Unraveling the Earl (6 page)

“Henry,” he growled, the sound seemingly ripped from some
dark place and forced out between clenched teeth. Notching the head of his
shaft into her body, he drew a raspy breath before thrusting hard and deep.

Sighing as he filled her, stretching her to the edge of
pain, she curled her hands around his arms, needing something to cling to as
desire claimed her. Hastings withdrew only to drive into her again and again,
lifting her from the table with each powerful lunge. Wrapping her legs around
his back, she met each forceful thrust with a twist of her hips, taking him
deep into her body. Bliss erupted, her cunny pulsing and clenching around his
pistoning shaft, the rolling waves ricocheting off his hard length to batter
her walls, sending her soaring higher and higher.

A laughter-laced moan fell from her lips, a cry of joy
building in her throat.

Georgie captured his mouth, sealed her lips over his, and
poured the soft cry into his mouth, the sound broken and tremulous.

Hastings’ tongue drove into her mouth, his fingers tangled
in her hair as he ruthlessly thrust into her body. She sighed into his mouth,
the final tremors of her climax giving way to the beginnings of the next.

Arching her back and dragging her nipples across his chest,
Georgie writhed against him, chasing an orgasm that hovered just on the
horizon.

Hastings groaned, his lips vibrating against hers, the sound
desperate and broken.

Between one breath and the next, Georgie fell into an abyss
of searing light and rollicking waves too overpowering to contain.

Breaking the kiss, she buried her face in the juncture of
his neck and shoulder, her mouth pressed against his warm flesh to muffle the
laughter that fought for freedom as she convulsed around his foraging cock.

“Christ almighty,” he groaned. “I can only take so much.”

Lost in her own pleasure, Georgie barely registered his
words.

Hastings thrust deep, pounding into her spasming quim, his
raspy breath hot against her temple.

“You’ll make me come.”

Those words she heard.

“No,” she whispered, knowing she ought to stop him but too
overcome with white-hot pleasure to put much conviction in her denial.

“Georgiana!” His big frame shook, his hips bucking
violently, and his hard thighs trembling between her legs. She felt his jism
shoot into her body, pummeling her pulsating walls, sending her soaring once
more.

When her senses returned Hastings was lifting her from the
table, one strong arm curled beneath her knees, the other snug at her back.

“Sorry, dove,” he murmured at her temple as he carried her
to the big sultan’s bed covered with a plush velvet counterpane.

He pulled back the covers and dropped her in the center of
the soft mattress, falling in beside her and pulling her against him.

Curling her leg across his thighs and draping her arm over
his chest, she rested her cheek on his chest right above the rapid beat of his
heart.

“Just give me a minute,” he whispered drowsily. “I promise
I’ll take care of you.”

The next sound she heard was the Earl of Hastings, London’s
greatest gift to the ladies, snoring softly.

“Ahem, my lord.”

Henry pried his eyes open to find his valet standing at the
foot of the bed, his dark gaze fixed on some point above the canopy, his bald
head shining in the sunlight streaming through the open curtains. Across one
bent arm he carried his master’s robe from the night before, while in the hand
of the other he held a steaming cup of coffee.

“Davenport,” Henry muttered, his eyes drifting closed again.
“Can you not see that I have company?”

“Er, no, my lord,” the man replied. “That is you appear to
be quite alone.”

Henry lurched to sitting, his gaze sweeping over the rumpled
bed. “Where is she?”

“Who, my lord?”

“Georgiana.”

“The lady who…er…stayed to dine with you last evening?”

“Who else?”

“One never knows,” Davenport replied, his lips twitching.

Bounding from the bed, Henry whipped his robe from the man’s
extended arm and wrestled into it while moving across the room, dodging broken
crockery, a nearly intact pheasant swimming in a stew of potatoes and gravy,
and a knife that would surely have taken off two toes had he not hopped over it
at the last possible moment.

Throwing open the door to the bathing room, he searched the
dark interior.

“Bloody hell,” he bellowed, turning to face his shaking
valet.

“My lord, if I might say—”

“Unless you are going to tell me the lady has removed to a
guest chamber to bathe and dress, you’d be wise to keep silent.”

Davenport clamped his mouth closed.

Henry crossed his chamber and pulled the door open.
“Critchley! Damn it man, where the hell are you?”

“My lord, is something awry?” Critchley stood just outside
his chamber, a neatly stacked pile of clothing in his arms.

“Where is she?” he asked, eying the garments with relief.

“I believe Miss Buchanan departed during the night,” the
butler replied, his feelings on the matter hidden beneath a mask of obeisance
they both knew he could call forth and toss off at will.

Henry whipped off the uppermost garment, a yellow muslin
dress dotted with pink blooms and bright green vines, and shook it in
Critchley’s face. “Without her clothing?”

“It would appear so.” Damned if the man wasn’t smirking.

“And her servants?”

“She took them with her, of course.”

“Are you telling me Miss Buchanan wandered through the house
to the servants’ quarters and out into the night dressed in one of my shirts
and nothing else? And no one was the wiser? No one thought to stop her?”

“My apologies, my lord. I am afraid I am unable to comment
upon Miss Buchanan’s mode of dress as I did not see her. And I wasn’t aware we
were to watch the lady and put a halt to her departure,” the elderly man
replied with an air of one sorely tried by his betters.

“Damn it, man,” Henry muttered, vexed without understanding
the reason. How many times had he awaked to find a lady sprawled in the bed
beside him only to wonder how in blazes he was to be rid of her?

“Might I speak, my lord?”

Henry whipped around at his valet’s timid question to find
the man standing precisely where he’d left him, steaming cup still in hand.

“Are you intending to tell me something that might interest
me at this precise moment?” he demanded. “Or simply implore me to drink my
coffee and begin my morning toilette?”

“I had rather hoped I might do both, my lord.”

“Critchley, I will speak with you more on the matter after
I’ve had my coffee.” Henry snatched Georgiana’s clothing form his arms, pulling
the garments against his chest.

“I am all atwitter with anticipation.”

“Be gone,” Henry ordered, slamming the door in the servant’s
face.

“If I might,” Davenport said from behind him, prompting
Henry to turn to scowl at him.

His valet dropped his eyes to the clothing clutched against
his chest and with a muttered curse Henry tossed the lot of it on the bed.

“I had the opportunity to converse with the
lady’s…er…servants last evening over a game of cards,” Davenport said with
equal parts trepidation and determination.

“And?”

“And her footman, the fair-haired one—”

“Brain.”

“Yes, so I gathered,” Davenport agreed. “Brain made mention
of Miss Buchanan’s intention to return to London this morning.”

“Did he happen to mention where in the teeming city she
resides?” Henry asked, torn between frustration and hope.

“Bedford Square.” Davenport smiled, showing off his crooked
teeth.

“I’ll be damned,” he breathed, some foreign weight in his
chest easing. “Well done, Davenport. Remind me to raise your wages. Anything
else?”

“There was talk of the possibility of the lady’s having
finally reached the end of what I gather has been a long and rather tedious
journey. Mention was also made of a great mystery being solved and an eventual
return to her native soil.”

“She intends to return to Scotland?” Good God, he’d never
find her. There must be hundreds of Buchanans, thousands, tens of thousands,
scattered across the land.

“We leave for London within the hour.”

“If I might, my lord—”

“Oh for bloody sake, what now?”

“I beg your pardon, but is your family not due to arrive
shortly?”

“Hell.”

“Er…it might be wise to be here to greet them.”

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, seeing a swift journey back to Town
disappearing in a cloud of familial obligations, not the least of which was his
duty to mourn his mother in proper fashion, never mind that he felt not the least
bit mournful at her passing.

He knew he ought to be grief-stricken. Downhearted, at the
very least.

He could not drum up the required hypocrisy to evince even
that.

It hardly mattered as he doubted any member of his family,
save Aunt Lucinda, would truly be mourning the woman who had manipulated,
threatened and bullied them all for longer than he could remember.

Two hours later, Henry was proven right when his family
arrived in a caravan of carriages and not one eye was wet but for Aunt
Lucinda’s.

“Chased after the piece of muslin, did you?” Everett asked
later that evening when the ladies had left the gentlemen to their brandy and
cigars, or whiskey and cheroots as the case may be.

“Leave off harassing Hastings,” his cousin Alice, Lady
Piedmont ordered.

Alice had long ago adopted the habit of sneaking away from
the ladies to join her father, brothers, uncles, and cousins for a cheroot and
a brandy. Occasionally she even puffed on one of their cigars.

Tonight she’d stuck to her own slim, dark cheroots, a cloud
of blue smoke swirling around her dark head and drifting out the window at her
back.

“And lower your voice,” Easton added with a quick glance at
the Earl of Somerton who sat at the far end of the long table engrossed in
conversation with Lord Piedmont and Lord Baldwin, Everett’s father. Between the
older set and the younger grouped around Henry at the head of the table sat
various members of the Somerton, Baldwin, Morrissey, White, Singleton, Crofton
and Statham families. All of whom had been unlucky enough to have been chosen
to represent their respective families at the funeral of the Countess of
Hastings.

“You’ll have the wrath of Uncle Robert coming down on
Hastings’ head,” Easton continued. “We’ll likely all be called on the carpet in
the backlash.”

“A fate to be avoided like the plague, to hear my lovely
wife tell it,” Jack Bentley agreed.

“Do you intend to drag Olivia and the children north to
Sedgefield on the morrow?” Alice asked. “Or will you allow your wife to linger
in Town through the end of the season?”

“As if I call the shots,” Bentley replied with a chuckle.

“My sister runs circles around the man,” Henry agreed.

“And he quite enjoys it,” Alice replied before piercing
Easton with her gray gaze. “And you? I suppose you’ll be spiriting Beatrice and
the children away to Idyllwild soon.”

“Not this year,” he answered with a grin.

“Good God, never say your wife in increasing yet again,”
Alice exclaimed. “Are two boys not enough for you?”

“Hush, Alice,” Bentley muttered and Henry wondered if Olivia
was still laboring under the delusion that her barren state bothered her
husband, never mind that every member of their family knew the man loved her to
distraction and was perfectly content with their combined three children.

“More likely he cannot get enough of his wife,” Everett
said, adroitly changing the topic. Unfortunately the man was like a terrier
with a rat when after a bit of juicy gossip. “Speaking of getting enough of the
ladies, have you run through all of the available ladies of the beautiful,
buxom variety and moved on to carrot-topped twigs?”

Henry fought down an unexpected surge of anger. “I don’t
know what you mean.”

“Hah, as if it were a coincidence that your carriage was
seen on the road north with Miss Buchanan’s in hot pursuit,” his cousin replied
with unmistakable glee, his green eyes shining.

“Miss Georgiana Buchanan?” Alice tossed her cheroot out the
open window and rose to glide toward the empty seat beside Easton. “Surely you
are not dallying with the lady, Hastings. She is hardly your sort.”

“Why is it everyone seems to think I have a sort?”

“Likely because you do,” Alice answered. “Big-breasted,
plump-hipped, beautiful women with light heels, fluff for brains, and loose
morals.”

“Alice, commenting on loose morals? Isn’t that a bit like
the pot calling the kettle black?” Everett teased.

“I am selective in whom I take to my bed,” Alice replied
airily, not the least deterred by the fact that her husband sat some thirty
feet away. With her father.

“Are you saying that the ladies your cousin beds are not
selective?” Bentley asked with a laugh. “I think I would take offense were I
you, Hastings.”

“I am only saying that Hastings has a certain reputation,”
she answered. “One that a number of ladies of my acquaintance swear is well-earned,
though it boggles the mind. He might have his pick of the merry widows,
dissatisfied wives, demimonde belles and courtesans. There is no reason for him
to venture beyond his realm of comfort to choose anything less than the most
beautiful women to share his bed.”

“And Miss Buchanan is most definitely not beautiful,”
Everett finished in agreement.

“I am not saying that at all,” Alice purred, clearly winding
up to whatever point she was making. “In fact, I think she is quite
extraordinary. If a man were discerning enough to put aside traditional ideas
of beauty and charm, he just might find himself in the presence of that rarest
of creatures, a true original. Of course, he must be willing to look beyond her
rather awkward social graces and the barbarian blood that runs in her veins.”

“Barbarian?” Everett repeated, no doubt smelling a scandal.
“Surely she is not one of
those
Buchanans?”

“Who besides one of those Buchanans would simply appear in
Town mid-season and begin attending every event to which she could gain
entrance?” Alice replied in her customarily disdainful manner. “She has been
present at nearly every wedding, christening and funeral in Mayfair this past
year. And all without an invitation.”

“She sneaks into weddings?” Everett asked around a laugh.
“And funerals?”

“One might think she’d purchased the seventh pew on the
right of St. George’s Church so often can she be found there,” Alice continued.
“It’s gotten so that her presence is expected, even anticipated. Why, just last
week I heard Miss Julia Fairchild, now Mrs. Osborne, lamenting the lady’s
absence at her own wedding. The silly girl was in a veritable tizzy over the
manner in which Miss Buchanan had snubbed her, and in so public a fashion.”

“You’re having us on,” Everett accused.

“I most certainly am not,” Alice insisted. “The lady is seen
everywhere. Why, she even attended my annual ball for the Widows and Orphans
Fund last year.”

“She was there?” Henry asked in surprise. “How is it I did
not see her?”

“Wasn’t that the night you took Lady Wimple up to the
tower?” Everett asked. “And Mrs. Morris home with you later?”

“The tower?” Alice and Bentley repeated in unison before
dissolving into laughter at some shared joke to which the rest of them were not
privy.

Henry ducked his head to hide the heat racing over his
cheeks. By God, did every member of his family know about each and every one of
his dalliances?

As his cousins and his brother-by-marriage descended into a
ribald conversation of the many nooks and crannies to be found at Somerton
House, Henry considered the possibility that it was time he ceased hopping from
one bed to the next and settled on one woman. Perhaps he ought to choose a wife
and get on with producing the heir.

Dipping one finger beneath his cravat he tugged at the
starched fabric that suddenly felt like a noose around his neck. Maybe he
needn’t take a wife just yet, but might instead choose a new mistress from the
bevy of ladies willing to share their beds without benefit of marriage. A true
mistress this time, one attached to him by affection as well as his deep
pockets and famous staying power.

Inwardly cringing, he admitted that his reputed stamina,
along with his ego, had taken a mighty blow the night before.

Twice he’d rogered the lithesome Georgiana and twice he’d
lost his vaunted control, rutting over her like a beast before coming
gloriously hard while leaving the lady sighing and laughing and moaning as she
chased her own release. And after she’d so generously taken him into her mouth.

No wonder he’d woken this morning to find that she’d flown
the coop in the dead of night.

Henry would be damned if he would allow Georgiana to
disappear from his life before he’d proven to her, and himself, that he was a
man able to satisfy his woman. Repeatedly.