by Lynne Barron
“Easy, love,” Phineas murmured, nipping her bottom lip in warning as his finger slowly stroked deep and withdrew only to slowly thrust back into her body. “I don’t want to hurt you. Let me make you ready for me.”
He rocked his palm against her clitoris, forward and back, creating a wondrous friction as he worked his finger inside her, setting up a tempo that had her undulating beneath him.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he encouraged around a groan. “Ride my finger. Find your pleasure.”
“Help me, Phineas,” she begged, writhing against his hand, taking his finger deep, so close to the relief she sought, yet unable to seize it. “I can’t…I need…”
“I know what you need.” He withdrew his finger from her core, ignoring her whimper of protest. He probed again with two fingers, slowly forged into her with shallow thrusts. “You’re tight. So damn hot and tight. I want to be inside you.”
“Yes,” she moaned, overcome by the feel of his hand between her legs, the pressure of his palm on her sensitive peak, the slight burn as his fingers stretched her.
He thrust his fingers harder, deeper, faster, and Harry arched and twisted beneath him, her release just out of reach.
“You’re nearly there, Harry,” he said, his voice little more than a rasp. “Come for me. I want you to come before I fill you with my cock.”
“Do it, Phineas,” she demanded on a splintered moan. “Fill me with your cock.”
Then his hand was gone and he was fitting his hips between her thighs, his hard shaft prodding her cunny.
He raised his head, captured her gaze as he rocked his hips forward, pushing the head of his cock into her body. Even as Harry gasped at this new invasion, he was gliding into her quim on a single long, smooth stroke. The pain was little more than a sharp bite, there and gone in an instant, but still it jarred her senses and heightened her awareness of their joining.
“Phineas,” she whispered, undone by the feel of him inside her, stretching and filling her so completely. “You…us…this…it’s exquisite.”
“Harry, love,” he groaned, his arms trembling as he braced himself above her and slowly withdrew until only the fat head of his cock remained within her body.
“Again,” she begged, lifting her hips up in blatant invitation.
“Christ,” he gritted out between clenched teeth as he slowly surged into her once more.
The drag of his hard shaft over her sensitive flesh was a sweet torment.
When his cock was buried within her body, she swiveled her hips experimentally.
“Harry,” Phin growled, plea and a prayer all tangled in the single word as he eased his cock from her quim once more.
“Again,” Harry whispered, a plea and a prayer of her own.
Phineas thrust back in, harder and deeper, punctuating the mighty lunge with a twist of his hips, the pressure against her clitoris sublime.
Her climax rushed over her, taking her by surprise in its speed and intensity.
She threw her head back and cried out as her legs clamped around him, her arms dragged his weight down to cover her, and her inner muscles clenched around him, pulling him deeper into her convulsing body.
“Ah, God, Harry,” he snarled, withdrawing only to plant himself deep within her body again.
His movements became disjointed and frantic, his hips pounding between her legs and his cock pistoning into her cunny until, with an exultant shout, his entire body bucked and shuddered as he spent himself long and hard in her body.
Falling on her as if his bones and muscles had simply ceased to function, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and fisted his fingers in her hair.
A delicious, boneless lassitude crept over Harry as she held Phineas securely in her arms while his breathing returned to normal and his heart rate took on its customary rhythm, slow and steady. Eyes drifting closed, she turned her head to press a kiss to his temple, his skin warm and salty on her lips. She breathed deep of his scent, musk and starch and rain. His weight was strangely comfortable, his chest solid against her breasts and his hips cradled between her legs as if they’d been created to fit together just so.
Harry was struck with the notion that every minute of her life had led inexorably to this moment, that every deliberate decision and carefully considered choice she had made—along with the resulting incidental repercussions and accidental ramifications—had somehow led her into Phineas’s sphere. And from there, into his arms and perhaps even into his heart.
She very much suspected that, when the time came, she would find it impossible to give up the place she’d inadvertently carved out for herself there.
The thought smacked of impossible expectations, and Harry drowsily shoved it away into the dusty, desolate corners of her heart, there to mingle with all of the other pointless and impractical hopes and dreams she’d never wasted time or effort chasing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The soft hum of a feminine voice woke Phin from as sound a sleep as he’d enjoyed since inheriting his grandfather’s annihilated estate and all of the incumbent responsibilities.
Rolling to his back, he stretched his arms up over his head and drew in a deep breath. The unmistakable scent of lemons and sugar nearly overwhelmed his senses, tingling in his nose and swirling over his tongue.
“Harry,” he murmured, smiling and opening his eyes, fully expecting to find her curled up in the bed beside him.
The bed was empty, as was the room papered in creamy gold and white damask. Drapes of lustrous teal velvet were pulled tightly closed against the morning light. A gilded desk and matching chair sat between two windows and a plush carpet in a rich shade of orange covered the floor.
There was an understated elegance to Harry’s bedchamber, a rather shabby splendor to the furnishings, and a decidedly exotic flavor to the color scheme. It was not the sort of room one expected to find in rented lodgings above a book shop.
Unless those lodgings were inhabited by an unlikely heiress.
And as unlikely as it was, Harry was an heiress. And not just any heiress, but his heiress. His darling, dearest, beloved and soon to be his wife. The truth of it settled over Phin in a rush, overwhelming him with a relief so great it brought into vivid contrast the panic and powerlessness he’d felt when Harry had turned away from him at the ball, and the despair that had followed him on the long walk to Wellclose Square.
A burgundy silk brocade dressing gown was draped over the bed, the same garment Harry had carried in her arms the night before, along with a stack of linens, neither of which had been put to use. The Duke of Montclaire had apparently been shorter than Phin by half a head, for the hem only came to his shins, but the garment covered what ought to be covered, considering Harry had company in the chamber next door.
Phin crossed the room and slid the pocket doors open on silent wheels.
Bright sunlight momentarily blinded him, forcing him to blink to clear his vision as he glanced around to take in the details of the space that had been cast in shadows the night before.
Harry’s lodgings encompassed the upper story of the book shop and the bakery next door, perhaps even the pawn shop two doors down. There was nothing the least understated nor shabby to the vast space decorated in the same shades of gold, teal and orange, from the carpets scattered across the floor to the silk covering the walls and the drapes hanging beside a row of tall windows spanning the front of the apartment.
The parquet floor was polished to a sheen, the walls adorned with paintings of pastoral scenes, and leafy green plants sprouted from porcelain pots and pewter pails.
Just beyond the threshold where Phin loitered was an elegant parlor. The furnishings were delicate pieces comprised of graceful lines and luxurious fabrics, gilded chairs cushioned in a faded floral print, low tables with dainty curved legs and a velvet settee positioned before the hearth.
To the left of the parlor, a dining room had been fashioned, the long oval table draped in linen that might once have bee
n white but was now a buttery yellow and embroidered along the edges in a geometric pattern.
Further on was a music room of sorts. An ancient piano, white paint chipped here and there to reveal the wood beneath, precisely centered below an elaborate chandelier. A harp and a cello were propped against a carved balustrade that made up a matched set on either side of the open stairwell.
On the opposite side of the stairwell was a library. Bookshelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling. Two overstuffed chairs and a dark wood table were situated near the windows to best make use of the light for reading. Ivy spilled from what appeared to be a gem-encrusted jewelry box sitting on one corner of the desk, vines curling around the leg.
Harry sat behind the desk, a steaming cup at her elbow and a plate positioned on a corner of the newssheet spread out before her. Wearing only a dressing gown that might once have been purple but had long since faded to a dull gray, hair piled atop her head in a knot held in place with nothing more than a feathered quill jammed into the coiling, curling mass, and a smudge of ink on her chin, she looked adorably disheveled and so beautiful she stole his breath.
Quite literally. Phin could not catch his next lemon-scented breath.
Breaking off a piece of pastry, Harry reached down beneath the desk. A scrawny marmalade cat sat at her feet, oddly bent tail twitching as it plucked the morsel from her fingers. She scratched between the mangy feline’s ears, and a soft purring started up, growing louder when she curled her hand around to reach the creature’s chin.
“Just there, my darling boy?” Harry posed the question to the cat as she perused the paper. “Only the one line in The Times, wedged between a lengthy recitation of Lilith’s guest list and a description of that ludicrous mural on Withy’s ceiling.”
The cat’s head turned, and blue eyes locked on Phin with something resembling suspicion.
“One would think the financial demise of an earl would warrant more than a single line,” Harry continued. “If it weren’t for the two pithy lines in The Sentinel and the four lines Teddy allotted in The Gazette, I might begin to wonder if I’d dreamed the entire thing. Still, the lack of interest in his latest bit of idiocy will serve me well.”
The animal hissed as if in agreement. Or perhaps the feline was issuing a warning, one randy rake to another.
“Hush, Precious,” Harry said, looking up from the newspaper. When she spotted Phin hovering at the threshold to her bedchamber, she flashed him a smile, soft and sweet and almost shy.
And Phin found his breath, though perhaps not his wits.
“No wonder you always smell of lemon tarts.” Apparently, thrice did make a habit, seeing as it had become his practice to toss out nonsensical salutations every time he encountered Harry.
“I smell of lemon tarts?”
“Has no one ever told you so?”
“Not that I recall,” she answered with a little laugh. “Monty positively adored sweets, but his health was declining, and Bathsheba would only allow him to indulge on special occasions. Cook served lemon tarts for breakfast my first morning in Runnymede. Some years ago, I made mention of it to Mrs. French, and she baked a batch the following day. And every day thereafter.”
“She bakes lemon tarts daily simply because you’ve a preference for them?” Phin didn’t know why he found it surprising, considering there was nothing he wouldn’t do to make Harry happy.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied. “I cannot abide lemon tarts. Far too sour for my already sour disposition. No, Mrs. French is as pragmatic a woman as you’ll ever meet. She bakes lemon tarts daily because the line of customers stretched clear around the corner that first morning, and has every morning since. Why, people come from all over London for Mrs. French’s lemon tarts.”
“And you get to wake each morning to the reminder that your grandparents deemed your arrival in their home to be a special occasion.” Phin wandered into the parlor, passing the settee and trailing one hand along the back. The velvet was threadbare but still soft, the muted orange a rather distinctive shade. “Would you call this particular hue apricot?”
Harry let loose a laugh, rich and full of delight. “Oh, Phineas, you truly are learning to look to the nuances.”
“Your grandmother’s I take it?”
“Charles was kind enough to allow me to purchase a few of the furnishings at Radcliff Manor in Runnymede two years past.”
“As the granddaughter to the former duke, Marchant should have given you the pieces.”
“He wasn’t nearly so flush then as he is now,” Harry replied in defense of her fancy cousin. “In fact, he put it about that he was redecorating, but really he was selling off whatever he could in order to make repairs to the roof.”
“Even so, surely a few pieces would not have made so great a difference to his coffers.”
“Have you any idea how much well-to-do tradesmen and merchants with aspirations to rise through Society’s ranks will pay for an aristocrat’s castoff furnishings, books and artwork?”
“I can’t say that I’ve ever pondered it,” Phin admitted, crossing into the area fashioned into a music room.
“Well, Charles pondered it plenty, and haggled over every last pence. We’d been eying one another at the theatre every Friday night for some time, but were not yet acquainted. As overtures of friendship go, Charles hit on the one most likely to endear him to me.”
Phin barked out a laugh as he approached the cello propped against the bannister. “You’re priceless, Harry. The only woman I know whose affection can be earned with a good negotiation.”
A faint flush bloomed on Harry’s cheeks, and she ducked her head as if to hide the pleasure she found in his words. Such a contrary woman she was, so quick to rebuff a compliment to her beauty yet rendered bashfully gratified by praise for her commercial inclinations.
“You play at playing the cello.” Phin plucked at one of the strings, producing a rather forlorn note. “Like your grandfather before you.”
“Alas, I never did learn to play a single tune from beginning to end.”
“What is the significance of boys reciting the catechism?”
“When the weather was fair and the breeze blowing from the north, I could hear the boys at the little church in the nearby village from my bedchamber window.”
“You’ve surrounded yourself with the sights and sounds and smells that are significant to you,” Phin said, awed by the insight into the mysterious inner workings of her heart. “You have made a life for yourself amid everything that is relevant to you.”
It was… Phin didn’t know precisely what it was.
Sentimental, certainly, when he would have wagered she hadn’t a sentimental bone in her sinuously svelte body.
Sweet, which surprised him not at all, for he’d long since recognized the trait in her, no matter how she attempted to conceal all signs of it.
Sad in myriad ways for which he hadn’t words.
There were so many facets to this woman, so much she hid behind her prickly temperament, pragmatic disposition, mercenary tendencies and keen intelligence. Every moment he spent with her was a revelation, an opportunity to discover a new dimension to her personality, a softer side to her character and another reason to love her.
And he’d very nearly lost her with his ill-conceived and mistimed proposition. It was a miracle she’d not only forgiven him, but invited him in out of the rain and into her bed and her body and her heart.
Keeping his gaze on her upturned face, on the affection shining from her green eyes, Phin crossed into the library. He couldn’t imagine what she saw on his face just then, but whatever it was had Harry scrambling to her feet as he rounded the desk.
Ignoring the indignant howl of the cat scuttling out of harm’s way, Phin gently cradled her warm cheeks and lifted her face to press his lips to hers. Harry opened for him, her tongue coming out to meet his, to circle and parry and retreat, luring him into a kiss full of all the promises he’d feared he’d rendered imposs
ible. Shared banter and smiles, laughter and tears, hopes and dreams, passion and affection, children and a partner with whom to grow old.
“I love you.” The words felt so right, so real and true as they fell from his lips to hers.
“Oh, Phineas,” she murmured, one hand coming up to curl around his neck. “You’re not going to turn up sentimental first thing in the morning, are you?”
Phin lifted his head to look into her eyes. “I’m afraid so.”
Expelling a little laugh, she combed her fingers through the hair at his nape. “I’ve a rule against mawkish displays before noon.”
“I’ve always been something of a rule breaker.” Disentangling her clinging arms, but keeping hold of one hand, he knelt on the parquet floor before her.
“What are you doing?” Harry asked with a little hitch in her voice.
“What I should have done two days ago.”
“But you didn’t do it two days ago.”
“A monumental mistake I intend to remedy now.” Phin brought her hand up and pressed a kiss to her bony knuckles. “Miss Hesperia O’Connell, will you do me the great honor—”
“You didn’t do it two days ago,” Harry repeated, tugging in an attempt to free her fingers from his.
Phin tightened his hold as it dawned on him that perhaps she’d not entirely forgiven him after all. “I’m sorry, Harry. I know I’ve mucked up this courtship from the start, but I promise I will spend the rest of my life atoning for my many blunders.”
“You should have proposed two days ago.” Apparently, Harry could not get beyond that particular blunder. And why not? It was certainly the biggest one of them all.
“I know, love.”
“I might have accepted your proposal.” Harry’s lips twisted in a decidedly disdainful smile. “No, I would most assuredly have accepted your proposal.”
It took Phin a moment to comprehend her words, to understand the implied rejection of his proposal before he’d even finished offering it.