Unraveling the Earl (12 page)

“Four lovers before you.”

“Were you fond of them all?” Henry asked, blatantly fishing.

“I cared for them all in one fashion or another,” she
replied drowsily. “One I even fancied myself in love with for a time.”

“You could not marry him either?”

“Perhaps. Grasper did ask.”

“Grasper?”

“He was forever grasping and climbing, determined to rise
above his station. Grasper had his sights set higher than a country lass from
Loch Canon without the wherewithal to open the right doors for him.”

“So named because he is decidedly so,” he murmured. “You
refused him?”

“What woman wishes to tie herself to a man who would forever
resent her for stopping his rise and spoiling his future?”

Pondering this new piece to the puzzle that was Georgiana
Buchanan, he waited to see if she would offer up further sleepy confessions.
When she only cuddled against him with a soft snuffle, he gave in to his
curiosity.

“Who were the others?”

“Benedict,” she replied on a sigh.

“So named because?”

Georgiana laughed, the sound soft and sleepy. “He needed no
renaming as he was a blessing when I felt cursed.”

“But again, you did not marry him.” Henry sifted his fingers
through her hair, gently releasing a hairpin tangled in her curls.

“He possessed not a single notion of fidelity. To be sure,
he was content to share and share alike, never mind that some things ought not
to be shared with all and sundry.” Georgiana yawned, her breath warm on his
neck. “Do you know, I just might sleep for a bit.”

Smiling at the surprise her heard in her voice, he continued
to search out the pins tangled in her curls. “Who was the fourth man?”

“Mmm, that feels wonderful,” she whispered around a yawn. “I
do not wish to speak of him, to give him a name is to give him life and he is
dead to me.”

Not caring for the way in which her voice broke over the
last three words, Henry pulled her tight against him. Unwinding the long coil
of her hair, he found three more pins and tossed the lot of them to the floor.

“Georgiana,” he breathed, lifting her hair and allowing it
to fall through his fingers to spread out like a fiery cloud around her
shoulders and down her back.

“You are the fifth,” she mumbled, burrowing against him.
“And I am terribly…”

“Terribly?” he repeated when her words ended on a soft
wheeze of breath.

But his lover only let out a small snort and began to snore
softly, then louder, and louder still, until her breathing sounded like a small
orchestra.

It might have been the sweet aroma of a burning cheroot that
woke Henry in the middle of the night.

More likely, it was the fine mist that swirled about the
room, cooling his skin.

Rolling to his back, he lifted heavy lids and spied the
source of both.

Candlelight shone from one corner of the chamber, washing
over Georgiana where she sat on the sill of the open window, his dressing gown
tied lightly around her waist, covering her breasts before falling open to
reveal long legs bent at the knees, crossed feet resting on the wooden frame.
Tiny drops of water, no more substantial than mist, floated on the breeze,
glowing like so many jewels in the golden light.

He watched her lift the thin black cheroot to her lips, the
end burning red as she puffed daintily before turning to blow the smoke out into
the night.

“It’s raining,” he whispered, hoping not to startle her.

“Barely spitting,” she replied, staring out at the night.
“Do you remember the names of the other twenty-six women you’ve taken to your
bed?”

As non sequiturs went, it was a doozy.

“In truth, I took very few of them to
my
bed,” he
answered, hoping to buy a bit of time.

Georgiana tossed the cheroot out the window and spun about,
scooting back until her bottom was perched on the narrow sill, feet dangling
off the floor.

“Come away from the window, love.”

“I won’t fall.”

“All the same, I’d feel better if you had both feet firmly
planted.”

In response she eased forward and stretched her legs out
before her, careful to whisk the dark silk down to her ankles and he smiled at
the modest gesture from a woman who’d thus far exhibited little in the way of
modesty.

“Better?” she drawled.

Henry sat up and stretched his arms over his head, gratified
when her gaze dropped to sweep over his chest, before lifting it to his once
more.

“My name is not Georgiana.”

Another doozy.

“No? I clearly remember you giving your name as Georgiana.”

“We were not lovers then,” she replied with a shrug of one
shoulder, her borrowed robe slipping down her arm with the movement. “I should
like you to know my true name, as I hope you will remember me.”

“You are hardly a woman I would forget.” Throwing off the
rumpled bed linens, Henry swung his legs over the side.

“Twenty-seven is an awfully large number of women to
remember. And who knows, you may double that number in the coming years, triple
it before you die.” She spread her arms wide, and wider still as she spoke,
leaning back with the motion.

“Come away from the bloody window.” Rising he made his way
toward her, intent upon pulling her from harm.

With a huff that might have been laughter or annoyance, she
slid off the sill and yanked the window closed before dropping into the chair
beside it. Tugging his dressing gown over her legs, she looked up at him, her
lips slowly lifting, one side then the other, into a bright smile.

Henry found his trousers draped over one corner of the chest
of drawers and pulled them on before dropping to his haunches before her. He
sifted his fingers through her curls, found them damp. “There isn’t a chance in
the world I will ever forget you.”

“Georgie.”

“Are you telling me your name is Georgie?”

“Truly my name is George but no one ever calls me such
except Killjoy who only does so to bedevil me.”

“Your parents named you George?”

“My mother named me after my father, who had no say in the
matter as he did not know of my existence until after the fact,” she replied.

“Ah,” he breathed as the import of her words hit him. He
should not have been surprised to learn she was illegitimate, not with what
he’d been told of her relations, not after she’d shoved him to his ass to
prevent his spilling his seed within her womb.

“Are you hungry, my lord Henry?”

Relieved by the change in topic, he lifted her to her feet
and took her place, pulling her into his lap. “Famished.”

“Your larder is well stocked with fresh bread and cheese.
And I warmed a few slices of Mrs. Porter’s corned beef for you.” Georgie curled
one arm around his neck and reached for a piece of bread liberally spread with
butter and missing only one bite.

“You aren’t having any?”

“Oh, I don’t eat beef.”

“Not eat beef? I’ve never heard of anyone not enjoying a
good roast with potatoes.”

“I don’t eat anything with a face,” she answered. “Well,
occasionally I’ll have a bite or two of lobster. But only if the heads have
already been severed so that I might pretend they never possessed a face.”

“You don’t eat beef or pork or even fish?” he asked.

“Nor chicken or pheasant. And I certainly do not eat lamb or
mutton.”

“Why?”

“I was raised on a sheep farm,” she replied, frowning so
that a tiny line formed between her arched brows, like an arrow drawing his eye
to her long, crooked nose. “I was forever making pets of the sheep and throwing
temper fits when they were slaughtered.”

“You drink milk and eat butter, in rather large quantities,”
he said with a nod to the liberally buttered bread she waved about as she
spoke.

“Milking a cow doesn’t kill her,” she tossed back with a
grin. “I imagine she likes a set of hands wrapped around her teats, tugging in
a gently rolling fashion.”

“And you? Do you like a set of hands wrapped around your
breasts, tugging on your nipples in a gently rolling fashion?” he asked,
remembering the way she’d climaxed long and hard as he’d clamped lips and teeth
around her nipple.

“Don’t start your nonsense until we’ve fortified ourselves,
lest we wither away to nothing and the Porters find us collapsed on the floor
when they return,” she warned.

“You’ve met the Porters.” Of course she had. “You knew the
key was under the pot with the pansies.”

“Geraniums. Poor wilted flowers. We must be sure to move
them into the rain when it comes.” She brought the bread to his lips and waited
until he’d made it two bites, one considerably bigger than the other.

“You knew there was a lantern and tinderbox on the table in
the parlor,” he said all the while knowing he should not be speaking with his
mouth full. Nurse Baxter had pounded that tidbit into his head with relentless
precision.

“Isn’t there usually a lantern and tinderbox just inside the
parlor of any well-run house? Here have a sip of this fruity wine I found in
the cellar. I think it’s elderberry.”

“Georgie.” Taking the glass from her, he took a sip. It was
too fruity and sweet by half.

“Names are a funny business, don’t you find?” she asked.
“I’ve no sooner asked you to call me Georgie then you do. Now do you
understand?”

“Understand what?” He wasn’t certain whether he ought to be
understanding how she came to know where the lantern and tinderbox were kept or
why names were a funny business.

“I am not Georgiana any more than you are Lord Hasty.”

“I was never Lord Hasty. Apart from those few times with you
and only then because…er…”

“We’d gotten the order wrong,” she supplied when he
faltered. “But I didn’t name you such for that particular reason. How could I?
I didn’t know you at all, except to know that you were too handsome for your
own good, had a fine set of shoulders, and delighted the ladies with your
bedroom antics. To be sure, none of the ladies made mention of what might occur
should you lose your place.”

She certainly had a way with words. Lose his place, indeed.

“No, I named you Lord Hasty because of the speed with which
with you hop from bed to bed.” She bit into the buttered bread, chewing slowly
and carefully before swallowing and trading bread for wine.

Henry considered whether he ought to feel a bit put out with
her and decided she might have come up with far worse monikers to loop around
his neck.

“But you are no longer Lord Hasty to me,” she continued
swiping a napkin up to dab at her lips. “Lovely wine.”

“How much have you had of the lovely wine?” Enough to make
her giddy, he suspected. And extremely chatty.

“Only the one glass,” she replied. “You’ve bedded me four
times now. On two separate occasions. With weeks between.”

“So I have,” he agreed, taking the entire remaining piece of
bread into his mouth, suspecting she had more to say on the matter and would
give him plenty of time to eat like a gentleman.

“And while I suspect you did so to prove something to one or
the other of us, if not both, I rather think you might like to keep me for a
bit.”

Henry swallowed.

“Am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong.” As he spoke the words he knew them to
be true, all of them. He’d wanted to prove to them both that he hadn’t lost his
touch with the ladies. He’d thought to show her a thing or two, or three,
instead she’d shown him just how little he knew about his own desires. “I’ve no
intention of giving you up.”

“Wonderful.” Leaning forward she pressed a quick kiss to his
lips. “Truly, I am beyond pleased to have found you in the village today. The
timing could not have been better had I planned it.”

“Perfect timing,” he agreed. “I have been thinking it is
high time I found a new mistress.”

“Mistress?” Georgie reared back, nearly tumbling from his
lap before settling down again. “Good gracious, my lord Henry, I hadn’t thought
to be your mistress.”

“Did you not just say you hoped I might keep you for a bit?”

“A day or two,” she argued with a pretty pout. “Three if the
weather permits.”

“What has the weather to do with anything?” Henry demanded
as thunder rumbled in the distance. “Never mind. Are you saying you don’t want
to be my mistress?”

“To be sure, I would make a terrible mistress.”

“Nonsense. You would be the perfect mistress.”

“I don’t know the first thing about being a man’s mistress,”
she replied doubtfully. “How is it done?”

Henry smiled, confident he could bring her around to his way
of thinking. “It’s quite simple really. First we come to terms.”

“Terms?”

“Financial terms. What sort of allowance you expect for
clothing and other necessities, how much pin money to want,” he explained.

“No, not what I should expect but rather what you would
expect,” she replied. “What exactly is required of the perfect mistress?”

Henry’s first thought was to assure Georgie that he would
require very little of her beyond that she continue to be her irreverent, bawdy
self.

His second thought, one that was nearly as wicked as it was
brilliant, was that this was a golden opportunity, one he would be a fool to
let pass him by.

“My requirements are not the least complicated.” Henry
lifted her chin and captured her gaze, nearly losing his train of thought as he
looked into enormous eyes alight with curiosity. “You’ve only to have a care
for my comfort and well-being, to put my wants and needs above all else.”

“Is that all?” she asked and Henry could not decide whether
the words were laced with humor or surprise. “How would I know your wants and
needs? Would you provide me a list?”

“If you like,” he agreed, said list already forming in his
mind. “First you must see to my comfort, stock your larder with my favorite
foods and your sideboard with the finest brandy.”

“That seems simple enough,” she said.

“Perfectly simple,” he agreed.

“What else?”

“You must remain faithful to me for the duration of our
arrangement.”

She reached for her abandoned wine glass, her borrowed robe
gaping open to show one small breast topped with a luscious pink nipple. “And
would you remain faithful to me? I cannot imagine you would, what with all the
ladies clamoring for your attentions, and you unable to refuse them. But you
mustn’t bring another lady to my bed.”

“I would do my best,” he began before her last statement
fully registered and heat raced up his neck. “Bring another lady…why would I…I
would not invite another woman into your bed.”

“Some men like a ménage à trois,” she replied with a shrug
before sipping from her glass and handing it off to him. “Or an orgy, even. But
I would rather not welcome a woman’s attentions.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he agreed. “You are not a
sapphist.”

“A sapphist?” she repeated. “Funny, I haven’t heard that
term before, but how apt as Sappho was a lady from Lesbos, quite literally.”

“Who is Sappho?”

“She was a Greek poet and a lady rumored to love both men
and women. Not that there is anything wrong with that, mind you.”

“There isn’t?”

“Quirks and predilections,” she said with a wink.

“Yes, right,” he replied, confused by the strange turn of
the conversation.

“What other requirements have you?” she prompted. “Beyond
your favorite foods, fine brandy and fidelity?”

“I expect you to make yourself available to me whenever I so
choose,” he said. “Barring those days each month when you are inconvenienced.”

“Oh, I am not terribly inconvenienced when Aunt Flo pays me
a visit.”

“No, I am not concerned with your relations paying calls
upon you. But rather your womanly time.”

Georgie giggled.

“Oh, right, yes, I see, your Aunt Flow,” he stammering
before plowing ahead, wanting to end this topic and move on to one which did
not make him feel as if he were sinking into a marshy bog. “I meant
inconvenienced in terms of your being unable to perform your duties.”

“Huh,” she replied with a frown. “It never occurred to me.”

“What never occurred to you?”

“Are all men so squeamish?”

“I don’t know that it’s a matter of squeamish so much as basic
courtesy.”

“Ah, fastidiousness.”

“The point is not that we cannot make love during your
menses, but rather that you do not refuse me,” he grumbled.