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?”