by Lynne Barron
A tray of neatly stacked dishes and glassware sat on the floor just outside his chamber door and Henry knew a moment’s hope. Surely she hadn’t taken the time to clear away the fragments of their meal only to disappear into the night.
Empty.
His chamber was empty, the bed neatly made, his mother’s diary sitting on the table next to the miniature of Georgie’s mother, the woman who’d named her for her father before giving her to a sheep farmer and his wife.
“Mum, that is Millie Graham,” he murmured as he lifted the portrait and turned it over.
Connie, the sixth day of June, 1810.
Georgie was barely twenty years of age. The knowledge shook him, saddened and enraged him. She was little more than a girl. A lost girl searching for her mother. And he’d barely listened to her the night before, had ceased hearing her beyond the point at which she’d explained the part his mother had played in the sordid tale and he’d been forced to recognize the true reason she’d shared her body with him, and the reason he’d woken alone the next morning.
He’d been an ass, an arrogant lout puffed up on his own importance, humiliated to realize he’d come to believe the dribble the papers printed, the gossip spread about in parlors, the praise the ladies heaped on him. Wounded vanity and dented pride had caused him to lash out, when all Georgie had wanted from him, all she’d likely ever wanted from anyone, was assistance in locating a mother who, in all probability, had no desire to be found.
A rolling lash of thunder followed by a crackling boom tossed Henry from his morose musings and he spun on his heel, racing back the way he’d come.
Georgie was out there somewhere, alone and afraid, fighting wind and rain and who knew what manner of danger. Overflowing streams and rivers, landslides, bogs hidden beneath flattened grass, trees downed by lightning, the list of possible perils was endless.
Spotting his boots carefully lined up beneath his coat which hung from a peg in the hall, he shoved his bare feet into them, hopping across the floor, nearly falling on his backside in his haste to be gone, to saddle Devil’s Wind and ride off to save his woman.
“I named her the devil,” he muttered as he yanked open the door.
A blast of rain slammed into him, drenching him from head to toe, whipping past him on the wind, dousing the floor and everything within a ten foot radius. Battling the wind, he wrestled the door closed behind him and turned to face the storm.
A flash of bright green caught his eye.
Georgie stood on the lawn midway between the house and the stables, her face lifted to the rain, her hands held up as if she might catch individual drops with her fingertips.
As he watched, dumbstruck and disbelieving, she twirled in a circle, long strands of wet hair whipping in the wind, her feet pounding the earth, sending waves of muddy water splashing around her.
Dressed in one of his guernseys, the one Fanny had been forced to knit as punishment for some transgression or other, a pair of his old trousers, worn and faded and hanging from her narrow hips, and a pair of galoshes likely belonging to Beatrice, she spun around and around, in a shambling, disjointed, childish parody of the graceful dance she’d gifted him with only the night before and the one on that first day, previous to baring herself to him. Tit for tat.
“Georgie!”
Bending into the howling wind and driving rain, Henry trudged across the lawn, his boots sinking into the swirling water up to his ankles, the heavy mud beneath sucking at his heels, his eyes never leaving her lest she disappear as suddenly as she’d appeared.
“Georgie, love,” he hollered, his words lost in the roar of the rain and the squalls that raced over the land, one after another, buffeting him, nearly sending him to his knees.
Georgie continued spinning, her eyes finding him with the next rotation, a wide smile flashing with the one that followed, husky laughter carrying to him with the final spin. She came to a stop, her arms windmilling as she lost her balance.
Henry took the final steps that separated them at a run and scooped her up, wrapping his arms around her slender back and hauling her hard against his chest. He found her mouth, warm and welcoming, both temptation and solace.
His lips pressed to hers, he turned and started for the house.
“Why are you dancing about in the rain?” he asked between one wet kiss and the next.
“Because I can,” she replied, curling her arms around his neck and winding her legs around his hips. “Oh, no, I’ve lost a boot.”
“I’ve lost my mind,” he countered, dropping his hands to her bottom and pulling her tight against him.
“Truly.” She brushed her lips over his, trailed her tongue along the seam, dipped inside to tease him before lifting her head and blinking against the rain.
“Truly,” he agreed as they reached the relative shelter of the small portico above the front steps.
“Henry, my boot is gone.”
“Shh, we’ll find you another.”
He bent from the waist and Georgie wiggled around, obeying the silent request and turning the knob so he could shoulder the door open.
The wind caught it and sent it crashing against the wall.
“My milk!” Georgie squirmed from his hold and turned back the way they’d come.
“Whoa.” Wrapping his arms around her, he hauled her back.
“I left my milk,” she wailed. “And poor Adelaide worked so hard for me. It isn’t easy for a cow to give milk when she’s afraid.”
“I’ve a cow named Adelaide? And you milked her?”
“Henry, please.”
“Where did you leave it?” he asked, smiling against the crown of her head.
“Just there.” She pointed into the storm as if he could see beyond ten feet.
“Go inside and get dry,” Henry ordered, spinning her about and releasing her with a gentle push. “I’ll find Adelaide’s milk.”
“It’s my milk. She gave it to me,” she tossed back as she started down the hall.
“So says the woman who pilfered my mother’s diary.”
The moment the words left him, he groaned, wishing them unsaid. But if Georgie heard, she chose to ignore him, limping down the dark hall, one boot slapping against the wood floor, her stockinged foot silent.
Henry ran back out into the rain, stopping in the stables to discover Georgie had not only milked the cow, but mucked out her stall and those belonging to Devil’s Wind, Romeo the draft horse, and Mirabel the elegant mare. All of the animals had been brushed, fed and watered, leaving him only with the task of wandering from stall to stall to pet and coddle and soothe the beasts as best he could.
When he returned to the cottage some twenty minutes later, he was greeted with the smell of cooking bacon. A towel was draped over one of the empty pegs that ran the length of the hall, and a lone boot sat on a square of linen. Dropping the mate beside it, he trudged down the hall, lured by the promise of breakfast.
Henry pushed open the kitchen door and stopped in his tracks. Georgie stood at the stove wearing a white apron over a faded gray muslin dress too short to cover her ankles. One bare foot resting atop the other, her leg cocked out and swinging back and forth, she hummed a familiar lullaby, one he’d heard Olivia singing to Charlie and Fanny.
He deposited her milk just inside the room, leaned against the doorframe and watched the gentle sway of her hips as she systematically flipped thick slices of bacon in a heavy skillet. With her hair braided into two long plaits that hung nearly to her waist, she might have been a kitchen maid diligently cooking her master’s breakfast.
Or a young girl cooking breakfast for her family.
Georgie was barely twenty years of age and for the first time Henry saw the girl she was beneath the trappings of womanhood. He looked at her, truly looked at her and saw beyond her sultry voice and knowing eyes, beyond her irreverent wit and bawdy humor, beyond the temptation she presented, the pleasure she offered.
“Would you rather bathe or break your fast first
?” she asked without looking up from her task.
Dragging his eyes away from the complicated woman who was his new mistress, if he hadn’t made too great a muck of things, Henry discovered that the small worktable was set with plates, silver, two glasses waiting for milk, a covered platter and a stack of toasted bread dripping in butter.
And beyond the table, in front of the hearth where a low fire burned, sat an old copper tub filled with steaming water.
“I can keep either one warm for you,” she offered.
“I’d rather make love to you first,” Henry answered.
“I can’t keep both warm,” she chided, shooting him a smile over her shoulder.
“I’ll take a cold bath and eat a cold breakfast.”
Georgie shifted the skillet off the flame and slowly turned around. Henry’s gaze dropped to her breasts, her nipples clearly visible beneath the worn gray muslin, two perfect buds that hardened even as he watched.
“Bath and breakfast,” she said, sweeping a long-handled fork along the curve of her hip. “You needn’t worry, my lord Henry, I’ll keep myself nice and warm for you. Hot even.”
“You are a terrible tease,” he groused playfully, his hands falling to the placket of his wet trousers.
“I am,” she agreed. “Perhaps we ought to negotiate when I might tease and when I ought to restrain myself. So that we both know what is expected of us and there will be no unwelcome surprises along the way.”
Henry’s fingers stilled and he drew in a shaky breath.
“I can’t say that I’ve had much experience with apologies,” she continued, her voice low and soft, curling around him. “But I know enough to know one oughtn’t to apologize if one isn’t truly sorry. I wish I could say that I was truly sorry I snuck into your mother’s chamber and made off with her journal and the portrait of Connie. I’m not sorry, Henry. I would do it again if the need arose. I would, and have, done worse.”
Henry listened to her words, amazed by her eloquence, and oddly humbled by her honesty.
“I know I should be angry you stole—” he began, intending to give her the same honesty.
“Borrowed,” she interrupted. “I always intended to return both the journal and the portrait after I had them copied.”
“You copied Mother’s journal?”
“Henry, Lady Hastings’ words are the only real link I have to my mother. I cannot afford to forget a single name, a single place, a single encounter or conversation she wrote of in her journal. I realize it is a terrible, perhaps unforgivable, intrusion upon her private thoughts. I promise you I will not share them with anyone.”
Henry nodded in acceptance of her promise and her non-apology.
“Having said that, I am truly sorry I laughed at you when you were so obviously upset. I shall try to refrain from laughing at you in future.”
“No, Georgie,” Henry replied, appalled. “I was behaving like a madman. It’s no wonder you laughed at me.”
“That was your impression of a madman?” she asked incredulously. “Goodness, Henry you really ought to venture from polite society from time to time and see how the rest of us live. Why, that little show of pique was no more than I witnessed each and every day at the supper table. We called it conversation. Talking it out, as Himself would say.”
“Himself?”
Georgie paused a beat, her gaze skittering away. “Huh, I haven’t thought about that in so long. All those suppers with everyone talking at once. Funny what a person forgets, how some memories are overshadowed by those that come later.”
“Yes,” Henry agreed, unsettled by the simple truth of her words.
“Well now, this apologizing business isn’t so terribly difficult. To be sure, it helps that I rehearsed my words ahead of time.”
“That was your prepared speech from last night?”
“You don’t think I could come up with such pretty words offhand, do you?”
Henry shook his head with a chuckle.
“No, I’d have taken off on one tangent or other and wound up teasing you about stalking the handsome earl around Town to have my wicked way with him,” Georgie continued, waving her fork in the air. “Goodness, you must have thought I was the cheapest tart, following you to your mother’s funeral.”
“Never.”
“Had I known I would have gone along with the ruse, accidental though it was.”
“You would have lied to me?”
“I would have danced around the truth to spare your feelings, and likely amused myself to no end in doing so,” she replied, lips twitching.
“I am a vain, arrogant ass,” Henry offered.
“I like you just the same,” she said.
“That was the point at which you should have assured me I am no such thing,” he answered, advancing on her.
Georgie pointed her long fork at his crotch. “Strip down and get into the bath before it cools.”
Henry stepped back with his hands raised in surrender, meeting her eyes and holding them. “I do have some experience with apologies and I am truly sorry, sorry from the bottom of my heart. You asked for my help only to have me lash out at you, to turn my own failings into your sins.”
“Oh, Henry,” she breathed, lowering the fork to her side.
“I am sorry I yelled at you, that I named you Lucifer.”
“I’ve been named worse.”
“I’m sorry I implied you were not a lady of quality,” he continued, on a roll and wanting to get it all out. “You are the finest lady I know, of the highest possible quality.”
“Henry, you needn’t apologize for any of that,” Georgie said, her eyes shining. “Friends are like family. They argue, they rant and rave, and in my experience rarely, if ever, apologize for any of it. It never occurred to me we were doing anything different, not until you crowned me the twenty-seventh woman you’d used and tossed aside.”
“I didn’t mean it, love.”
“I know. I knew it only moments after you left me.”
“I could no more toss you aside than I could saw off my arm.”
Henry expected her to laugh. Instead she spun away to fiddle with her forgotten bacon.
“Georgie?” he came up behind her, laid his hands on her shoulders and bent to press a kiss to the back of her neck.
“You mustn’t fall under my spell,” she said, her voice soft and lyrical, almost as if she sang a fragment of a ballad, one Henry recognized in some distant part of his mind.
Henry smiled against her warm flesh, brushed another kiss over her downy soft hair. She’d cast a spell over him, of that there was no question. But he wasn’t so foolish as to fall in love with a woman who could never be more than a mistress.
No, he would assist her in finding her mother and in return she would favor him with her nubile body, her companionship, her laughter and warmth. And when she was either reunited with Connie of the golden locks and blue eyes, or accepting of the woman’s refusal to embrace her daughter, Georgie would return to her native land and be reclaimed by clan Buchanan, there to choose a husband from among the gentlemen farmers and libertines.
And Henry would go on as he had been, a wiser and better man for having known a saucy Scots lass possessed of extraordinary eyes, an interesting face, long elegant limbs, the prettiest nipples he’d ever seen, and a passion that was as natural and honest as the woman herself.
“No,” he agreed. “I mustn’t fall under your spell. But perhaps you might consider casting an enchantment over me? One that is of a temporary duration, say a few weeks, a month or two.”
“I know just such an enchantment,” she exclaimed, spinning around and gazing up at him.
Way up.
“Did the rain shrink you?” he asked.
“Bare feet.”
“You’re short.”
“I most certainly am not short. I am of perfectly normal height,” she replied indignantly.
Henry would have liked to argue the point but she was smiling at him when less than
an hour previously he’d been certain he’d chased her away, the kitchen was filled with the smells of a country breakfast, and a warm bath and a warmer woman awaited him.
“Bath, breakfast, lovemaking,” he pronounced.
Chapter Fifteen
Reclining in the copper tub, submerged to his chest, Henry watched Georgie tackle the chore of slowly pouring her fresh milk through cheesecloth into an enamel jug.
“What do you know of your mother?” he asked as she upended the pail to be certain she got every last drop.
“Precious little.” She glanced up at him with a wry smile.
“How can you be certain she is Connie of the golden locks and bright eyes?”
Georgie lowered the pail to the table and fiddled with the cheesecloth before wadding it into a ball and tossing it into the sink. “I’ve a number of clues and they all lead to the lady in the portrait.”
“What clues have you?”
“I’ve my father’s description of her as told to me by Lady Joy,” she answered, crossing the room to whisk up a low stool and set it beside the tub. She lowered herself to sit and reached for the floating bar of soap, her fingers swirling through the water, sending it gently rippling over his abdomen and his shaft submerged below the suds. “A fair-haired beauty with azure eyes.”
“That particular description fits half the women in England,” he replied, watching as she rubbed the soap between her hands, setting up a creamy lather and sending the scent of jasmine drifting through the kitchen.
“The timing is right.” She met his gaze, smiled almost shyly, and dropped the soap back into the water with a small splash.
He held his breath in anticipation of those long, elegant fingers washing his chest, his belly and below.
Masking his disappointment as best he could, he let out a small sigh when she reached for his hand resting on the rim of the tub.
“George Buchanan rode into London in May of ’10 in search of buyers for his wool.” Taking his hand between both of hers, she worked the lather through his fingers and over his palm, her touch slow and languid. “I was conceived shortly thereafter.”
