by Amy Jarecki
As he strode across the floor, she rested her head against his shoulder. “Both our bodies bare?”
A bit of seed leaked from the tip of his cock. By the time he reached the bed, his breeches were hanging down around his thighs. It didn’t take long to slip out of his clothes or remove her robe and chemise as well.
Once in bed, Georgiana wasn’t finished taking charge. She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, thrusting her mons up against his cock. “You’re so...”
“Yes?”
“Virile.”
As he lowered his lips to hers, her tongue surged inside his mouth with the same fervor from the settee. Sliding her hands to his shoulders, she rolled him to the mattress, then straddled him. God she was gorgeous. Chestnut locks hung in waves down to her waist, partially covering one eye. Full breasts teased him, but when he cupped one, she shook her head.
“Can I make love to you on top?” she asked.
“Yes.” He moved his fingers to her waist. “Have you never been?”
“I’ve only done it on my back.”
Had he died and gone to heaven? “And you’d like to...try new things?”
A flicker of a challenge reflected in her brilliant eyes. “Is that not what we’re doing?”
He spread his arms wide. “Your wish is my command, my lady.”
ENCOURAGED, GEORGIANA moved down Fletcher’s body until she held his manhood in front of her. Of course, she had a fair idea of how to proceed. She liked being in control, yet no matter what he said, Fletcher’s pleasuring was more important to Georgiana than her own. Should she ask him, or should she just act?
She ran her fingers up his shaft. A ripple of heat exploded inside her as she watched his face contort with pleasure while he arched and moaned.
“Lower yourself onto me,” he growled.
It wasn’t a demand, but a request and as he cupped her bottom and guided her upward, she grasped his shoulders and opened for him, swirling her hips until he crowned her entrance. Watching intently, she wanted to draw out the moment and eased downward inch by ravenous inch.
Fletcher’s eyes grew dark, his lips parting with the laboring of his breath but his hands remained gently gripping her—as if there to support her if she tired. He seemed to fully understand her desire to explore.
The black curvature of his eyelashes lowered while his eyebrows drew together. A sheen of perspiration gave his face and chest a steamy glow like that of a bronze warrior. He bared his teeth and mumbled a curse—something foreign—something that sounded very dirty.
“What?” she asked.
“I said you were damned beautiful.”
Georgiana swirled her hips as she slid all the way down to his root. “Damned?”
He thrust so deep inside her, she gasped. “Kiss me, oh goddess divine.”
She leaned forward, her hair covering them in a cocoon of passion. Oh, how stirring to have all that sinewy power beneath her, his robust hips cradled between her thighs.
Fletcher’s eyes filled with a challenge while he rocked beneath her.
Georgiana took his cue, bracing her hands and rising and lowering in tandem with his wicked, powerful strokes. As she lay atop his massive chest, he continued to be patient, allowing her to experiment. His heart hammered a fierce rhythm against her breast. Panting, she increased the tempo while spasms of heat rippled inside her. As she pushed up, his mouth caught the tips of her breasts.
He smiled up from the tangle of her hair. “You enjoy tormenting me.”
“Yes,” she said, barely able to speak.
The hint of a grin vanished as he grasped her buttocks, encouraging her to plunge deeper. Faster—filling herself with him. He answered her demand, stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust. She loved the sight of his half-lidded expression, lost in passion, his head tilted back, his throat exposed.
A storm of searing arousal swept through her. Her thighs shuddered as they clamped around him. Fletcher continued to match her pace, his movements becoming jerky and forceful. And as she watched him, a cry caught in her throat as her climax erupted like a starburst.
“My God,” Fletcher boomed as he immediately withdrew and spilled on his stomach.
Trying to catch her breath, Georgiana looked down at the pool of his seed and felt a pang of remorse. But then, this wasn’t everlasting love. This was a liaison—something she needed to clear to her soul—something secret—something beautiful, yet oh so very taboo.
She rolled off the bed, wrapped herself in her robe and collected a cloth from the washstand. As she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, she vowed to enjoy every moment alone with Fletcher Markham, then lock it away in her heart for the rest of her days.
Chapter Twenty-One
“YOU’RE LOOKING WELL this morning, my lady,” said the groom, Tom, as he helped Georgiana ascend the mounting block beside her beloved gelding, Herman. The horse had been a present when she was a young girl, and she adored him.
She hitched her leg over the upper pommel of the sidesaddle and slid her seat into place. “Thank you.” After gathering the reins, she combed her fingers through the horse’s sorrel mane. “I’ve missed this fellow ever so.”
Tom held up her crop. “I think he’s happy to see you as well.”
She took it and gave the horse a gentle tap. “Are you, Herman?” He nickered and moved away from the block while the sound of barking dogs approached. “The hounds sound eager.”
“Aye,” Tom agreed. “The master of the foxhounds said the dogs have known they’re about to embark on a hunt for two days now.”
“Truly? I wonder what makes them so perceptive.”
“I think it is on account of the baron returning from London. He paid the kennel a visit the day he arrived.”
“Ah, I should have realized.”
The shadow of her father mounted on a fine thoroughbred appeared in the doorway of the stables. “Are you ready, Georgiana? Everyone’s waiting.”
She grinned at the lad. “Thanks, Tom. I mustn’t be the cause of any delay.”
Contrary to what her father had said, the hunting party was far from ready to ride. Once outside, Georgiana backed her horse away from the yelping, jumping dogs, their leads in a complete tangle. “Where is Rasputin?”
“In the house, yowling,” said Papa. “His training isn’t complete by half. Besides, I bought him for birds.”
“Such a shame. He must feel awfully dejected.”
“A little dejection is good for the young pup.”
“Are you pairing up with Evesham?” asked Eleanor, reining her horse to a stop.
Georgiana searched for the duke’s broad-shouldered stature among the guests. “I’m not...” Fletcher and his dogs came racing in from the paddock, his top hat managing to remain securely on his head while his black coattails flapped behind. The man expertly handled an enormous bay horse, looking like he’d been born with his feet in a pair of stirrups.
“A picture speaks a thousand words,” said Eleanor.
Georgiana sighed. “He is magnificent, is he not?”
“I wasn’t referring to the duke. The expression on your face answered every question I could possibly have.”
“Oh dear.” Cringing, Georgiana regarded her friend. “Is it that obvious?”
Eleanor tugged up her gloves. “’Tis lovely to see you glow with happiness.”
“Yes, well, it cannot and will not last beyond Saturday’s ball.”
Before Her Ladyship answered back, Evesham reined his horse to a halt beside them. “It looks as if we’re about ready to start.”
“Once the master of the foxhounds brings the dogs under control.” Georgiana looked to Max and Molly who obediently stood beside the bay horse with their tongues lolling to the side. “Are you bringing your Setters along?”
“Of course.” Fletcher smiled, his eyes shining like obsidian in the sunlight. “They live for the hunt.”
She leaned toward him and snorted. “Rasputin has been banish
ed to the house.”
“Is that the woeful noise I heard coming from the manse?” Evesham’s saddle creaked as he turned to look back. “Not to worry, he’ll be leading the pack in a year or two.”
Ahead, the foxhounds had been brought under control and the master circled his whistle above his head.
Papa trotted his horse to the forefront. “Let the hunt begin!”
Georgiana gave Herman a tap with her crop. “Walk on.”
“Walk?” asked Evesham, leaning forward. “In my experience, you do not seem like the type of woman who’d be satisfied with idleness during a fox hunt.”
Eleanor, leered out of the corner of her eye, giving a barely-muffled chuckle.
“Sh,” Georgiana silenced the duke in a heated whisper, positive she’d just turned as crimson as her riding habit. If he kept talking like that, they’d all think she’d turned into a hellion.
He sat easy in his saddle, regarding her. “I said nothing remotely incriminating.”
She used her heel and crop to request a canter. “I thought you were keen for the shooting.”
His horse quickly closed the gap. “And what are you keen for, my lady?”
“To enjoy the morning’s ride. The wind in my face and the thrill of jumping the thicket.” Running beside them, Molly barked. “Can the Setters keep pace?”
“Are you jesting?” He patted the musket holstered at the horse’s flank. “This is what I brought them for.”
She slapped her crop and leaned forward together with her hands. “Then I’ll race you to the bottom of the gully!”
“You’re on.”
Fletcher took the lead, but Georgiana held her own. Good heavens, she’d missed riding. In Thetford, she usually drove a curricle and pony because nearly every time she left the cottage she ventured out to buy supplies.
They were neck and neck at the bottom of the ravine, but Max and Molly had run ahead, leading them away from the hunting party. It didn’t matter. Georgiana cared less about chasing a fox. She wanted to ride for hours with the wind in her face and her mind consumed with the reins, and the path, and keeping her seat while coaxing old Herman to run faster than Evesham’s beautiful stepper.
“This way,” he called, pointing his crop toward the dogs. “They’re on a scent.”
“But the foxhounds are heading north.”
“Who gives a rat’s arse?”
She laughed. “If you don’t, I most certainly do not.”
The dogs leaped over a hedgerow dividing the paddocks as if they’d done it many times before. Fletcher glanced her way. “Would you prefer to ride around?”
“Are you buffle-headed?” She urged Herman faster. “The daughter of the Baron of Derby does not ride around.”
“Very well then, ladies first.”
Georgiana eyed the hedge and moved her hands low against her gelding’s neck. “Are you ready, old boy?”
Seeming to understand, the horse grunted and picked up speed.
As the jump approached, her heartbeat fell into time with Herman’s gait. She’d made this jump a hundred times when she was a girl and riding now came as easily as an afternoon stroll. As they approached, Georgiana focused.
Three, two, one.
As the horse leaped, she leaned out over his withers. The thicket passed beneath them in a blur, but she kept her eyes up, looking to the other side.
Until her heart flew to her throat.
Herman’s front hoof struck, making him veer to the right. Georgiana countered, leaning further out over his left flank, but the gelding came down askew. Gripping his mane along with the reins, she tried to hold on, but the horse’s jerky momentum rendered her helpless. Flung through the air, she shrieked, every muscle in her body tightening as she hurled toward the muddy ground.
Hitting with a thud, her mouth filled with dirt as cold muck enveloped her.
“Georgiana!”
Before she oriented herself, Fletcher already had her in his arms, pulling her out of the mire. “Are you hurt?”
She winced, cradling her arm against her chest. “Only my wrist...I think.”
He carried her beneath a tree and sat, steadying her on his lap. “That old gelding is a bit long in the tooth to be taking jumps.”
Georgiana’s heart squeezed as she looked for her beloved horse. “But I’ve had him since I was nine years of age.” Thank heaven’s he’d started grazing only paces away.
“And how long has it been since you’ve ridden him that hard?”
She groaned. “Six years, mayhap more.”
“See what I mean? I doubt your father would have allowed a nine-year-old child on a young horse. I’ll wager he’s five and twenty if a day. ’Tis a wonder he even tried to make the jump. Now let’s have a look at you.” Fletcher carefully pulled her arm. “This wrist?”
She hissed. “That hurts.”
He pushed up her sleeve and made a tsking sound. “’Tis already swollen.”
She dared to look. “Oh, bother.”
“Can you move your hand?”
Gritting her teeth, she managed to clench her fingers in a semblance of a fist. “That’s a good sign.”
“Perhaps, but for you the day’s hunt has come to an end.” He kissed her forehead and moved her off his lap. “I’ll fetch my horse—you can ride with me. I need to take you back to the house straightaway.”
“But what about Herman?”
“He seems happy enough. I’ll send the groom back to tend him.”
“Thank you.”
Fletcher returned with his mount, mud splattered across his white riding breeches and dripping from his coat.
“Oh, dear. I’ve ruined your clothes.” Georgiana glanced at her riding habit as she stood. The laundress would never be able to clean it. “And mine as well.”
“Clothes are replaceable. Wrists are not.” He beckoned her. “I’ll lift you.”
“Are you jesting? Your horse must be seventeen hands. If you try to hoist me up that high, we’ll both be hobbling back to Hardwick Hall with injuries.”
“You weigh but a trifle, now come.”
He tugged her good wrist, swept her off her feet, and set her across the big thoroughbred’s withers. Then he stood back and grinned, opening his arms wide. “As you see, I am perfectly fit.”
Yes, she’d seen exactly how fit the duke was. How on earth did he manage it? What were his flaws, aside from being somewhat notorious among polite society? But then, he was single and a duke. The two combined was like possessing a carte blanche granting him permission to act something of a scoundrel. Though she couldn’t completely discount his reputation. Dare she forget at Almacks he’d practically tried to seduce her before he’d even asked her name.
THE BUTLER OPENED THE door as Fletcher arrived on the portico with Georgiana in his arms. “Dobbs, tell Lady Derby her daughter has fallen from a horse and injured her wrist. And send someone for the physician straightaway.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Dobbs stood aside to let them pass. “Shall I have a footman carry Her Ladyship?”
Georgiana groaned. “I am perfectly able to walk.”
“Not until you’ve been seen.” Fletcher continued to the stairs. “Send up some sherry as well. That will take the edge off her pain.”
Though Georgiana complained, Fletcher wasn’t about to set her down or let her walk or do anything until he was absolutely certain she wasn’t suffering more than she let on. He’d watched in horror as the woman he adored was mercilessly thrown from that old gelding. And thank heavens she’d landed in the soft mud, else she might have broken every bone in her body, including her neck.
Only after he entered her bedchamber did he set her down—on a chair. “We must remove your muddy garments.”
“We?” she asked. “I do believe you sent for my mother.”
The lady’s maid popped in. “Do you need assistance, my lady?”
“Yes,” said Georgiana, holding up her finger and giving him a look of defiance.
Fletcher pursed his lips. Of course he shouldn’t be the one to remove her clothing, no matter how responsible he felt. But he wasn’t about to leave. He beckoned the maid inside. “Please remove Her Ladyship’s soiled garments. I shall turn my back until she is dry and cinched tightly in her dressing gown.”
The young woman looked to Georgiana. “What happened, my lady?”
“Herman missed a jump and I was thrown.”
“Heavens, ’tis amazing you didn’t crack open your skull.”
“Yes, I have a quagmire of mud to thank for that.”
Fletcher took off his dirty jacket and draped it over the fire screen before he faced the hearth, clasping his hands behind his back. “Please ensure you exercise utmost care. Until Her Ladyship is seen by the doctor, we cannot be too cautious.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He endured the rustling of clothing to the tune of Georgiana’s restrained grunts. She was in more pain that she was letting on, dammit. And she was just the type who would suffer in silence. Why hadn’t he been the one to take the fall? She was too fragile, too delicate. Good Lord, what if she’d landed on her head?
His heart twisted into a hundred knots. He’d never be able to look himself in the mirror again. For the first time in his life, he’d met a woman who wasn’t only alluring, she was smart and interesting. And she knew something about engineering.
“All done,” said the maid.
Fletcher turned. “Let me carry you to the bed.”
“No, thank you.”
“But you cannot remain in the chair. Not when the doctor is on his way.”
“I agree,” said Lady Derby from the doorway.
Georgiana groaned once more and stood. “Then I shall walk to the bed myself.”
Her Ladyship hastened inside. “Please, dearest, let Evesham help you.”
He grasped Georgiana by her good arm. “I agree.”
“’Tis just an injured wrist. There’s no need for so much fuss.”
Lady Derby wrung her hands. “But Dobbs said you were thrown.”