by Lynne Barron
All around, on nearly every surface, strewn across chairs, tables, chests and a long settee, were dresses and shoes, corsets and stockings, hats and fans. Jewels dripped from a vanity table crowded with bottles and jars of perfume and lotion, ribbons and gem-studded hairpins, pearl and ivory backed brushes and combs.
One lone stocking, gossamer thin and embroidered with butterflies, hung from the chandelier, languidly blowing in the breeze.
“Did a milliner’s shop explode in your bedchamber?” He ambled across the room to the vanity table.
“Of course not,” she huffed out, caught between indignation and amusement.
“You’ve more lotions and potions than an apothecary’s shop,” he continued, lifting one bottle to sniff at the stopper before replacing it on the crowded table and carefully lining the lot of them up in order of height. “No Dalrymple’s cream, I see.”
“I don’t have freckles,” she replied, giving in to amusement.
“Neither does Miss Jillian Johnston,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “Leastwise none that I noticed while leading her through a reel.”
“You danced with Silly at the assembly?”
“Someone had to,” he replied. “And the task fell to me, as all of the other gentlemen seemed put off by her unfortunate choice of gown.”
“They were put off by her gown?”
“Celery green it was, the exact shade of her complexion.”
“And Mr. Martin, how many sets did he dance with Miss Eleanor Brookes?” Georgie demanded as he moved on to inspect a petticoat so stiff with starch it stood on its own in the corner.
“You turned that poor girl’s skin green solely to shift the man’s gaze toward your friend,” he accused with a chuckle.
“How many sets?”
“Three,” he admitted, turning to cross to a mountain of silk and muslin strewn across the settee. “You need a lady’s maid.”
“Tag has settled into the role.” Georgie watched him lift the top garment, a simple walking dress of pale green, celery one might call it.
“You wouldn’t know it by this room.”
“I like to see my ensembles spread out so that I can decide which to wear,” Georgie replied a bit defensively as he made his way to her desk.
“All of them?” He pawed through a pile of corsets, each one frillier than the last.
“Of course not. These are only those garments I considered and discarded.”
“In the last year?” Henry lifted a yellow bonnet, turned it this way and that before tossing it back onto a listing mound of shifts, sending one lacy pink garment tumbling to the floor.
“Today.”
“You considered all of these garments today?”
“Well, first I had to decide what to wear to a morning wedding, muslin or silk, boots or slippers. Morning weddings are tricky as a lady must never be under-dressed, but a bride might take offense should one of her guests outshine her. And then I had to change gowns for the park, of course.”
“Of course,” Henry wandered over to the drying rack before the window, ran his hand over a pair of matching monogrammed stockings, setting her nerves to jangling.
There was something terribly intimate in the way he made himself at home in her bedchamber, as if he somehow belonged there, surrounded by her beribboned corsets and silk stockings.
“I considered a pretty dress of the palest blue but as it requires three petticoats, two if they’re starched properly, and more than a single petticoat makes traversing the park akin to hiking up a mountain.” Georgie was rambling, she knew it but could not seem to stop. “Then I thought to wear a simple yellow gown. But the lace that borders the neckline becomes frightfully itchy in the heat. And, too, I somehow sat upon the matching bonnet and crushed the crown.”
“So you opted for a white dress trimmed with red ribbon and a bonnet festooned with cherries.” Henry left off caressing her hose to join her at the foot of the bed.
“I didn’t think you’d seen me.”
“You were saved from discovery only by Fanny’s shenanigans.” He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. “Which you instigated, I believe.”
“I might have told her about the time I rolled a barrel down a hill, scaring the dickens out of Chester McDougal,” Georgie admitted.
“And did you pick your battle well?” His breath fanned over the back of her hand. “Were you victorious and your denial plausible?”
“I was nowhere near that hill when Chester was knocked over like a bowling pin.” Georgie raised her free hand and sifted it through his curls. “I was in the stables tending a colicky foal.”
“What an accomplished little liar you are,” Henry said, turning her hand over to place a kiss on her wrist.
“You ought not to believe a word I say,” she agreed, unnerved by the tender gesture in light of her revelations in the carriage. By all rights the man should be running for the hills, not gifting her with chaste kisses and doe eyes.
“I’ll keep that in mind in the future.”
“We have no future,” she argued, ignoring the shaft of pain that sliced through her chest.
“Liar,” he teased with a grin.
“It is time you left, Lord Hastings,” she said, deciding one more night in his arms would likely be one too many.
“I don’t think so.”
“I am done playing with you.”
“Who will cut you free of your gown?”
“I’ve a bevy of handsome footman at my disposal.”
Georgie recognized her error immediately.
Far sooner than the time it took for the amusement to fall from Henry’s face, in fact. “I will be damned if another man will see you in your unmentionables.”
Why err once, when twice was vastly more amusing? “Then it’s a good thing I’m not wearing any.”
Henry dropped his gaze to her breasts and lower, to sweep over her belly and down her legs. “You are naked beneath that gown?”
“You’ll never know,” she taunted, fully aware that she was baiting the beast.
“You don’t think so?” he asked, his voice pitched wickedly low.
“I know so.” Georgie lifted her chin, daring him to prove her wrong.
Without a word, the earl turned on his heel and strode to the vanity to rifle through the tangle of ribbons, choosing a long length of lavender satin and stuffing it into his pocket.
“What are you about, my lord?” she purred as he stalked her, the strip of satin dangling along his thigh.
“Henry,” he corrected, reaching for her hands and bringing them up over her head to press against the crystal ball that served as a finial at the top of the carved bedpost at her back.
“I thought you meant to free me from my gown,” she drawled, heat shivering down her spine to take up residence between her legs.
“I offered and you refused,” he replied, looking into her eyes. “Now we’ll do things my way.”
Holding both of her wrists in one hand he reached into his pocket. The lavender ribbon flicked through the air like a whip.
“You wouldn’t,” Georgie protested weakly, not believing for a moment that he actually meant to bind her.
Henry ignored her, bringing the ribbon up and looping it around her wrists, one at a time.
“I’ll allow you to undress me,” she said on a huff of laughter.
Intent upon his task, he did not reply to what she considered to be a generous offer.
“You can cut off my dress, rip it to shreds if you like, and have your way with me.” More generous still.
The ribbon pulled tight and Georgie craned her head back to watch, dumfounded, as Henry wrapped the ends around the top of the bedpost, in the deep groove below the crystal ball.
He slid one finger between the ribbon and her bound wrists to check the fit before stepping back.
Georgie pulled against her bonds, found that he’d tied her wrists independent of one another and the bedpost, using some sort of slip knot that all
owed her a limited range of motion while effectively keeping her hands above her head. Nifty trick that.
“Now then.”
At his words, the first he’d spoken since he started down this twisted path, Georgie gave up on freeing her hands, wrapped them over and around the finial, and looked to Henry.
“Turn around,” he ordered as he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a chair, right on top of the scarlet gown she’d contemplated wearing to dinner. A gown with a perfectly nice row of jet buttons running down the back.
“You’ve had your fun, now untie me.”
“My fun has only just begun,” he answered as he went to work on the gold buttons of his waistcoat. “Turn around.”
“I want to watch you undress,” she argued.
“My way, Georgie.” He shrugged out of his waistcoat and allowed it to fall to the floor. “Turn around. I won’t tell you again.”
Georgie was tempted to discover what he might do should she continue to defy him, but decided the handsome earl would only regret whatever punishment she dared him to dish out.
Georgie released the crystal ball and turned around, her bonds slipping and sliding in perfect accompaniment.
She could hear Henry moving around behind her but, short of contorting her body into all sorts of undignified twists and bows, she had no way to see what he was about.
Closing her eyes and resting her forehead on the bedpost, she listened to his movements. A swish of fabric and she pictured him pulling his shirt over his head. A squeak of springs and she envisioned him sitting on a chair, likely crushing whichever garments were tossed over it, to pull off his boots. Silence and she wondered if he stood behind her, imagined she felt his gaze caressing her shoulders.
“You are a puzzle.”
Georgie started when Henry whispered the words at her nape.
“One I doubt very much I will ever solve,” he continued. “I adore that about you.”
“You shouldn’t,” she answered as he pressed his lips to her neck just below her ear.
“You are forever telling me what I should not, must not, ought not do.” He nipped her earlobe. “Perhaps one day you will tell me what I should be doing.”
“Running as fast and far as you can.” As the words left her mouth, Georgie decided it was the last warning she would give him. If he chose to ignore it, he deserved whatever he got.
“Too late, love.” His lips left her, along with his warmth at her back.
She heard a soft snip, then another and another, as Henry plied Tag’s tiny scissors down the seam that ran from just between her shoulder blades to the swell of her bottom.
Cool air rushed over her back and she shivered.
Warm lips traced a path down her spine and she sighed.
Hard hands gripped her hips, holding her firmly as a wet tongue trailed over each pointy bone on the way back up and she swayed.
Snip. Snip.
Georgie’s gown fell to the floor, dragged down by the weight of a hundred or more jewels and the rendering of the scraps of lace that passed for sleeves.
Henry wrapped his arms around her, one hand riding low on her belly while the other came up to cup her breast. He bent his knees, his mouth trailing down her neck and the hard ridge of his cock beneath soft wool riding the crease of her bottom.
“Do you feel how I desire you?” He lifted her breast, caught her nipple between thumb and finger.
“Yes,” she breathed, arching into his touch.
“Only you.” He dragged his shaft up along the seam of her derriere and plucked at her pebbled nipple.
Henry slowly slid his hand down her belly, his fingers sifting through the curls before dipping down to find the tight bud already pulsing with anticipation. He teased her, circling over and around, and Georgie canted her hips forward, desperately chasing his fingers.
“Tell me,” he whispered against her neck. “Beg me for what you want.”
“Please, touch me.”
Henry lashed the swollen flesh with his finger, tormenting her with the promise of what was to come.
“More,” she pleaded, undone by his touch, by his mastery of her will and her body.
Henry gave her more, pressed two fingers hard over the pulsing peak and set up a delicious rolling tempo that had her sighing and swiveling her hips in counterpoint to his touch. He pressed his mouth, open and wet, to the tendon at her shoulder, teeth nipping, tongue laving as he plucked at her nipple to the rhythm of his fingers between her legs.
“Yes, yes,” she panted, twisting and bucking, tossed onto the edge of release.
“You’re nearly there, aren’t you?” His breath was warm on her shoulder, his voice heavy with satisfaction. “You say I’ve nothing to offer you, but I can awaken your sweet cunny with no more than a look and have you teetering on the brink with a touch, can’t I?”
“Yes, damn you,” she answered on a wispy breath of laughter as the first tremors began deep within her womb.
“Do not come yet,” he ordered.
Georgie let loose a ragged moan, fingers clasping the crystal finial, seeking purchase as she fought back the orgasm that battled for freedom.
“Do not climax until I am inside you.” Henry’s voice was a low growl and filled with command.
“Hurry,” she implored.
He released her breast to tear at the placket of his trousers, his knuckles brushing against her bottom, two fingers continuing the onslaught on her clit, steadily, relentlessly.
“Spread your legs.”
Georgie obeyed readily, opening her legs and curving her back as best she could without losing her grip on the ball at the top of the bed post.
Henry wedged his knees between hers, bent low and found her quim with the fat head of his cock. Pressing his fingers hard between her legs and gripping her hip to hold her steady, he thrust into her body.
“Sweet mercy,” she moaned as he filled her in one long, powerful stroke.
“Christ, I’ve missed you,” he growled, barely withdrawing before lunging into her again, hard and deep.
“Henry?” she whispered, a desperate plea.
“Come for me.”
She gave herself up to the decadent pleasure, a laughter-laced groan erupting from her lips as her orgasm slammed into her, over and around her. She soared, lost to everything but the unbearable joy exploding in her womb and arrowing outward, down her legs flush against his, up her spine bowed in surrender, and all the way to her bound wrists and clutching fingers.
As Georgie began to drift down from the pinnacle of release, her cunny still pulsating with delicious tremors, clasping Henry’s foraging shaft, he jerked his hand from between her legs and wound both arms around her. Leaning over, he pressed his open mouth between her shoulder blades, his breath billowing over her flesh.
He thrust once more, hard and heavy, planting his cock deep within her body. With a grunt followed by a long, guttural groan that shook his frame, he came into her body, his seed a lush wave swirling around, warming her from the inside out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“By God, that was amazing,” Henry said as he picked at the knot which held Georgie’s ribbon wrapped tight around the bedpost.
“You did not withdraw,” she murmured, turning to face him within the space between his body and the bedpost.
“Which made it all the sweeter,” he replied, still a bit lightheaded from the pleasure of spending within the tight clasp of her convulsing cunny.
“Henry, you must not spill your seed within.”
The knot came lose and he looked down into her upturned face.
Georgie had the look of a woman well-loved, heavy-lidded and flushed. The once elegant twist at the crown of her head listed to the left and wispy tendrils of hair drifted along her temples. Her lips were parted, the bottom poking out in an adorable pout.
Unable to resist, Henry dipped down and captured that pout, pulled her plump flesh between his lips to suckle.
Georgie s
ighed.
He released her lower lip and trailed his tongue over the upper, the nearly indiscernible slip of pink skin that only truly came to life when he kissed her. The sweet thread of flesh became a lush bounty when he pressed his lips just there, brushed his tongue over the delicate bow in the center that no man who hadn’t kissed her would ever imagine existed.
Georgie trembled, her back curled and her nipples grazed his chest.
So he stayed a while, reverently paying homage to the hidden treasure that no other man would ever discover. The treasure belonged to him. Georgie belonged to him.
“Henry.” His name was a sigh, a puff of breath that held more meaning for him, offered him greater hope and allowed him clearer vision into her heart than any shouted declaration she might have made to him.
He eased his tongue into her mouth, caressed hers, slowly and tenderly, retreated to slip between her teeth and the inside of his own personal cache of soft, sensitive flesh.
Georgie giggled.
Henry planted a final kiss across the infinitesimal arch in the middle of her upper lip and lifted his head.
Her eyes were closed, her long golden lashes fluttering and a tremulous smile gracing the lips that now belonged to him.
“My arms have gone numb.”
It took Henry a moment to process her words so caught up was he in the sultry lilt of her voice.
“Damn, I’m sorry.” He stepped back from the temptation of her upraised mouth and went back to work on the stubborn knot of the lavender ribbon that he would tuck into his box of cherished trinkets the moment he returned to Hastings House. If he could get the damned thing untied from the bedpost.
Georgie gasped, pulling against her bonds just as he managed to loosen the knot.
An inch of satin slid through the knot just as she jerked her hands downward, tightening it on her wrists but leaving the loop slack around the post. The ribbon slid down and Georgie’s bound hands disappeared behind her head, her raised arms hugging her ears.
Her eyes flashed open. “Henry?”
