Did that mean he was now? Oh, her heart couldn't bear it another moment. "Can we go back to that day when we were last here and you asked me to marry you?"
"What on earth for? Do you want to wound me again? Make the pain linger even more by remembering all that?"
She scowled.
But then he laughed again and pulled her into his arms, squeezing the breath out of her. "I'm not letting you off this island tonight, until you say you'll marry me."
Perhaps because she was such a wicked girl, this immediately changed her plans a little and gave her an entirely new idea.
"Oh, really?" She gave an arch grin. "How are you going to persuade me then? I said I love you. It doesn't mean I think we should marry."
He gave her a look that quickly raised the temperature under her corset.
"What if someone sees us out here?" she muttered, backing away with a sudden qualm.
Harry was already unbuttoning his waistcoat as he strode slowly toward her, moving her into the summerhouse. "They won't," he murmured, blowing out the nearest candle and then the next.
"But...Brown—"
"Will keep anyone else away."
"Oh."
"Tonight it's just you and I on our island, Georgiana."
"What about my brother and my friends? They will wonder—"
"Brown will assure them that you're in safe hands."
And she was. In very safe, very large and very capable hands.
* * * *
She was surprisingly warm, even naked. He had removed her clothes slowly, piece by piece, the downward crumble of every fabric inch accompanied by the brush of his lips. About his own disrobing he was never as careful, she mused. It was as if he could not wait to get out of his clothing and be free. But when it came to her body, he unwrapped her like a long awaited, extremely expensive gift.
When he lay on the embroidered silk shawl that was still spread over the couch, he continued his kissing and exploring until she was dizzy with it and impatiently squirming. Then it was her turn to discover all his ticklish places, the dips and valleys, muscles and sinews she'd admired before but dared not touch. With her fingertips she traced the scars that marked his torso and then followed with her tongue, growing bolder as she went.
His skin was darker than hers— after years surviving a tropical island, it was no surprise— and it held many hints to the battles in his past. She discovered each scar, like another clue in the unveiling of a mystery.
"What happened?" she would ask. "How did you get this?"
After he told her, she kissed it and moved on to the next. His body was a book full of chapters. A book she wanted to pick up and read again and again.
Finally he rolled over to put her beneath him. He stroked a curl from her cheek. "I want to make love to you, Georgiana," he whispered.
"Gracious," she wriggled happily, "I hope so after all this."
"Then say 'yes'. Say you'll marry me and irritate me around my house for the rest of our lives."
"I still want to write for my father's paper."
"I know."
"You don't mind a wife with an occupation?"
He chuckled and his voice cracked when he replied, "If you do not object to a husband with the occasional aversion to clothing." He caressed her thigh and the sofa creaked as he adjusted his position over her. "A husband with a few eccentric habits and an overwhelming desire to mate with his wife at all hours of the day and night."
Georgiana slid her arms around his neck. "I think I can manage. But what changed your mind? I thought you didn't want a wife... that you only asked me out of duty."
He thought for a second, pondering her lips and then moving his gaze to her eyes, looking deeply into them. "I didn't want the sort of wife I was supposed to have. But you..." he smiled in that slow way that made her melt, "you I want."
Then he entered her at last and she clung to him with a gasp that would have blown out any other candles, had they still been lit.
* * * *
She sat astride his hips and kissed him, her tongue trailing across his cheek where the stubble already sprouted again. "I want more."
"And I need to rest," he groaned, amused by her eagerness. "Are you not supposed to be the naive maiden?"
"I was." She pouted. "Until an hour ago."
Had it been that long? Not polite to be away from his guests this long. His aunt, if she had noticed, would be ready to shout at him. But here with Harry, on his island, was the most important guest. So should he not keep her happy? Who else mattered, but the Wickedest Chit?
Much to Harry's delight, she was very, very wicked.
"So how did you get out of your room every night after Brown locked you in?" she asked, nibbling his ear.
"That, my darling, is a secret you will have to try and pry out of me. Please subject me to every form of torture." He would enjoy her attempts, he mused. But he had no intention of ever telling her about the maze of secret passages and hidden doors built into the Abbey. Harry wanted to be sure he could continue surprising and thrilling his naughty wife, every day and night for the rest of their lives.
Epilogue
His may be an unfamiliar face at Boodles, but it was not unknown. An infamous reputation preceded the man wherever he went, and this gentleman's club was no exception.
The low murmur of surprised, "That's Dead Harry", comments swept the club just as quickly as he did. On a quest for one face in particular, he did not greet anybody or acknowledge the startled inquiries of the butler, who followed anxiously in his wake.
"Fairbanks," he growled, finally locating the man he sought. "I have something to say to you."
The Viscount looked over his shoulder and gave a languid yawn. "I am in the midst of a game, Thrasher, as you see."
But Harry was in no mood to wait. Much to the shock— and considerable delight— of the other patrons, he lifted Fairbanks, and the chair in which he sat. And shook it, as if to dislodge a stone from his boot. In a flurry of silk and ruffled lace, the other man tumbled to the floor and then scrambled hastily to his feet.
"How dare you?" His face was red as he turned to confront Harry, be-ringed fingers flashing while he checked the knot of his cravat. "I shall have you struck off the membership list. What can be the meaning of —"
With one hand Harry grabbed him by the throat and hauled him thus— his heels dragging across the floor— to the nearest wall. There he held the now white-faced fellow against the wallpaper, and said in a low, but clear voice, "I didn't give you permission to speak, did I? I believe I said that I have something to say to you."
The Viscount's eyes watered as that big, weather-worn hand tightened around his windpipe.
"I always think it's sad when a man cannot see himself," Harry continued in the same calm tone. "'Tis even sadder when he can see himself, but does nothing to change for the better." He tilted his head, watching that heightened color drain from the silk-clad nincompoop's face. "I am the author behind His Lordship's Trousers, so if you wish to complain about that column in The Gentleman's Weekly, please do so to me, from now on. Otherwise I suggest that rather than whine loudly and make yourself even more embarrassingly conspicuous, you slink out of sight so that nobody even has cause to compare you with a fictional character."
Finally he opened his fingers and let the man drop. Hands to his neck, Fairbanks croaked, "You'll be sorry for assaulting me, Thrasher." But his shoulders sank against the wall and Harry suspected there was a damp patch staining the fellow's fashionable breeches by now.
"The only thing I'll ever regret is not finishing you off for good, long before this."
"I don't care for your tone." That was, apparently the most he could manage.
"I don't care for your face, your feet, or anything in between. But I tolerate your existence on this planet." He smirked, reached over and flicked a ruffle of the villain's shirt. "For now."
Fairbanks cringed away, sliding further down the wall. People had begun to gather and whis
per. More than a few chuckles breezed through the informal audience. Of course, these folk were fickle and would cast their bet with whomever had the upper hand. Even the most devoted followers of Wardlaw Fairbanks took spiteful enjoyment in seeing him humiliated. Such was the changeable nature of this pathetic society of weasels and sycophants. But if one played in the pit with the snakes, one should be prepared to be bitten, and Fairbanks had played too long without a strike.
"From now on," Harry added with menacing softness, "I won't hear another sentence from you that doesn't end in either sorry or thank you, sir."
Fairbanks shut his pallid lips and bent his head.
It was concession enough for that moment and Harry felt that he'd spent long enough on the matter.
"Excuse me," he said, "I have a beautiful woman waiting for me to make love to her and she gets rather impatient."
Thus he left them all in various states of shock, amusement and wonder.
"There goes Dead Harry Thrasher," one elderly gent remarked with a chuckle and a shake of his head.
And his companion added wryly, "Not so dead after all, apparently."
Also from Jayne Fresina and TEP:
Souls Dryft
The Taming of the Tudor Male Series
Seducing the Beast
Once A Rogue
The Savage and the Stiff Upper Lip
The Deverells
True Story
Storm
Chasing Raven
Ladies Most Unlikely
The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers
A Private Collection
Last Rake Standing
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jayne Fresina sprouted up in England, the youngest in a family of four daughters. Entertained by her father's colorful tales of growing up in the countryside, and surrounded by opinionated sisters - all with far more exciting lives than hers - she's always had inspiration for her beleaguered heroes and unstoppable heroines.
Website at:www.jaynefresina.com
Twisted E Publishing, LLC
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Table of contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers Page 29
