The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(56)

George looked down at her hands. “But that’s just it. I can’t.”

When she looked up again, Harry’s expression was so blank she might’ve been staring in the eyes of a dead man. Lord, how she’d begun to hate that wooden face. “Then you’ll have my resignation by tomorrow.”

“No.” She wrung her hands. “That isn’t what I want at all.”

“But you can’t have it both ways.” Harry seemed suddenly weary. His beautiful green eyes were dulled by something close to despair. “You can either be my lover or I will leave. I’ll not stay as some convenience for you, like that gelding in your stable here. You ride him when at Woldsly and forget him the rest of the year. Do you even know his name?”

Her mind went blank. The fact was, she didn’t know the horse’s name. “It isn’t like that.”

“No? Pardon, but what is it like, my lady?” Anger was breaking through Harry’s wooden mask, painting scarlet flames across his cheekbones. “Am I a stud for hire? Nice for a romp in bed, but after the tupping, not good enough to show your family?”

George could feel a blush heat her own cheeks. “Why are you being so crude?”

“Am I?” Harry was suddenly in front of her, standing too close. “You must forgive me, my lady. That’s what you get when you take a common lover: a crude man.” His fingers framed her face, his thumbs hot against her temples. She felt her heart skitter in her chest at his touch. “Isn’t that what you wanted when you chose me to take your maidenhead?”

She could smell spirits on his breath. Was that the reason for this hostility? Was he drunk? If so, he showed no other signs. She inhaled deeply to steady her own emotions, to try to counter his terrible sorrow. “I—”

But he would not let her speak. He whispered in a cruel, hard voice instead, “A man so crude he takes you against a door? A man so crude he makes you scream when you come? A man so crude he doesn’t have the grace to melt away when he’s no longer wanted?”

George shuddered at the awful words and scrambled to frame a reply. But it was too late. Harry claimed her mouth and sucked on her bottom lip. He pulled her to him roughly and ground his hips against hers. There it was again, that wild, desperate desire. He bunched her skirts in one hand, pulling them up. George heard a tear but couldn’t bring herself to care.

He reached underneath and found her mound with ruthless accuracy. “This is what you get with a common lover.” He speared two fingers into her sheath.

She gasped at the sudden intrusion, feeling him stretch her as he stroked with his fingers. She shouldn’t feel anything, shouldn’t respond when he—

His thumb pushed down on her most sensitive spot. “No finesse, no pretty words. Just hard cock and hot cunny.” His tongue trailed across her cheek. “And your cunny is hot, my lady,” he whispered into her ear. “It’s fairly dripping on my hand.”

She moaned then. It was impossible for her not to respond to him, even when he touched her in anger. He covered her mouth with his own, swallowing her wail, ravishing her at will. Until she broke all at once and waves of pleasure rushed over her so fast she felt dizzy. George shook in the after-tremors, clinging to Harry as he bent her backward over his arm and fed on her mouth. His fingers left her to stroke over her hip soothingly.

His mouth gentled.

Then Harry broke away to hiss in her ear, “I told you, decide what you want before coming to me. I’m not a goddamned lapdog you can pick up and pet and then send away again. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

George stumbled, both from his words and from the fact that he’d let her go. She clutched at the back of a chair. “Harry, I—”

But he’d already left the room.

Chapter Thirteen

Harry woke with the taste of stale ale in his mouth. He waited a moment before opening his eyes. Although it had been a very long time, he never quite forgot the painful torture of sunlight and a hangover. When he finally cracked open his dry eyes, he saw the room was too bright for early morning. He’d overslept. Groaning, he lurched up and sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, head in hands, feeling uncommonly old.

God, what an idiot he’d been to drink too much yesterday eve. He’d been trying to track down the rumors about the woman poisoned on the moor, had gone first to the White Mare and then to the Cock and Worm, but Dick wasn’t at his tavern, and no one else would speak to him. In every face he’d seen suspicion and, in some, loathing. Meanwhile, what the scarred man had said to him in West Dikey had sounded in his skull like a chant. Man-whore. Man-whore. Man-whore. Perhaps he’d been trying to drown the words when he’d drunk multiple tankards of ale last night.

A clatter came from the cottage’s main room.

Harry swiveled his head carefully in that direction and sighed. Will was probably hungry. He staggered to the door and stared.

The fire blazed and a steaming teapot sat on the table.

Will crouched on the floor, strangely still. “I dropped the spoons. I’m sorry,” he whispered. He hunched his body as if he was trying to make himself smaller, maybe disappear altogether.

Harry knew that posture. The boy expected to be hit.

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His voice sounded like the scrape of a shovel on stony ground. He cleared his throat and sat down. “Made tea, have you?”