“You were trying to save your father.”
“Aye, I was. And all I got for the effort was this.” Harry held up his mutilated right hand.
“I don’t understand.”
“I tried to shield my face, and the whip caught me across this hand. See?” Harry pointed at a long scar that cut across the inside of his fingers. “The whip nearly severed them all, but the third finger was the worst. Lord Granville had one of his men cut it off. Said he was doing me a favor.”
Oh, God. George felt bile rise in her throat. She covered Harry’s right hand with her own. He turned it over so they were palm to palm. George carefully linked her fingers with his.
“Da was out of work and so badly crippled by the whipping that after a while we went into the poorhouse.” Harry looked away from her, but he still clasped his hand with hers.
“And your mother? Did she go into the poorhouse as well?” George asked in a low voice.
Harry’s hand squeezed hers almost painfully. “No. She stayed with Granville. As his whore. I heard many years later that she’d died of the plague. But I never spoke to her again after that day. The day Da and I were horsewhipped.”
She breathed deeply. “Did you love her, Harry?”
He smiled then, crookedly. “All boys love their mothers, my lady.”
George closed her eyes. What kind of woman would abandon her child to be a rich man’s mistress? So many things about Harry were explained, but the knowledge was almost too painful to bear. She laid her head down in his lap and felt him stroke her hair. It was strange. She should be comforting him after his revelations. Instead, he consoled her.
He drew a breath like a sigh. “Now you understand why I must leave.”
Chapter Sixteen
“But why must you leave?” George asked.
She paced the small bedroom. She wanted to pound on the bed. Pound on the chest of drawers. Pound on Harry. It had been almost a fortnight since he’d first said it. A fortnight in which he’d regained his feet, his bruises had faded to the greenish-yellow color of recovery, and he hardly limped. But in that fortnight he’d remained adamant. He would leave her as soon as he was well.
Every day she came to visit him in his tiny room, and every day they had the same argument. George couldn’t stand this cramped room anymore—Lord knew what Harry thought of it—and she was about ready to scream. He was going to leave her soon, just walk out the door, and she still didn’t know why.
Harry sighed now. He must be weary of her badgering him. “It’s not going to work, my lady. You and me. You must know that, and you’ll agree with me soon.” His voice was low and calm. Reasonable.
Hers was not.
“I won’t!” George cried like a small child told she must go to bed. All she lacked was the stomp of one foot.
Oh, Lord, she knew she was making herself ugly. But she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t help pleading and whining and pestering. The thought of never seeing Harry again brought blind panic flooding into her chest.
She took a deep breath and tried to speak more sedately. “We could get married. I love—”
“No!” He slammed his hand against the wall, the sound like a cannon shot in the room.
She stared at him. She knew damn well Harry loved her. She knew by the way he said my lady so low it was almost a purr. The way his eyes lingered when he looked at her. The way he had made love to her so intently before he’d been injured. Why couldn’t he—?
He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, my lady.”
Tears started in her eyes. She rubbed them away. “You can at least do me the favor of explaining why you don’t think we should marry. Because I just can’t see why not.”
“Why? Why?” Harry laughed sharply. “How about this reason: If I married you, my lady, the whole of England would think I did it for your money. And how exactly would we work out the money part? Eh? Would you give me a quarterly allowance?” He stood with his hands on his hips and stared at her.
“It wouldn’t have to be that way.”
“No? Perhaps you’d like to sign all your money over to me?”
She hesitated for a fatal second.
“No, of course not.” He flung up his arms. “So I’d be your pet monkey. Your male whore. Do you even think any of your friends would invite me to dine with them? That your family would accept me?”
“Yes. Yes, they would.” She stuck out her jaw. “And you’re not—”
“Aren’t I?” There was pain in his green eyes.
“No, never,” she whispered. She held out her hands in supplication. “You know you’re not that to me. You’re much more. I love—”
“No.”
But she spoke over him this time. “You. I love you, Harry. I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Of course it does.” He closed his eyes. “It’s all the more reason not to let you be pilloried by society.”
“It won’t be as bad as all that. And even if it was, I don’t care.”
“You’d care after they figured out why you married me. You’d care then.” Harry was advancing on her, and George didn’t like the look in his eyes.
“I don’t—”
He grasped her upper arms almost too gently, as if he held himself back by an unraveling willpower. “They’d know soon enough,” he said. “Why else would you marry me? A commoner with no money or power? You, the daughter of an earl?” He leaned close and whispered, “Can’t you guess?” His breath on her ear sent shivers down her neck. It had been so very long since he’d last touched her.
“I don’t care what they think of me,” she repeated stubbornly.
“No?” The word was whispered in her hair. “But, you see, my lady, it still won’t work between us. We have one remaining problem.”
“What?”
“I care what they think of you.” His lips came down on hers in a kiss that tasted of anger and despair.
George grabbed his head. She yanked the ribbon from his hair and ran her fingers into it. And she kissed him back, countering fury with fury. If he would just stop thinking. She nipped his bottom lip, felt the groan go through him, and opened her mouth in seductive invitation. And he took it, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and angling his face over hers. Framing her face with his hands, caressing and punishing her mouth with his. He kissed her as if it were the last embrace they would ever share.