He covered it with his own and rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb as he talked. “Spring, cold and wet, when the farmers must get the seed into the ground, but not too soon or it’ll frost, and the ewes are all lambing at once, or so it seems. Summer, long and hot, tending the sheep under the wide, blue skies and watching the grain grow. Fall, hoping for the sun to shine so the harvest will be good. If the sun shines, the people celebrate and there are festivals; if it doesn’t, they go about with thin, fearful faces. And winter, long and dreary, the farmers and their families sitting by a little fire in the cottages, telling tales and waiting for spring.” He stopped and squeezed her shoulder self-consciously. “The seasons.”
“You know so much,” she whispered.
“Only what goes on in this part of Yorkshire. I’m sure you could find many who would think that little enough.”
She shook her head, her springy hair brushing against his shoulder. “But you’re aware. You know how the people around you think. What they’re feeling. I don’t.”
“What do you mean?” He tried to see her face, but her head was tilted down against his chest.
“I get caught up in silly things like the cut of a gown or a new pair of earrings, and I lose track of the people around me. I don’t think about whether Tiggle is being courted by the new footman or how Tony is doing all by himself in London. You wouldn’t know it to look at Tony, he seems so big and strong and in control, but he can get lonely. And Violet…” She sighed. “Violet was seduced this summer at our family home in Leicestershire and I didn’t know. I never even suspected.”
He frowned. “Then how did you find out?”
“She confessed just this morning.”
Her face was still hidden, and he tried to brush the hair away from her eyes. “If it was a secret, if she didn’t want to tell you before now, it would be hard to know. Children of that age are very mysterious sometimes.”
She bit her lip. “But I’m her sister. I’m the closest one to her. I should have known.” She sighed again, a small, sad sound that made him want to shield her from all the world’s worries. “He’s pressing her to marry.”
“Who?”
“Leonard Wentworth. He’s a penniless nobody. He seduced her simply to get her to wed him.”
He smoothed his mouth over her forehead, unsure of what to say. Did she see how similar her sister’s situation was to her own? Was she afraid that he, too, would demand marriage as a forfeit for their lovemaking?
“Our mother…” She hesitated, then began again. “Our mother is not always well. M’man has many illnesses and complaints, most imagined, I’m afraid. She spends so much of her time looking inward for the next disease that she doesn’t often notice those around her. I’ve tried to be a mother to Violet in her stead.”
“That’s quite a burden.”
“Not really. That’s not the point. Loving Violet isn’t the problem.”
He frowned. “Then what is?”
“I’ve always despised M’man.” She spoke so low, he stopped breathing so he could hear her. “For being so withdrawn, so uncaring, so very selfish. I never thought I was like her, but maybe I am.” She finally looked at him, and he saw crystal tears in her eyes. “Maybe I am.”
Something in his chest twisted. Harry bent his head and licked the salt from her cheeks. He kissed her gently, softly, feeling the tremble beneath his mouth, wishing he knew the words to comfort her.
“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I don’t mean to lay all my woes on your shoulders.”
“You love your sister,” he said. “And I would bear your woes, my lady, whatever they might be.”
He felt the brush of her lips against his collarbone. “Thank you.”
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.”