called over her shoulder. She glanced around the

  lonely lane leading from the town of Maiden Hill to the Craddock-Hayes

  house. It appeared the same as before she’d made her find: deserted,

  except for herself; her manservant, puffing a ways behin
d her; and the

  corpse lying in the ditch. The sky hung low and wintry gray. The light

  had already begun to leak away, though it was not yet five o’clock.

  Leafless trees lined the road, silent and chill.

  Lucy shivered and drew her wrap more closely about her shoulders. The

  dead man lay sprawled facedown, naked and battered. The long lines of

  his back were marred by a mass of blood on his right shoulder. Below

  were lean hips, muscular, hairy legs, and curiously elegant, bony feet.

  She blinked and returned her gaze to his face. Even in death he was

  handsome. His head, turned to the side, revealed a patrician profile:

  long nose, high bony cheeks, and a wide mouth. An eyebrow, winging over

  his closed eye, was bisected by a scar. Closely cropped pale hair grew

  flat to his skull, except where it was matted by blood. His left hand