She cleared her throat, tamping down hysterical laughter and sudden nausea. Oh, please, Lord, not now. “Actually, my given name is Georgina.”
“Georgiana?” the vicar asked. “No, Georgina.” Did it really matter? If this silly man said the wrong name during the service, would she not be married to Cecil?
“Georgina. Quite. Now, then, if we are all here and ready?” The assembled nobility nodded meekly. “Then let us proceed. Young lady, please stand here.”
He shuffled them around until George and Cecil were side by side with Tony at George’s side and Freddy as best man at Cecil’s.
“Good.” The vicar blinked at them, then spent a prolonged minute ruffling his paper and Bible. He cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved,” he began in a strange falsetto.
George winced. The poor man must think it more carrying.
“We are gathered here—”
Bang!
The sound of the church doors smacking against the wall reverberated throughout the church. The group turned as one to look.
Four men marched grimly up the aisle, trailed by one small boy.
The vicar frowned. “Rude. Quite rude. Astonishing what people think they can get away with these days.”
But the men had reached the altar now. “Excuse me, but I believe you have my lady,” one of them said in a quiet, deep voice that sent veritable chills down George’s spine.
Harry.
Chapter Twenty-one
The shriek of steel against steel echoed from the walls of the little church as every man in the wedding party drew his sword simultaneously. Followed immediately by Bennet, de Raaf, and Iddesleigh unsheathing their weapons. Bennet looked very serious. He’d shoved Will into a pew as soon as they’d neared the altar, and now he held his sword high and his body angled. De Raaf’s pale, pock-marked face was alert, his arm steady. Iddesleigh had a bored expression and handled his sword carelessly, his long, lace-draped fingers nearly limp. Of course, Iddesleigh was probably more dangerous than any of them with a sword.
Harry sighed.
He hadn’t slept in two days. He was muddy and no doubt smelled. He couldn’t remember his last meal. And he’d spent the last terror-stricken, heart-stopping, god-awful hour riding hell for leather across London, thinking they would never make it in time to stop his lady from marrying another man.
Enough.
Harry strode through the mess of weapon-wielding aristocrats to his lady’s side. “If I might have a word, my lady?”
“But, I mean…” the skinny blond man by her side, presumably the groom, damn his hide, protested.
Harry turned his head and looked the man in the eye. The groom backed up so fast he nearly stumbled. “Jolly good! Jolly good! No doubt it’s important, what?” He sheathed his sword with a shaking hand.
“Who are you, young man?” The vicar peered over his spectacles at Harry.
Harry gritted his teeth and pulled back his lips in something like a smile. “I’m the father of the child Lady Georgina is carrying.”
De Raaf cleared his throat.
One of his lady’s brothers muttered, “Christ.”
And Lady Violet giggled.
The cleric blinked his myopic light blue eyes rapidly. “Well, then, I suggest you indeed have a word with this lady. You may use the vestry.” He closed his Bible.
“Thank you.” Harry latched one hand around his lady’s wrist and pulled her toward the little door off to the side. He needed to make the room before his pain exploded from him. Behind them there was absolute silence.
He dragged his lady into the room and kicked the door closed. “What the hell did you mean by this?” Harry took out the legal document deeding Woldsly to him. He held it up to her face and shook it, his anger—his anguish—barely contained. “Did you think I could be bought off?”
Lady Georgina retreated before the paper, her face confused. “I—”
“Think again, my lady.” Harry tore the paper into shreds and threw them on the floor. He gripped her upper arms, flexing his trembling fingers against her flesh. “I’m not a lackey to be dismissed with a too-generous present.”
“I only—” “I won’t be dismissed at all.”
Lady Georgina opened her lips again, but he didn’t wait for her to speak. He didn’t want to hear her reject him. So Harry covered her lips with his own. He ground down on her soft, lush mouth, thrusting in his tongue. He placed his hand under her chin and felt the vibration of her moan in her throat. His cock was already hard and aching. He wanted to pound it against her, pound it into her. Put himself inside her and stay there until she told him why she had run away. Until she promised never to do it again.
He crowded her against a heavy trestle table and felt her body yield to his. That submission brought him a small measure of control.
“Why?” he groaned against her lips. “Why did you leave me?”
She made a small sound, and he nipped her bottom lip to silence her.
“I need you.” He licked her bruised lip to soothe it. “I can’t think straight without you. My world is all turned around, and I go through it in pain, wanting to hurt someone.”
He kissed her again, open-mouthed, to reassure himself that she was really here in his arms. Her mouth was warm and wet and tasted of her morning’s tea. He could spend the rest of his life just tasting her.
“I hurt. Here.” He grabbed her hand and placed her palm against his chest. “And here.” He pulled it lower and thrust his prick crudely into her fingers.
That felt good, to have her hand on him again, but it wasn’t enough.
Harry picked his lady up and sat her on the table. “You need me as well. I know you do.” He flung up her skirts and burrowed his hand under them, feeling along her thighs.
“Harry—” “Shhh,” he murmured against her mouth. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just feel.” His fingers found her cunny, and she was wet. “Ahh, there. Do you feel it?”
“Harry, I don’t—”
He touched her pea-shaped bit of flesh and she moaned, eyes closed. The sound inflamed him.
“Hush, my lady.” He unbuttoned his breeches and parted her thighs wider, stepping between them.
She moaned again.
He didn’t care much, but she might be embarrassed. Later. “Shhh. You have to be quiet. Very quiet.” His flesh pressed against her weeping opening.
Her eyes suddenly flew open at the touch of his cock. “But, Harry…”
“My lady?” He gently pushed in. Ah, God, so tight.
She clutched him as if she would never let him go. And that was fine with him. He was more than glad to stay right here for eternity. Or maybe a little farther in.
He shoved again. “Oh, Harry,” his lady sighed.
Someone pounded on the door.
She started, squeezing him inside. He bit back a groan. “George? Are you all right?” One of the brothers. Harry withdrew a little and thrust carefully. Tenderly. “Answer him.”
“Is it locked?” His lady arched her back as he thrust. “Is the door locked?”
He grit his teeth. “No.” He wrapped his hands around her bare rump.
The pounding started again. “George? Should I come in?” His lady panted.
He somehow grinned through his terrible desire. “Should he?” He thrust deeply, burying himself in her heat. Whatever happened, he wasn’t fleeing. He didn’t think he could, anyway.
“No,” she gasped. “What?” From the door. “No!” she yelled. “Unh. Go away, Tony! Harry and I need to converse a little longer.”
Harry cocked an eyebrow. “Converse?”
She glared at him, her face flushed and damp. “You’re sure?” Tony apparently cared deeply for his sister.
Harry knew he would appreciate that fact later. He brought one hand to where he was joined with her. He touched her.
“Yes!” she screamed. “Fine, then.” Footsteps retreated.
His lady wrapped her legs high over his hips and leaned forward to bite his mouth. “Finish it.”
His eyes half closed at the feel, the perfection, of her. This was his lady, and he was going to claim her. His chest filled with gratitude that he’d been given this second chance.
But she was still waiting. “As you wish.” He pressed his thumb firmly on her and at the same time thrust hard and quick, shaking the table.
“Oh, my Lord!” she moaned. “Bite my shoulder,” he panted, picking up his pace even more.
He felt the pinch even through his coat’s broadcloth. And then he burst within her, flinging his own head back and grinding his teeth to keep from shouting in ecstasy. “God!”
His entire body trembled in the aftermath, and he had to prop one arm on the table to brace both of them. He locked his knees to stay upright and gasped, “Will you marry me, my lady?”
“You’re asking now?” Her voice was weak.
At least he wasn’t the only one affected. “Yes. And I’m not leaving until you give me an answer.”
“WHAT COULD THEY POSSIBLY be talking about this long?” Violet asked no one in particular. She shivered and wished she’d thought to bring a wrap. The church was chilly.
The vicar muttered and settled more deeply into a front pew. His eyes were closed. She suspected he’d fallen asleep.
She tapped her foot on the flagstones. When Harry and his friends had first shown up, it had been quite tense, exciting really, with all those swords waving about. She’d thought for sure that some type of fight would break out. She’d been all ready to start tearing up her underskirts in the proscribed manner should any blood be spilled. But as the minutes wore on, the gentlemen had begun to look, well, bored.
The big man with the scarred face started poking the tip of his sword into the cracks in the church flagstones. The elegant-looking man was glaring at the big man and lecturing him on the proper maintenance of blades. The third man in Harry’s group had brown hair and was wearing a terribly dusty coat. That was all she knew about him because his back was to everyone else as he idly inspected the church’s stained-glass windows. He had a small boy by his side and appeared to be pointing out to him the biblical scenes depicted in the glass.
Meanwhile, Oscar, Ralph, Cecil, and Freddy, the defenders of George’s honor, were arguing about the correct way to hold a sword. Ralph’s eye was swollen and turning greenish yellow, and Oscar was limping. She’d have to find out about that later.
Violet sighed. It was all rather disappointing. “I say, aren’t you de Raaf?” Tony had returned from knocking on the vestry with an odd, almost embarrassed expression. He addressed the scarred man. “The Earl of Swartingham, I mean?”
“Yes?” The big man frowned ferociously. “Maitland here.” Tony stuck out his hand.
Lord Swartingham stared at the proffered appendage for a moment, then sheathed his sword. “How d’you do?” He tilted his head toward the elegant man. “This is Iddesleigh, viscount.”
“Ah, indeed.” Tony shook hands with him as well. “Heard of you, de Raaf.”
“Oh?” The big man looked wary. “Yes.” Tony was unperturbed. “Read a manuscript of yours a while back. About crop rotation?”
“Ah.” The big man’s face cleared. “Do you practice crop rotation on your lands?”
“We’ve begun to. We’re a bit farther north than you, and peas are a major crop in the area.”
“And barley and swedes,” Oscar cut in. He and Ralph wandered over.
“Naturally,” Lord Swartingham murmured.
Swedes? Violet stared. They were discussing farming as if they were at an afternoon tea. Or rather, in this case, at the neighborhood tavern.
“Sorry.” Tony indicated his brothers. “This is Oscar and Ralph, my younger brothers.”
