Unraveling the Earl (2 page)

“I thank you for the advice,” Miss Buchanan replied.

“I’ll be off then. I’ve a mind to take tea at the inn this
afternoon. Will I see you there?”

“I am not certain, Mrs. Cooper. I’d thought to start for
London shortly.”

“Well, you come back and visit us soon, dearie. You are
always welcome.”

With no more than a glare in Henry’s direction, the woman
waddled off down the street.

“I don’t think Mrs. Cooper approves of your sort.”

Henry hooked out his arm, not the least bit surprised when
she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “My sort?”

“Libertines.” She peered up at him from the corner of her
eye as they stepped off the walkway and into the street.

“And you?” he asked, making for the small green in the
center of town.

“Oh, Mrs. Cooper quite likes me, my lord.”

“Do you approve of my sort?” he clarified around a chuckle.
“Libertines, I mean.”

“I have nothing against them, per se.”

“Ah, so you’ve made the acquaintance of one or two.”

“More than one or two, my lord.” She was looking straight
ahead, a smile tugging at her lips, and Henry took the opportunity to study her
profile. Her pale skin looked incredibly soft, her nose looked as if it had
been broken at some point. “My cousin Killjoy is a libertine and quite
likable.”

“You’ve a cousin named Killjoy?” he asked.

“A pet name,” she replied. “Given to him because he is
decidedly not.”

“He’s not a killjoy?”

“What sort of libertine would he be if he were?” she asked,
turning her head to gift him with a smile that was slow in coming but radiant
when it arrived. “Killjoy is a mischief maker of the worst sort, quite a bad
influence on anyone unlucky enough to come into contact with him.”

“Let me guess,” Henry replied, “it was through Cousin
Killjoy that you made the acquaintance of more than one or two libertines?”

“Like Mongol hordes, they swarm up the mountain to pillage
and plunder, leaving a trail of scorched earth, fallen women and bastard
children in their wake. One might think they, like their forefathers, see it as
their supreme duty to repopulate Scotland with English blood.”

“Killjoy’s comrades are Englishmen? And here I was imagining
a pack of kilted warriors trampling the heather beneath their booted feet.”

“Alas, generations of mischief and mayhem perpetrated by
Clan Buchanan have given us rather a bad name. While English mothers and
fathers warn their children of boogeymen if they should misbehave, Scots
mothers and fathers warn their children they might be spirited away by the
Buchanans.”

“Never to be seen again,” Henry finished as they reached the
green.

“As all of the Scots lads have been cautioned against
associating with him, Killjoy is forced to carouse with displaced Englishmen.”

“Wasn’t there some sort of myth regarding a Buchanan
chieftain who betrayed William Wallace over an ancient grievance?”

“Oh, that was no myth, my lord.” Her lavender eyes glowed
with laughter as she stopped beside him and tilted her head back to meet his
gaze. “We Buchanans are loyal unto our own above all else and we never forget a
grievance, no matter how ancient. You might even think it our family motto.”

What an enchanting creature she was in that moment, her pale
face luminous in the sunlight, her eyes as beautiful as the English sky at
twilight, and her too-wide mouth lifted into a wicked grin.

“Why do I get the feeling you are issuing a warning?” Henry
asked, his blood pounding with the sudden, inexplicable urge to toss her over
his shoulder and carry her away to some remote forest where he could do a bit
of pillaging and plundering of his own.

“What a fanciful imagination you have, Lord Hasty,” she
replied with a throaty laugh that tightened his balls and made him acutely
aware of the cockstand in his trousers. “Do you mind if we switch sides?”

Before he could reply to her question she stepped around him
and came up on his left, tucking her hand through his elbow.

“A childhood injury,” she explained, waving her free hand
toward her voluminous skirts. “I’m afraid the uneven terrain will set me off my
gait. You don’t mind if I lean on you just a tad?”

“Not a bit.” Christ, let her lean on him, let her lean over
him, let her arch her long slender back beneath him.

She threaded her arm through his elbow, her hand clasping
his forearm.

Looking down at her hand encased in white lace he was struck
by her exceptionally long fingers spread over and around his jacket sleeve,
gripping him tight.

“Would you rather sit down?” He nodded toward a bench in the
shade of a sprawling oak.

“The villagers will have us betrothed the moment your bum
touches down.”

Henry tossed his head back and let loose a laugh, causing a
number of said villagers to stop and stare.

“Hush, my lord,” she admonished, tugging his arm to start
them walking once more.

“You are an uncommon woman, Miss Buchanan,” he praised when
he’d gotten his mirth under some semblance of control. “How is it we’ve never
met?”

“We hardly run in the same circles, my lord.”

“We’ve been at a number of events together…that is at the
same time.”

“Have we?” she asked with a frown that formed a tiny wrinkle
between her arched brows and pushed out her lower lip. “Yes, I suppose we
have.”

“You don’t intend to play coy with me now, do you?” Henry
teased. “Not when you are finally within sight of your greatest desire.”

“My greatest desire?” she repeated, halting beside him, her
fingers tightening on his arm. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”

“Don’t you?” Of course she did. This was no shy maiden, but
rather a woman who made no secret of the fact that she’d known more than one or
two rakes in her lifetime. Hell, she’d followed him from London after pining
for him for a twelvemonth.

“You know, then?” she asked, all breathless anticipation.

“You’ve not been terribly discreet,” he answered with a
wink.

Whether the words or the wink set her off, he hadn’t a clue,
but she pulled her arm free and took two stumbling steps back. A rush of color
suffused her cheeks and Henry wondered if he’d bungled it somehow. The lady
looked shocked. Beyond shocked, she looked…amused?

Miss Buchanan erupted into laughter, her eyes shining, her
luscious lips open to show off her teeth and a bit of her gums. She pressed one
hand to her heart as her shoulders shook.

“Miss Buchanan, are you quite all right?” Henry followed her
retreat, not certain whether he ought to be angry or charmed.

“Good lord,” she spluttered. “You…and me…
me
?”

“Most definitely you,” he answered, entirely charmed. “And
me. Us.”

“Wait.” She held up one hand, her fingers spread wide and
none too steady. “Wait, my lord. I just need a moment.”

“We haven’t a moment to waste.” Henry pitched his voice low.
“Come away with me, my dove. And we will all the pleasures prove.”

“Do stop. I cannot think with you quoting poetry to me. And
quite poorly, I might add.”

“Don’t think,” he ordered. “I’ve a carriage waiting. We can
be at Hastings Hall in two hours. And I promise you those two hours will be
well spent.”

“Yes, yes, you are London’s greatest gift to the ladies.”
Her voice shook with the last remnants of her laughter as she dragged her gaze
down the length of his body and back again. She took a deep breath as her
shining eyes met his once more. “Shall we away, my lord?”

Henry craned his head out the window, his gaze searching the
road behind until he spotted the second carriage following a mile or so behind.
He sat back with a satisfied smile, his hand idly stroking over the front of
his trousers and his painfully hard cock beneath.

The little minx had insisted upon making the journey in her
own carriage, an antiquated, lumbering box on wheels pulled by six mismatched
horses of unknown lineage. One footman, little more than a boy, decked out in
black-and-gray livery, rode beside the coachman while the other had disappeared
into the interior behind his mistress.

As the roads were dry they’d made good time, reaching the
gate set between twin gatehouses in less than two hours. From there they had
only to follow the long, tree-shaded drive that led from the road to the house
in a straight shot, bisecting hills and forests and a stream.

As his carriage crossed the stone bridge Henry saw that the
stream was a small trickle, due no doubt to the drought that had taken hold of
most of the country in recent months.

A copse of trees, fenced off from the road and recently
thinned, was the final impediment to the sight of the manor house. Sitting
majestically above a small rise, the yellow-stone mansion sprawled four stories
high against a backdrop of rolling green hills and sprawling gardens. A wide
portico held aloft by a dozen tall pillars spanned nearly a quarter of the
front façade, creating a shady space where Henry and Olivia had played as
children.

When they could escape their mother’s eagle eye.

Henry blinked against the sudden moisture filling his eyes
and an unfamiliar burning deep in the sockets.

“Damned dusty roads,” he muttered.

Not caring to think about his mother and the havoc she had
wreaked far and wide before quietly passing away in the night, Henry instead
thought about the mysterious lady who followed in a dilapidated excuse for a
carriage.

Miss Buchanan. What the devil was her given name? It seemed
she ought to have offered it up at some point. She had followed him from London
to Somerville and two hours farther north to Hastings Hall to partake of his
charms, after all. One would think they would be on friendlier terms.

There was plenty of time for that. Hell they had all day and
all night to become better acquainted.

Henry was painfully hard just imagining her slender legs
curled around his waist as he thrust into her quim. After she’d straddled him
and taken her pleasure, riding him hard and fast or soft and slow, depending
upon her preference, of course. The ladies did like to mount him, having heard
the whispers of his stamina, proof that even the highest born were not above
spreading tales of their sexual exploits.

Perhaps later, after he’d gifted her with a handful of
thrashing orgasms, she might be persuaded to wrap her long fingers around his
cock and take him into her mouth.

Who was he kidding? Even his various mistresses had only
offered up their mouths in return for some bauble or other.

Ah well, a man could dream. And if that particular dream
came to naught, he fully intended to roger Miss Buchanan all afternoon and long
into the night, to force velvety moans from her lips, to have her begging in
her sultry voice for more.

He imagined she was a screamer, her lyrical Scots burr
heralding her crisis.

His carriage rounded the circular drive before the portico
and came to a smooth stop mere feet from the steps leading to the shady porch.
Critchley, his ancient butler, stepped out of the house to greet him with
rheumy eyes and trembling limbs. Bounding from the carriage to join his butler in
the shade, Henry turned to watch the second carriage make its way up the lane,
bouncing jauntily ahead of a trailing cloud of dust.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Critchley greeted with all the
deference due a peer of the realm, only to ruin the effect with a muttered,
“You weren’t due until the morrow.”

“I trust my early arrival will not put you out too
terribly,” he answered with a grin.

“Certainly not, my lord, but might I enquire who you’ve got
traveling with you.”

“No need to fear my good man. The second carriage contains
only one lady rather than the bevy of opera singers you imagine.”

“Very good, my lord,” Critchley replied with a sigh. “And
will the lady be needing a guest room readied?”

“Not unless I’ve lost my touch.”

From the corner of his eye, Henry watched the old man roll
his eyes.

Miss Buchanan’s ancient carriage slowed in the turn of the
drive, groaning to a stop behind his, causing the servants unloading his trunks
to shake their heads and laugh amongst themselves.

The battered old box creaked and shook as the elderly
coachman and young footman jumped to the ground.

Henry waited while the pale-haired boy whipped open the door
and the other footman, as dark as the first was fare, jumped down to stare at
him with a mulish expression flitting over his flushed face.

“Is this the lord?” he asked with a nod at Henry.

“Only lord I see hereabouts,” the other boy answered with a
grin.

“What a lot of bother.”

“Hush, Tag.” Miss Buchanan’s voice drifted from the dark
confines of her carriage. “You want to be a footman. Kindly foot.”

“Tag?” Henry murmured, watching the boy wrestle the step
into place beneath the door before offering his hand to his mistress.

“Tagalong,” the blond boy replied with a shrug.

“Actuellement,” Miss Buchanan purred as she alighted. “Mon
ami est nomme Tag Alogne.”

Her French was atrocious at best and damn amusing.

“You’ve changed your gown,” he announced unnecessarily when
she stood before him.

Gone were the yards and yards of frothy blue silk, lace and
ruffles. In their place the lady wore a simple gown of pale yellow muslin
dotted with pink flowers and green leaves. A narrow pink ribbon trimmed the vee
of the neckline, the small capped sleeves, and the hem, from beneath which
poked two pointy pink slippers. Tiny buttons, a dozen or more, marched from her
cinched waist to the shadow of cleavage above her bodice. Or would they have,
had she not tucked a lace fichu into the space and had she not been nearly as
flat-chested as her footmen.

On her head she’d perched a straw bonnet festooned with
bright yellow flowers and trailing greenery.

“Changes her dresses like light-skirts change culls,” Tag
muttered.

“Starched petticoats make for a devilishly uncomfortable
ride,” the lady explained with an arch look at the mouthy boy.

“All the more reason,” the boy muttered.

“Am I arguing with you?” Miss Buchanan demanded. “You’re
here, are you not? And dressed in livery?”

“I wanted to make the journey up top,” the footman grumbled.

“Ach, you’re a tiresome creature.” Miss Buchanan threw up
her hands, her Scots bur heavier with her annoyance. “Sure and you’ll have
years to ride on top. Then you’ll be whining to come down at the first sign of
rain or snow.”

“Not if it means listening to your infernal snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“And I don’t whine.”

Henry listened to their byplay with a smile, never mind he
hadn’t a clue what had set the boy off. It mattered little. He’d never heard a
mouthier servant, nor a lady deigning to argue with one, and found it vastly
entertaining.

“You’re whining right now,” the blond boy interjected.

“Mind your own business, Brain!”

“Children, please,” the lady huffed as she turned away to
gaze up at the manor.

“Brain?” Henry asked with a chuckle. “Another pet name?”

“His mum got the spelling wrong,” Tag answered, angling his
head to look down his nose at the other boy.

“My name’s Brian.”

“He comes to heel at either name,” Tag taunted.

“Brain comes to heel for no man,” Miss Buchanan murmured in
a distracted fashion. “Or woman for that matter. A lesson you might take to
heart, Tag.”

“Thanks, Georgie,” Brian, Brain, the boy who came to heel
for no one, said.

The lady spun about and fixed Henry with a trembling smile,
her eyes huge and unblinking. “Will you give me a tour, your lordship?”

“A tour?”

“To walk off the kinks,” she drawled, sweeping ahead of him,
her skirts whipping around her legs as she took the steps to the portico. “I’ve
been tossed about in my carriage until I feel as if I’ve been tied up in
knots.”

“Tied up in knots,” he repeated, his eyes fixed on her
swaying hips. Thank God she’d dispensed with the starched petticoats. He’d have
had a devil of a time getting beneath them. And while she was tall and slender
almost to the point of scrawny, her hips were gently rounded and her legs
incredibly long.

“Not to say that I don’t mind being tied up in knots from
time to time.” Her soft words drifted back to him as she approached Critchley
who bowed as best he could, considering he was nearing ninety and ought to be
putting his feet up somewhere in the bowels of the house.

“Mr. Crotchety,” she greeted, stopping in front of him.

“Miss Buchanan,” he answered with a smile that showed the
gaps between his yellowing teeth. “Determined lady, aren’t you?”

“You’ve no idea, sir.”

“Nor does his lordship, I’d imagine.” With that parting shot
the butler turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.

“How is it you know my butler?” Henry followed her into the
wide foyer, momentarily startled by the black crepe looped over the knocker on
the open door. Forcing his eyes away from the reminder, he watched as Miss
Buchanan surveyed the marble floor and rose-colored walls, pausing only briefly
on the oval mirror draped in more black fabric, before drifting on to study the
soaring ceiling and immense chandelier.

“I’d hope to tour the public rooms,” she answered without
turning from her perusal of the immense space that had always struck Henry as
less than welcoming. “Over tea Mr. Crotchety informed me that your mother had
passed and the house would not be open to the public for some time.”

“Critchley,” he corrected as he dragged his gaze down her
neck to her back, finding her shoulder blades clearly visible beneath the thin
lace of her fichu. One spiraling curl had escaped its pins to trail down her
nape and along her spine, shifting as she wandered around the hall.

Engrossed in the long lines of her back and that one
corkscrew curl teasing his senses with images of releasing her fiery hair from
its pins, it took Henry a moment to catch up with their conversation.

“Critchley invited you in for tea?” he asked. “When was
this?”

“Thursday past.”

“You were here three days ago? For whatever reason?”

“Why, the same reason I am here today, my lord. With more
satisfying results I hope.” She peeked over her shoulder at him before turning
toward the open parlor door. “May I?”

“Yes, of course.” Henry followed her into the formal parlor,
pleased to see that his servants had followed his hastily jotted missive
instructing them to keep the trappings of mourning to the front hall.

She stopped beneath a portrait of his father, her head
tilted as she studied the pleasant visage above her. “You look rather a lot
like him.”

Happy to help a lady maneuver him into closer proximity,
Henry stepped behind her, near enough that she might feel his heat while
keeping a hair’s breadth of distance between them. Their bodies lined up
exceedingly well, her long legs putting her bottom right before his aching
cock. “Do you think so?”

“But for the eyes. You’ve lovely eyes.”

“Alas, I’ve always preferred lavender eyes,” he ducked
beneath the brim of her bonnet to whisper the words in her ear and came away
with a mouthful of ivy.

Spluttering, he stepped back and pulled the offending
foliage from between his lips. She spun to face him, her hand rising as if she
might help him.

“Real ivy? And buttercups?” He snatched a bloom from her
offending head-ware and held it before her.

With no further prompting she lifted her chin, gifting him
with the long line of her throat. Her hand fell to his wrist, her fingers
wrapping lightly around his bare skin and he could feel her heat through the
thin lace glove. Henry trailed the flower over her chin and she sucked in a
startled breath, her bottom lip trembling before she clamped it between her
teeth. She met his eyes, hers almost comically round in her face, before
dropping her gaze to his lips.

“It would seem you like butter,” he murmured.

“Only when it’s freshly churned.”

“Christ, your voice is an invitation to sin.”

“An invitation to sin,” she repeated as if she were savoring
the words.

“One I’ve no intention of refusing,” he assured her as he
caressed her jaw with the yellow bud.

She gave a muffled yelp and jumped back, her head bumping
the frame of the portrait. Her hand on his wrist pulled him flush against her.
With his knee wedged between her legs and his free arm bracketing her head he
pinned her to the wall with no effort whatsoever.

“You’re good,” he said, surprised he sounded relatively calm
with his blood pounding through his veins and his cock nestled at the apex of
her thighs.

“I’m not good at all, my lord,” she argued breathlessly.

“Don’t you think we might consider dispensing with the
my
lords?
” he teased, tugging gently against the manacle of her fingers on his
wrist. “All things considered.”

“What would you have me call you?”

She released his wrist and he brought his hand up to cradle
her jaw. Her skin was as soft as he’d imagined. Softer. He brushed his thumb
over her cheek, traced the sculpted bones.

“Hastings. Or Henry if you prefer,” he offered. “And I shall
call you…”

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flitting over his
features. “I suppose you might call me Georgiana.”