The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(40)

George plopped on the side of the bed. “What am I going to do?”

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Tiggle sat beside her, the dress still in her arms. “Is that what you want from Mr. Pye? An affair?”

“Yes.” George wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. If I’d met him at a ball, I wouldn’t have asked him for an affair.”

She would’ve danced with him, then flirted and exchanged witty banter. He would’ve sent flowers the next morning and maybe asked her to drive in the park. He would’ve courted her.

“But a land steward wouldn’t be invited to the balls you attend, my lady,” Tiggle said soberly.

“Exactly.” For some reason this simple fact had George blinking back tears.

“Well, then”—Tiggle sighed and rose—“since there isn’t any other choice, maybe you should just tell him what you’ve told me.” She smiled without meeting George’s eyes and left the room.

George flopped back on her bed. I wish… She sighed. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

HARRY CLOSED THE DOOR TO his cottage and leaned his head against it. He could still hear the rain beating on the wood. The grain was rotting in the fields, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Despite Lady Georgina’s kind offer of loans for the tenants, they would lose a great deal of money, a great deal of food, if the harvest failed. Not only that, but more dead sheep had been found on Granville land today. The poisoner was growing bold. In the last week, he’d struck three times, killing more than a dozen sheep. Even the most loyal of the Woldsly cottagers looked at him with suspicion now. And why not? To many he was a stranger here.

He pushed away from the door and set the lantern on the table beside a letter he’d opened this morning. Mrs. Burns had left his supper, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he lit the fire and put a kettle of water on to heat.

He’d ridden out before dawn and had worked ever since, inspecting crops. He couldn’t stand the stink of his own body anymore. He swiftly stripped to the waist and poured the heated water into a basin. It was barely tepid, but he used it to wash under his arms, his chest, and his back. Finally, he poured clean water into the basin and dunked his head and face in. The cool water ran down his face, dripping off his chin. It seemed to wash away not only the filth of the day, but all the mental ills as well—the frustration and anger and helplessness. Harry caught up a cloth and toweled his face.

There was a knock at the door.

He froze, the cloth still in his hand. Had Granville’s men finally come for him? He put out the lantern, drew his knife, and stole to the door. Standing to one side, he flung it wide.

Lady Georgina stood outside, the rain dripping from her hood. “May I come in?” Her gaze lowered and caught at his bare chest. Her blue eyes widened.

Harry felt his cock harden at her reaction. “I didn’t think you waited on my permission to enter, my lady.” He turned back to the table to put on his shirt.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” She walked in and shut the door.

He uncovered his supper—bean soup—and sat to eat it.

Lady Georgina dropped her cloak untidily on a chair. He felt her glance at him before she wandered to the fireplace. She touched each of the animal carvings with a fingertip and then came back toward him.

He spooned up some of the soup. It was cold now but still tasty.

She trailed her fingers across the table, stopping at the letter. She picked it up. “You know the Earl of Swartingham?”

“We frequent the same coffeehouse in London.” He poured himself a mug of ale. “Sometimes he writes me about agricultural matters.”

“Really.” She started reading the letter. “But he sounds like he considers you a friend. His language is certainly casual.”

Harry choked and snatched the letter from her hand, startling her. Lord Swartingham’s writing could be colorful at times—not fit for a lady. “How can I help you, my lady?”

Lady Georgina drifted away from the table. Her manner seemed off, and it took him a minute to place it.

She was nervous.

Harry narrowed his eyes. He’d never seen her flustered before.

“You wouldn’t let me finish my tale last time,” she said. “About the Leopard Prince.” She halted by the fire and turned a curiously vulnerable face to him.

With one cold word, he could send her flying, this woman whose station so far outranked his. Had he ever had that much power over an aristocrat? He doubted it. The problem was that sometime in the last week she’d stopped being merely a member of the aristocracy and had become… a woman. Lady Georgina.

His lady.

“Please tell me your story, my lady.” Harry ate some more of Mrs. Burns’s soup, chewing on a piece of mutton.

She seemed to relax and turned back to the mantel, playing with the whittled animals as she spoke. “The Leopard Prince defeated the ogre and brought back the Golden Horse. Did I tell you that part?” She glanced at him.

Harry nodded.

“Yes, now…” She scrunched her nose in thought. “The young king, do you remember him?”

“Mmm.”

“Well, the young king took the Golden Horse from the Leopard Prince, probably without even a ‘thank you very much,’ and carted it off to the princess”—she waved a hand—“or rather to her father, the other king. Because the princess doesn’t have any say-so, does she?”