Unraveling the Earl

by Lynne Barron

  Engrossed in the long lines of her back and that one corkscrew curl teasing his senses with images of releasing her fiery hair from its pins, it took Henry a moment to catch up with their conversation.

  “Critchley invited you in for tea?” he asked. “When was this?”

  “Thursday past.”

  “You were here three days ago? For whatever reason?”

  “Why, the same reason I am here today, my lord. With more satisfying results I hope.” She peeked over her shoulder at him before turning toward the open parlor door. “May I?”

  “Yes, of course.” Henry followed her into the formal parlor, pleased to see that his servants had followed his hastily jotted missive instructing them to keep the trappings of mourning to the front hall.

  She stopped beneath a portrait of his father, her head tilted as she studied the pleasant visage above her. “You look rather a lot like him.”

  Happy to help a lady maneuver him into closer proximity, Henry stepped behind her, near enough that she might feel his heat while keeping a hair’s breadth of distance between them. Their bodies lined up exceedingly well, her long legs putting her bottom right before his aching cock. “Do you think so?”

  “But for the eyes. You’ve lovely eyes.”

  “Alas, I’ve always preferred lavender eyes,” he ducked beneath the brim of her bonnet to whisper the words in her ear and came away with a mouthful of ivy.

  Spluttering, he stepped back and pulled the offending foliage from between his lips. She spun to face him, her hand rising as if she might help him.

  “Real ivy? And buttercups?” He snatched a bloom from her offending head-ware and held it before her.

  With no further prompting she lifted her chin, gifting him with the long line of her throat. Her hand fell to his wrist, her fingers wrapping lightly around his bare skin and he could feel her heat through the thin lace glove. Henry trailed the flower over her chin and she sucked in a startled breath, her bottom lip trembling before she clamped it between her teeth. She met his eyes, hers almost comically round in her face, before dropping her gaze to his lips.

  “It would seem you like butter,” he murmured.

  “Only when it’s freshly churned.”

  “Christ, your voice is an invitation to sin.”

  “An invitation to sin,” she repeated as if she were savoring the words.

  “One I’ve no intention of refusing,” he assured her as he caressed her jaw with the yellow bud.

  She gave a muffled yelp and jumped back, her head bumping the frame of the portrait. Her hand on his wrist pulled him flush against her. With his knee wedged between her legs and his free arm bracketing her head he pinned her to the wall with no effort whatsoever.

  “You’re good,” he said, surprised he sounded relatively calm with his blood pounding through his veins and his cock nestled at the apex of her thighs.

  “I’m not good at all, my lord,” she argued breathlessly.

  “Don’t you think we might consider dispensing with the my lords?” he teased, tugging gently against the manacle of her fingers on his wrist. “All things considered.”

  “What would you have me call you?”

  She released his wrist and he brought his hand up to cradle her jaw. Her skin was as soft as he’d imagined. Softer. He brushed his thumb over her cheek, traced the sculpted bones.

  “Hastings. Or Henry if you prefer,” he offered. “And I shall call you…”

  She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flitting over his features. “I suppose you might call me Georgiana.”

  “Georgiana,” he repeated. “Your footman called you Georgie.”

  “Old habits die hard,” she replied, her eyes searching his. “Perhaps we might begin our tour.”

  Chapter Three

  Georgie peeked through her lashes at the devilishly handsome man standing beside her, silently acknowledging that she was going to have to provide him with a bit of sport.

  She just couldn’t see any way around it.

  She’d held him off for hours while they’d wandered around the cold, silent house. She’d deftly avoided all of his rather clumsy attempts to lure her into alcoves, coyly misunderstood each and every one of his ribald suggestions, and evaded both his roaming hands and his soft lips. Not to say there hadn’t been more than a handful of near misses. The earl had a way of sneaking under the brim of her bonnet to brush his mouth over the shell of her ear, the slope of her jaw and the sensitive skin of her nape.

  But their tour was coming to an end. Already the sun was dipping toward the horizon, painting the long portrait gallery in shades of pink.

  The only rooms she’d not yet seen were the countess’s apartments and those belonging to the earl. Georgie doubted she would see the former without first visiting the latter.

  She could hardly ask to see the countess’s private rooms today of all days.

  There was nothing for it but to slake the randy aristocrat’s lust. Surely when he’d fallen asleep after a bit of love play, as men were wont to do, she could sneak into Lady Hasting’s chambers and find what she’d come for.

  Her greatest desire, indeed.

  “It looks as if we’ve reached the end of our tour.” Hastings voice was low and soft, a rough whisper, promising all manner of wicked delights.

  “Not by a long shot,” she murmured as she turned away from the final portrait, a rather unremarkable rendering of the earl and his sister sitting on a bench beneath a tree improbably blooming with red, white and blue flowers.

  “I beg your pardon?” One tawny arched brow winged up in inquiry.

  Damn, if he wasn’t the most beautiful of men. His golden-blond curls were tousled from repeatedly running his hands through his hair. His lovely blue eyes, as bright as a cloudless summer sky, shone with anticipation. His bronze skin was flushed, twin spots of color on his chiseled cheekbones. Decadently plump lips were pulled into a pout above a square chin complete with a deep cleft.

  As she drifted her gaze over his too damn perfect visage it occurred to her that he’d enjoyed chasing her from one room to the next in this great mausoleum. It was little more than a game to him, seducing women, and one he was annoyingly confident of winning.

  She would have liked nothing better than to put the foolish man in his place and storm off in a cloud of righteous indignation.

  How wonderfully amusing it would be to watch the cocky arrogance drop away from his too-pretty face.

  Ah, well, perhaps some other time.

  “Oh, my lord, we can’t have toured all of the rooms in your lovely house,” Georgie cooed, batting her lashes and feeling seven kinds of foolish. “Surely I would remember if we’d seen your chambers.”

  “We’ve saved the best for last, my dove,” he answered smoothly, cocking out his arm.

  Georgie ignored the gesture, instead sweeping out of the gallery ahead of him. It was easy enough to guess where his chambers lay. There was only the one wing they’d not yet explored and it must hold both his ultimate destination and her own.

  The hallway in this part of the house was wide, four sets of tall double doors evenly placed along the dimly lit space.

  “Will you allow me to guess?” She tossed the words over her shoulder with a smile as she passed the first door on the right. That would be a sitting room, either his or his mother’s.

  Quickening her steps lest he put a halt to her progress, she reached the next door and pushed it open.

  “Not that one, dove.”

  Disregarding his words, she stepped over the threshold into a room that could only belong to the recently deceased countess. The walls were papered in the lady’s trademark ice blue, rich velvet damask above stark white wainscoting. A huge bed canopied in gray silk dominated the room. Delicate gilded furniture was clustered about in quaint little seating arrangements. The drapes were open, muted sunlight filtering across the blue and white floral Turkish carpet.

  It was a pretty room, but cold. Much as the woman had been.
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  Hastings came up behind her, his legs tangling in her skirts, his hard chest pressed to her back, the unmistakable ridge of his arousal nestled against her bottom. He reached around her to pull the door closed and as one they stepped back into the hall, their movements as well-choreographed as the steps of a dance.

  The door closed gently before her and she drew in a deep breath. She’d seen enough in those few seconds to find her way about the room later, even in the dark if it came to it. She’d also seen the row of miniatures lining the mantel, two more on a small delicately carved desk and still half a dozen others hanging on the walls.

  “Time to pay the piper,” she whispered beneath her breath.

  “Ah, my lovely Georgiana,” Hastings breathed against her neck just below her ear. “I’ve been dreaming of you playing my pipe.”

  Georgie rolled her eyes at his nonsense. Honestly, was this how the highborn went about seduction? Buttercups and bumbling caresses and bawdy talk?

  Where was the finesse? Where was the empty flattery, the practiced maneuvers, the whispers and yearning sighs?

  Where the devil was the lauded lover all of London gossiped about in ballrooms, in theater boxes and in church for goodness sake?

  Play his pipe, indeed.

  It wasn’t a bad idea. She needn’t share her body with the silly man. A quick tug and a swipe of her tongue and she’d bring him off. Perhaps a glass or seven of whiskey and a bite to eat afterward. Surely he would be snoring before it was full dark.

  “Sweet is her blessing and kind her caressing,” she sang softly, turning within the tight space between his big frame and the door. She met his heated gaze, allowed her head to fall back as she wilted against the door, the picture of a woman who’d ceased fighting a desire too great to withstand.

  “I’ll be damned if your voice isn’t the most sensual sound I’ve ever heard,” Hastings murmured silkily, bracketing his arms beside her head and allowing his weight to come to rest over her slowly, inch by inch, beginning with his long legs wedged between hers. His hard shaft prodded her lower belly. His chest was heavy and warm against her breasts.

  With a quick flick of his fingers he sent the bonnet falling from her head to bounce against her shoulder before falling to the floor.

  “Wait, my lord,” Georgie gasped as his head lowered and she realized he intended to kiss her right then and there.

  “You’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?” His lips found hers in a gentle press, a soft brush.

  Georgie opened her mouth to correct his ridiculous assumption that she’d in any way been waiting for the likes of him.

  His tongue coasted over her bottom lip, dipped inside to trail over the ridge of her teeth.

  He nibbled her lips, top and bottom, flicked his tongue into her mouth in search of hers.

  She watched as his lashes fluttered and his eyelids dropped, keeping her eyes wide open in an attempt to resist the lure of his kisses.

  She gave him her tongue, slid deep into his mouth, curling over and around his, stroking the soft underside and velvety top, taking control of the kiss, intentionally pushing it from soft and slow to wild and fast.

  She had no patience for slow.

  She had no preference for soft.

  With a growl, Hastings wrestled control back from her, taking her mouth in a primitive rhythm that set her blood heating. His tongue plunging deep, parrying with her own, circling, retreating, again and again, he kissed her until she had no choice but to close her eyes and give in to the desire that he’d unleashed with no more than his wicked mouth.

  His body was flush against hers, his cock pulsing just above her mound. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her breast, knew it matched her own.

  Winding her arms over his shoulders, sifting her fingers through the curls on the back of his head, she pulled him down as she lifted onto her toes. Their mouths melded tight, the kiss exploding into a mad coupling of lips, a dueling dance of tongues. Graceless and savage, they kissed until Georgie was dizzy with the need for air.

  “Damn,” Hastings growled as he broke the kiss to run his mouth, open and wet, over her jaw to her neck. He latched onto the tender flesh, teeth nipping, tongue laving.

  “My lord,” she panted as need coiled in her belly. “Wait…I need…I can’t…”

  “No more waiting.” His voice was low and guttural.

  Georgie released her grip on his head, wedged her hands between them and pushed with all her strength. He stumbled back, his heavy gaze raking over her heaving chest before coming to rest on her upturned face.

  “Sure and you’ll not be taking me in the hall where anyone might see.”

  “My chamber,” he panted, grabbing her hand and pulling her across the hall.

  The door to his bedchamber crashed against the wall as he tugged her over the threshold. She spun away from him, her eyes widening as she took in the room done up in decadent silk and plush velvet in shades of emerald and gold. The chamber might have been decorated for a sultan, so rich were the fabrics, so ornate was the dark wood furniture. An enormous bed on a raised dais was draped in tasseled silk.

  The door slammed shut and she turned around to find the sultan himself watching her from hooded eyes, his hands searching through the folds of his cravat, no doubt searching for the ends of the immaculately tied cloth.

  “You’ve likely never undressed yourself,” she muttered as she stalked toward him, impatiently tugging her gloves off and tossing them to the floor.

  She might have taken over the task and divested him of all of his clothing in less time than it took him to figure out the workings of his cravat. Instead she pushed his hands away and dragged his coat of fine summer wool from his shoulders and down his arms.

  Dropping to her knees before him, she fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, her fingers shaking as they skimmed over the turgid length beneath.

  “Jesus, are you going to…” His words ended in a long hiss when she dove her hand beneath the open fall, her fingers wrapping around his shaft just beneath the head.

  He was warm in her hand, wonderfully hard and terribly large.

  She released him long enough to pull his trousers past his hips and his cock sprang free. Nestled in a bed of dark curls, he was beautiful, long and thick with an engorged head already crested with a small pearl.

  With her hands on his muscular thighs, Georgie darted her tongue out to capture the milky drop, satisfied when another immediately took its place.

  The earl, London’s greatest gift to the ladies, was so close to spending she doubted she’d be on her knees more than a minute or two.

  Which suited her just fine. The position played havoc with her bad leg and with his amazing girth she’d likely end up with lockjaw if forced to work over him for long.

  Wrapping one hand around his thick shaft and cupping his bollocks with the other, Georgie circled the crest with her tongue, licking over and around the heavy bulb, playing with him.

  “Christ almighty,” he groaned and she raised her eyes to watch as he tossed his head back, his corded neck taut. His hands fisted at his sides and she suspected he longed to clasp her head and hold her while he thrust deep into her mouth.

  The time for play over, Georgie balanced his testicles on her palm, spread her fingers over and around, and began a steady massage of the tight balls. She picked up the same rhythm with her hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking him from base to head. With each downward stroke she took his cock deeper into her mouth, her lips gliding over the warm flesh, her tongue working over the pulsing vein on the sensitive underside.

  She bobbed over him, relaxing her jaw until she’d taken him nearly to the back of her throat, ignoring the unpleasant reflex that told her she’d not be able to take all of him.

  No matter, already he was panting above her, his hands coming to hold her head. Surprisingly he did not clasp her tight, nor did he thrust into her mouth. He simply threaded his fingers through her hair, sending pins s
cattering to the floor all around her. Cradling her head, his hips barely undulating, he allowed her to take him as she would.

  Oddly touched by his restraint, she doubled her efforts, picking up the speed of her strokes and pushing one finger deep between his legs. She gently caressed his perineum, forward and back.

  “Fuck me, that’s amazing,” he gasped.

  His cock was good and wet now, and she used the moisture to create a smooth glide with her hand and her mouth, increasing the suction as she increased the pressure on the sensitive skin between his balls and the small puckered hole beyond.

  He was close, she could hear it is the sawing of his breath around low moans, feel it in the pulse of his shaft in her mouth and the flex of his hands in her hair.

  With a final downward stroke that seated him deep in her mouth, she pushed her finger into the shadowy crevice between his arse cheeks until she found his anus. She tapped the small quivering hole once, twice.

  “Holy mother of God!” His roaring shout reverberated around the room, echoing off the ceiling and walls. He jism shot into her mouth, filling the space around his spasming cock until she felt a trail of warm liquid spilling from the corner of her lips.

  She swallowed and began a gentle suckling, slowly working over his shaft, while small bursts of liquid sporadically shot from the head. Curling her tongue around him, she gently milked the velvety smooth tip while her fingers trailed lightly over his barely diminishing length.

  When he’d gotten his breath somewhat under control and his hands relaxed their hold to drift over her listing coiffure, Georgie dropped back on her haunches and peeked up at him.

  The Earl of Hastings had the look of a well-pleased gentleman, all soft eyes and pouting lips, a deep flush on his cheeks.

  “That was amazing.” His voice was little more than a rough croak which tickled Georgie no end.

  She laughed, slowly shaking her head. She’d quite wiped the cocky arrogance from his handsome face. And put him in his place.