by Lynne Barron
Harry obeyed without question, curling her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders. She trailed kisses down the strong column of his neck as he started up the stairs. With a curse, he stopped on the fifth step long enough to pin her to the wall with his hips, wrench her chemise over her head and plunder her mouth.
“Behave yourself,” he ordered when he lifted his lips from hers to continue up the stairs.
But Harry was beyond behaving. She was all want and need and hunger. Ravenous.
They made it to the ninth step with Harry trailing her tongue along the underside of his jaw. Again she was pinned to the wall, but it was her breasts he plundered, licking and sucking and gently biting her nipples until she was panting and writhing.
“Only a few more steps,” he groaned as he started up again.
Harry caught the lobe of his ear between her teeth on the next step. Phineas didn’t bother pressing her to the wall, but merely crushed her lips beneath his and flexed his fingers on her bottom, thrusting between her splayed thighs and nearly losing his balance in the process.
Harry restrained herself until they reached the landing and Phineas crossed to her bedchamber, unceremoniously dropping her on the bed and standing above her with his eyes glittering and his chest heaving. She scrambled up onto her knees and reached for the hem of his shirt.
Phineas whipped the garment over his head and tossed it to the floor. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he tilted her head back to deliver another sublimely masterful, devastatingly ardent kiss. With his tongue delving deep into her mouth, driving her near delirious with desire, she was only vaguely aware of his fingers attacking the buttons of his falls. When he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit down lightly, she barely registered the twisting of his hips as he shucked his trousers.
Then he was pushing her to her back and crawling over her, wedging his knees between hers and parting her legs. He swept one hand down her hip, his touch firm and his fingers nimble as he trailed them through the curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Phineas,” Harry moaned into his mouth, her hips bucking as he dragged two fingers over her clitoris. “More.”
“Say you’ll be my wife, and I’ll give you more. I’ll give you all that I have, all I am.”
“Yes,” she gasped, squirming and chasing his touch. “Yes, I’ll be your wife.”
True to his word, Phineas gave her more, slowly rotating his fingers over the pleasure point, increasing the pressure with each pass until she was undulating beneath him, her hips swiveling in counterpoint to his touch.
And still he kissed her, fiercely and hungrily, lapping at her mouth and biting at her lips as his fingers slid down through her folds, parting the flesh and gliding around her quim.
“Now, Phineas,” she demanded, sliding her hands down his back to clasp his taught arse.
It was all the encouragement he needed. Positioning his shaft, Phineas pushed until the fat head of his cock was imbedded in her body.
Flexing her fingers, she tilted her hips, sighing as the new angle drove his cock deeper into her cunny.
“Have mercy, love,” Phineas groaned as he withdrew only to thrust back in, harder and deeper.
Sweeping her palms up the smooth expanse of his back and wrapping her legs around his flanks, she met the next heavy thrust with a swivel of her hips. And the next, and the next, until she lost herself to the thrust and drag of his cock deep in her body, to the exquisite friction against her clitoris, to the stroke and retreat of his tongue in her mouth. Together they found a luxurious rhythm perfectly pitched to send her climbing toward release.
“Come for me, love,” Phineas ordered, his voice low and guttural as he broke their kiss to trail his lips down her neck before dipping down to take her nipple into his mouth. Suckling and licking and gently biting to the same deliciously decadent tempo, he pitched her right over the jagged edge.
The climax that had been taunting and teasing her slammed into her, stealing her breath for a moment before expelling it from her lungs on a tremulous cry. On and on her orgasm went, his cock thrusting deep and his mouth greedily suckling, playing her body like a finely tuned instrument, drawing out every ounce of pleasure until she was limp and gasping for breath.
With a one final pull on her nipple, Phineas lifted his head to look down at her from beneath heavy lids, his eyes glittering like aged brandy in the fading sunlight pouring in through the windows. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and trickled down his temples.
“I love you, Harry,” he vowed, planting himself deep within her body. “Now and forever.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
He let loose a triumphant shout, his hips jerking between her legs, shaft pumping wildly in her quim, hard and deep and fast as he found his release. Arms wrapped around him, fingers clenching his sweat-soaked back, and her legs curled about hips, Harry held him close to her.
Some minutes later, Phineas gently disengaged their bodies and rolled to his back, pulling her snug against him. Tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder, she drew circles in the hair surrounding one nipple, then sweeping horizontal figure eights that encompassed both copper disks.
This too was love, this quiet contentment.
As wonderful as it was, Harry’s mind was unaccustomed to quiet contentment and soon began to replay the events of the day, and those of the weeks that preceded it until one particularly humorous recollection rose to the surface. “You thought I was running numbers.”
“And rigging boxing matches,” Phineas replied drowsily. “I thought you were underling to Wellclose Square’s version of a crime lord.”
“When did you realize the truth?”
“I suspected I’d missed a nuance or two along the way when you said you’d invested your grandmother’s entire fortune in the mining operation.” He kissed the top of her head and lazily swept a hand down the curve of her spine. “You would no more sink all your funds into a single business venture than you would be content to inherit a fortune earned by someone else, even if that someone was your grandmother. You will always need to make your own way, to carve out your own legacy and shape your destiny. And I will always need to be by your side, listening to your lectures on asset allotment, watching you haggle for all you’re worth or simply staying silent so that you might contemplate consequences, calculate odds and ponder possibilities in that beautifully complicated mind of yours.”
Harry swallowed back the lump rising in her throat. To be stripped bare, to be seen so clearly, to be known so completely, and to be so well cherished for all the idiosyncrasies revealed was an intimacy she’d never thought to anticipate, never even dreamed existed. It was lovely and terrifying at the same time.
“But it wasn’t until you soundly rejected my marriage proposal, and I remembered what you’d said about changing odds, unexpected losses and accusations of duplicity that I recognized the truth,” Phineas continued, entirely unaware that he’d shaken her down to her soul. “You were running the ring that night in the back room of the pub. Not Cedric the bullyboy from Shropshire. Not the dandified Mr. Simms. Not the mysterious Mr. Prince with a finger in every pie.”
“Fingertips in a good number of tarts,” Harry corrected.
“It was then that I realized you are Wellclose Square’s version of a crime lord.”
Harry tugged gently on his chest hair in admonishment. “I am no such thing. I’ll have you know I was collecting rents rather than numbers, and I’ve yet to rig a boxing match, though I’ve been tempted a time or two. Alas, all of my enterprises—our enterprises now—are entirely legitimate.”
Phineas rolled to his side and propped his weight on his elbow to meet her gaze. “I like the sound of that—our enterprises.”
“Joint mercantile ventures,” Harry said, tracing the angle of his jaw with one finger. “Just as your marriage contract stated.”
“Dunaway put me through my paces and then refused to sign it.”
“
I’ll not sign it either.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Phineas crowded in close, tossing one leg over hers and fisting a hand through her hair, effectively pinning her to the bed. “You’ve said you’ll marry me.”
Harry pressed her finger to his lips and smiled up at him. “And so I shall marry you, but I’ll not sign that absurd contract. You’ve put your fate in my hands. Criminy, Phineas, just thinking about it steals my breath. Anything could happen. Downturns, or upturns for that matter. Monopolies on markets. Reduced need for services. Undercut prices. Diverted custom. Why, physicians might decide tobacco is harmful. Or some clever scholar might invent a device that renders books obsolete. Horseless carriages might replace hired hacks. Truly, the list is endless.”
“I have the utmost faith in your ability to foresee any such vagaries and vulnerabilities and act accordingly,” Phineas answered, releasing his grip on her hair and brushing the backs of his fingers over her cheek.
“But that’s just it,” Harry said earnestly. “You’ve put your faith in me. And rather blindly, at that. How can I do less than put my faith in you, Phineas?”
“Harry, love,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her lips, softly and reverently. “Your faith is the most precious gift you could give me.”
“You have it, my darling,” Harry whispered.
“I’ll treasure it always.”
“I know you will.”
Phineas stroked his tongue over her lips lightly, and Harry opened to him in anticipation of one kiss leading to two, and two kisses leading to ten, and ten kisses leading to another round of lovemaking. It was a simple enough mathematical equation, after all. And her calculations had been proven true on more than one occasion.
But instead of deepening the kiss and carrying it over it into another, Phineas laughed, his breath puffing against her lips. “Horseless carriages, Harry?”
“There’s a Cornish fellow working on one.”
“Tobacco harmful?” he went on, clearly amused by the possibilities she’d presented. “Books obsolete?”
“Oh, hush and kiss me again.”
And so he did.
The End.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for taking the time to read Courting Chaos. If you enjoyed Harry and Phin’s story, please take a moment to post a review. Even one or two sentences on Amazon, Goodreads or your favorite book review site can make a world of difference to an author, as well as to readers in search of their next great story.
If you’re curious about Harry’s sisters, you can read Lilith’s story in Taming Beauty, Dunaway’s Daughters Book One. I am writing Kate’s story now and will begin Madeline’s when I’m finished.
And if you like your historical romance on the spicy side, you might just adore my Idyllwild Series. Please read on for a sneak peek at Portrait of Passion, Idyllwild Book One.
Thank you,
Lynne Barron
Excerpt Portrait of Passion
Prologue
Chateau De Fontaine
On the outskirts of Paris
March 1827
Beatrice watched him from the shadowy alcove, half-hidden behind a leafy green fern in a tall gilded planter. The handsome young man in a peacock-blue waistcoat and fine gray breeches wandered around the room, stopping to flirt with a pretty young lady here, to chat with a dissolute poet there. His artfully tousled blond curls gleamed in the soft light from a hundred candles. His merry blue eyes twinkled when he laughed. He laughed often.
Just like his father. Everything about him reminded Beatrice of the father. From his tall, muscular frame to his rich voice with its clipped upper-crust English accent, he was his father’s son.
Only the eyes were different. The former Earl of Hastings had possessed the deepest, warmest brown eyes, eyes a sheltered and naïve girl could not help but trust. The young Earl of Hastings’ eyes were a vibrant blue, as blue as the English sky on a cloudless summer day.
Beatrice waited. She waited for her rapid heartbeat to slow, she waited for her sluggish brain to speed up, she waited for her limbs to cease trembling. If there was one thing Miss Beatrice Morgan excelled at, it was waiting. She had been waiting for nearly a decade for the chance to reclaim her life, the life only this young nobleman could return to her.
Suddenly the earl looked away from the evening’s hostess with whom he was conversing. He looked up and across the room. As if he sensed her presence in the shadows, his gaze found her across the room.
The earl’s eyes widened, drifted over her face, lingered for a moment on her lips, before dropping to sweep down her slender form adorned in flowing gold silk. He raised his gaze to hers, the merest hint of a smile upon his lips, his head tilted slightly, studying her as if she were an exotic creature, an angel dropped down from heaven to entertain him. How many times had Beatrice seen the very same expression on his father’s face?
Beatrice held her breath.
Would he recognize her?
But no. She did not exist in his world. The Earl of Hastings could no more recognize Beatrice than he could recognize a hard day’s work, an honest word, or a shilling well-earned. Foolish, naïve aristocrat. Just like his father.
The earl gave a small shake of his head and straightened. He puffed out his chest and pulled at his lace cuffs, his eyes fixed on her, his smile an invitation.
And just like that, Beatrice felt a blanket of calm descend over her. He was just a man. The thought warmed her, steadied her. He would be easily led, just like any other man. She had only to lead him where she wished him to go.
Beatrice stepped from the dim alcove into the soft yellow light of the candles. Her mind was amazingly clear. As she walked across the long marble floor, sweeping gracefully toward the Earl of Hastings, a plan was forming, taking shape. It was a plan born of the desperation and hope she had harbored in her heart for nine long years, born of the obsession that had colored every facet of her life during those lonely, lost years.
Beatrice smiled as she approached the young man, held the smile upon her lips as she dropped into a curtsy so low, so graceful, so perfectly deferential, she might have been bowing before King George himself.
Chapter One
Mayfair, London
May 1827
“Who is she?” asked Simon Carlisle, Viscount Easton.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” replied his cousin Henry Tinsdale, the Earl of Hastings.
She was beyond beautiful, Lord Easton thought as he watched her across the ballroom. She was mesmerizing. The willowy blonde had captured the attention of every person in the room as soon as she had entered on the arm of Viscount Moorehead only moments before. Simon heard whispers of conversation behind the fluttering fans of a group of ladies standing behind him.
“A scarlet dress, can you imagine?”
“Not so surprising, surely? They say she’s an artist, of all things.”
“Artist? Is that what they are calling them these days?”
While the ladies of the ton whispered and stared, the gentlemen silently watched and circled about her, gradually closing the distance. From Simon’s vantage point some twenty paces away, the men appeared to be involved in a slow dance whose moves were carefully orchestrated to appear subtle. They were anything but.
Moorehead had yet to introduce his beautiful companion to anyone in the ballroom. They simply stood off to the side of the cavernous room, as if waiting for the hordes to come to them.
With a gesture that clearly spoke of familiarity and affection, her escort placed his hand upon the small of her back and leaned in to whisper in her ear. She evidently found his remark amusing, for she tossed her head back and laughed. Even across the crowded room he could hear the echo of her laughter, mellow and dark.
Simon watched as a silky lock of golden hair slowly, ever so slowly, wrestled its freedom from one of the diamond-tipped pins holding it in place atop her head. Casually, without the slightest interruption in her whispered conversation with her escort, she reach
ed one long, sinuous arm up, her hand caressing her neck and sweeping the wayward curl back into place. There was something inherently sensual in the movement. It struck him as terribly intimate, that casual, careless motion. Natural, he thought. There was something so natural, elemental about her.
“Who is she?” Simon asked again.
“Miss Beatrice Morgan,” the earl replied. “She has only just arrived from Paris. She is an amazing lady.”
Simon couldn’t agree more. She was tall and slim, almost boyishly so. But there was nothing boyish about the curve of her hip, clearly outlined by the vibrant red silk that caressed her form. Nor was there anything boyish in the way her small breasts rose and fell with her laughter.
As if on cue, the gentlemen who had been pirouetting about the lovely Miss Morgan began to approach her. In seconds there were half a dozen young men gathered about, begging Moorehead for introductions. Miss Morgan merely smiled as her gloved hand was lifted to one pair of lips after another. From where Simon stood watching, she appeared to say very little. Until one young rake, a friend of his cousin, Clyve was his name if he recalled correctly, said something which grabbed her attention. She held on to his hand when he would have relinquished hers and leaned forward to speak animatedly with him.
She raised her head then and looked about the room. He couldn’t be certain but she appeared to rise up onto her toes, the better to see around and above the heads of those about her. Simon smiled. There was something so childlike about her in that moment.
Miss Morgan stepped around Mr. Clyve with a few murmured words and walked forward until she was standing alone under the chandelier not ten feet away from where Simon stood. She was clearly looking for someone and obviously impatient to find her quarry. Her eyes swept past him, leaving him with a perfect view of her profile. Then she froze, slowly turned and looked right at him.
Simon was caught in her gaze. Her eyes were brown, he saw with some surprise. He would have guessed blue. But they were a deep, dark brown, like the richest chocolate. There was something familiar about those eyes, in the way they tilted upward ever so slightly, in the way the candlelight was reflected in them, in the sweeping arch of her brows.