The Leopard Prince

He listened, but she said no more, and, after a while, her breath evened out into sleep. But Harry stayed awake long into the night, staring at the dark and holding his lady.



Chapter Twelve



Lady Georgina’s rump, smooth and soft, nestled against his morning bone-on. Harry opened his eyes. She’d spent the night again. Her shoulder was a dim outline in front of him. His arm was draped over her hip, and he curved his hand, cupping her belly.



She didn’t move, her soft breathing slow in sleep.



He tilted his head forward so that her hair tickled his nose. He could smell that exotic scent she wore, and his cock throbbed, like a trained dog sitting up at his master’s signal. He searched through her hair until he found the back of her neck, warm and damp with sleep. He opened his mouth to taste her.



She mumbled and hunched her shoulder.



He smiled and inched his hand down, slowly, slyly, until he felt her bush tangling about his fingers. He touched her pearl. That bit of female flesh had been his greatest discovery as a young man. The revelation that women held such secrets in their bodies had been heady. He didn’t even recall the face of his first lover, but he could remember his awe at the way women were made.



He flicked his lady’s pearl now. Not hard, barely a feather touch, really. She didn’t move, so he grew bolder and pressed down gently. Sort of petted. Her hips twitched. Harry licked the back of her neck and could almost taste what he’d licked last night—the place where his fingers played. She had liked that, his lady, when he’d kissed and licked and sucked her there. She’d arched her back and moaned so loudly he’d wanted to laugh out loud. Now he slowly stroked, playing with her sleek, soft folds, and felt her wetness build. His cock was almost aching, as hard as he could ever remember it. He lifted her upper leg and draped it over his hip. Her breathing hitched, and he felt a smile break his face.



Harry took his prick in hand and guided it to that warm, wet place. He flexed his arse and slid in, so tight, so smooth, he wanted to groan in pain and in pleasure. He shoved again, gently but steadily, and slid farther in. One more time, and the hair around his cock met her bum. She was panting. He lowered her leg and finally had to groan aloud. So perfect. Harry reached around and found her pearl again. He pressed. Christ, he could feel her squeezing around him. Instead of thrusting, he ground against her, pressing that part of her until she squeezed again.



“Harry,” she moaned.



“Shh,” he whispered, kissing the back of her neck.



She was pushing back against him. So impatient. He grinned and ground some more.



“Harry.”



“Dearling.”



“Tup me, Harry.”



And he thrust hard, in surprise and in pure lust. Good God, he never thought she’d know that word, let alone say it.



“Ohhh, yes,” she breathed.



He was humping now, nearly out of control, and her moans were so erotic. Each time was better than before, and he thought uneasily that it was possible he could never get enough of her. That he’d always want her this much. But then he felt her spasm around him as he gripped her hips and that thought fled. It was so agonizingly good that he nearly forgot; he was almost too late. But in the end, he pulled his cock out of her in time and spent, shuddering, in the sheets next to her.



He stroked her hip and tried to calm his breathing. “Good morning, my lady.”



“Mmm.” She turned to face him. Her face was flushed and sleepy and satisfied. “Good morning, Harry.” Lady Georgina pulled his face to hers and kissed him.



It was a light, gentle touch, but it made something in his chest contract. Harry knew suddenly that he would do anything for her, his lady. Lie. Steal. Kill.



Relinquish his pride.



Was this how Da had felt? He sat up and grabbed his trousers.



“Are you always this active in the morning?” she asked behind him. “Because I must tell you that some do not consider it a virtue.”



He stood up and pulled on his shirt. “I’m sorry, my lady.” He finally turned to face her.



She was propped on one elbow, the bed linens about her waist. Her orange hair cascaded around her white shoulders, tangled and wanton. Her nipples were pale rose-brown, darker pink at the tips. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.



He turned away.



“I’m not exactly disappointed. More like tired,” Lady Georgina said. “I don’t suppose you ever just lay around in bed in the morning?”



“No.” He finished buttoning his shirt.



He started into the other room and heard a faint scrape. He stopped.



It came again.



He looked back at her. “I thought your brother didn’t mind.”



Lady Georgina looked as indignant as a naked woman could. “He wouldn’t dare.”



Harry merely raised an eyebrow and closed the door to the bedroom. He crossed to the cottage door and opened it. On the step huddled a small bundle of rags. What…? The mop of hair raised its head, and Harry stared into the face of the boy he’d seen at the Pollard cottage.



“She went drinking and didn’t come back.” The boy said it flatly, as if he’d been expecting to be abandoned someday.



“You’d best come in,” Harry replied.



The boy hesitated, then stood and ducked inside.



Lady Georgina poked her head around the corner of the bedroom door. “Who is it, Harry?” She caught sight of the small shape. “Oh.”



Boy and lady stared at each other.



Harry put the kettle on for tea.



She recovered first. “I’m Lady Georgina Maitland from the manor. What’s your name?”



The boy merely stared.



“Best to nod when a lady talks to you, lad,” Harry said.



She frowned. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”



But the boy tugged his forelock and dipped his head.



Lady Georgina sidled into the room. She’d thrown a bed linen over her gown from the night before. Harry remembered he’d torn the bodice. “Do you know his name?” she whispered in his ear.



He shook his head. “Would you like tea? I don’t have much else. Some bread and butter.”



Lady Georgina brightened, whether at the offer of food or something to do he wasn’t sure. “We can make toast,” she said.



Harry cocked an eyebrow, but she’d already found the bread and butter, the knife, and a bent fork. She hacked at the bread and sawed off a shapeless lump.



All three of them stared at it.



She cleared her throat. “I think cutting may be more of a man’s job.” She handed the knife to Harry. “Now, don’t make the slices too thick or they won’t toast and they’ll have that awful spongy bit in the center. And it’s important they’re not too thin or they’ll burn, and I detest burnt toast, don’t you?” She turned to the boy, who nodded his head.



“I’ll do my best,” Harry said.



“Good. I’ll butter. And I suppose”—she looked critically at the boy—“you can toast. You do know how to toast bread properly, don’t you?”



The lad nodded and took the fork as if it were the sword of King Arthur.



Soon there was a pile of crusty bread, dripping with butter, in the center of the table. Lady Georgina poured tea, and the three of them sat down to break their fast.



“I wish I could just stay here,” she said, licking butter from her fingers, “but I suppose I shall have to return to the manor at least to dress properly.”



“Did you leave word to have the carriage come for you?” Harry asked. If she hadn’t, he would lend her his horse.



“I saw a carriage this morning,” the boy piped up.



“You mean waiting on the drive?” Lady Georgina asked.



“No.” The boy swallowed a huge mouthful. “It was going up the drive at a gallop, fair flew by, it did.”



Lady Georgina and Harry looked at each other.



“Black with red trim?” she asked. The color of Tony’s carriage.



The boy reached for his fifth piece of toast and shook his head. “Blue. All over blue.”



Lady Georgina gave an exclamation and choked on her tea.



Harry and the boy stared at her.



“Oscar,” she gasped.



He raised an eyebrow.



“My middle brother.”



Harry set his teacup down. “Just how many brothers do you have, my lady?”



“Three.”



“Hell.”



“YOUR LAND STEWARD, GEORGIE?” Oscar picked up an iced bun from the tray Cook had prepared. “It’s just not the thing, darling. I mean”—he waved the bun—“either one should choose someone from one’s own class or go all the way and seduce a brawny young stable hand.”



Oscar grinned at George, his treacle-brown eyes crinkling devilishly at the corners. His hair was darker than Tony’s, almost black. Only when he stood in sunlight could you sometimes make out the red highlights.



“You aren’t helping.” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.



“Yes, Oscar,” Ralph, the youngest Maitland brother, put in his two pence. Gangly and large-boned, his frame was just beginning to show the bulk of manhood. “Georgina couldn’t seduce anyone. She’s not married. He must have seduced her, the bounder.”



Oscar and Tony stared at Ralph for a moment, apparently stunned into silence by his recitation of the obvious.



George sighed, and not for the first time since entering her library. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. At first sight of Oscar’s carriage she should’ve tucked her tail between her legs and made a run for the hills. They might not have found her for days; weeks, if she’d been lucky. She could’ve slept under the stars and lived on wild strawberries and dew—never mind that strawberries didn’t fruit in September. Instead, she’d meekly dressed in her most demure gown and presented herself to her three younger brothers.



Who were all now glaring at her. “Actually, I believe it was a mutual seduction, if that’s important.”



Ralph looked puzzled, Tony groaned, and Oscar laughed, nearly choking on a mouthful of his bun.



“No, that’s not important,” Tony said. “What is important—”



“Is that you break it off at once.” Oscar finished for him. He started to shake a finger at George and realized he still held the bun. He looked around for a plate and set his bun down. “Now, after you have married a suitable gentleman, then you may take up with whoever—”



“I think not!” Ralph jumped to his feet, an effective move, since he was the tallest. “Georgina isn’t like the macaronis and libertines and whores you hang about with. She’s—”



“I have never, ever, in my entire life, consorted with macaronis.” Oscar arched an awful eyebrow at his younger brother.



“Gentlemen, please,” Tony said. “Save your teasing for later. George, what do you plan to do with your land steward? Do you want to marry him?”



“I say!”



“But, Tony!” Both Oscar and Ralph started.



Tony held up a hand, silencing them. “George?”



George blinked. What did she want from Harry? To be close to him, she knew, but beyond that, matters became complicated. Why, oh why, couldn’t she muddle along as she always had?



“Because,” Tony said, “much as I hate to admit it, Oscar and Ralph are right. You must either break it off or marry the fellow. You aren’t the type of lady to engage in this kind of behavior.”



Oh, Lord. George’s chest felt suddenly tight, as if someone had crept up behind her and yanked her corset strings taut. She always felt this sensation at the thought of marriage. What could she say? “Well…”



“He kills sheep. Violet says so in her letter.” Ralph crossed his arms. “Georgina cannot marry a madman.”