He made a heroic effort. "No." He opened his eyes. Wide. "What did you say?"

"What do you dream about at night?"

Rats. He suppressed a shudder. "Nothing." He winced. That wasn't what a gently born lady wanted to hear. "Besides you," he added hastily.

"No." She tapped him on the shoulder. "I'm not fishing for a compliment. I want to know what you think about. What you want. What you care for."

What he cared for? At this time of night? After he'd loved her, not once, but twice? "Ah." He felt his eyelids drifting shut and struggled to open them again. He was just too tired for this. "I'm afraid I'm a simple man, my lady. I think mostly about the harvest."

"What do you think?" Her voice was intent.

What did she want from him? He stroked her hair as her head lay on his chest and tried to think, but it was too great an exertion. He let his eyes close and said whatever came to mind. "Well, I worry about the rain, as you know. That it won't stop in time this year. That the crop will be ruined." He sighed, but she was quiet beneath his hand. "I think about next year's planting, whether we should try hops this far north."

"Hops?"

"Mmm." He yawned gigantically. "For ale. But then we'd have to find a market for the harvest. It would be a good cash crop, but would the farmers have enough of their own to keep them through the winter?" She traced a circle on his breastbone, her touch almost tickling. He was waking up now as he thought about the problem. "It's hard to introduce a new crop to the farmers. They're set in their ways, don't like innovations."

"How would you convince them, then?"

He was silent a minute, considering, but she didn't interrupt. He had never told anyone of this idea. "Sometimes I think that a grammar school in West Dikey would be a good idea."

"Really?"

"Mmm. If the farmers or their children could read, were educated even a little, innovation might be easier. And then each generation would be more learned, and they in turn would be more open to new thoughts and ways of doing things. It would be an improvement measured in decades, not years, and it would affect not only the landowner's income, but also the lives of the farmers themselves." Harry was wide awake now, but his lady was silent. Perhaps she thought educating farmers a foolish idea.

Then she spoke. "We'd have to find a teacher. A gentleman who was patient with children."

Her we warmed him. "Yes. Someone who likes the country and understands the seasons."

"The seasons?" The hand on his chest had stilled.

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 n.o.body. 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 c.o.c.k 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 c.o.c.k 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 p.r.i.c.k in hand and guided it to that warm, wet place. He flexed his a.r.s.e 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 c.o.c.k met her b.u.m. 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."

"Tup me, Harry."

And he thrust hard, in surprise and in pure l.u.s.t. Good G.o.d, he never thought she'd know that word, let alone say it.

"Ohhh, yes," she breathed.

He was humping now, nearly out of control, and her moans were so erotic. Each time was better than before, and he thought uneasily that it was possible he could never get enough of her. That he'd always want her this much. But then he felt her spasm around him as he gripped her hips and that thought fled. It was so agonizingly good that he nearly forgot; he was almost too late. But in the end, he pulled his c.o.c.k out of her in time and spent, shuddering, in the sheets next to her.

He stroked her hip and tried to calm his breathing. "Good morning, my lady."

"Mmm." She turned to face him. Her face was flushed and sleepy and satisfied. "Good morning, Harry." Lady Georgina pulled his face to hers and kissed him.

It was a light, gentle touch, but it made something in his chest contract. Harry knew suddenly that he would do anything for her, his lady. Lie. Steal. Kill.

Relinquish his pride.

Was this how Da had felt? He sat up and grabbed his trousers.

"Are you always this active in the morning?" she asked behind him. "Because I must tell you that some do not consider it a virtue."

He stood up and pulled on his shirt. "I'm sorry, my lady." He finally turned to face her.

She was propped on one elbow, the bed linens about her waist. Her orange hair cascaded around her white shoulders, tangled and wanton. Her nipples were pale rose-brown, darker pink at the tips. He'd never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

He turned away.

"I'm not exactly disappointed. More like tired," Lady Georgina said. "I don't suppose you ever just lay around in bed in the morning?"

"No." He finished b.u.t.toning his shirt.

He started into the other room and heard a faint sc.r.a.pe. He stopped.

It came again.

He looked back at her. "I thought your brother didn't mind."

Lady Georgina looked as indignant as a naked woman could. "He wouldn't dare."

Harry merely raised an eyebrow and closed the door to the bedroom. He crossed to the cottage door and opened it. On the step huddled a small bundle of rags. What . . .? The mop of hair raised its head, and Harry stared into the face of the boy he'd seen at the Pollard cottage.

"She went drinking and didn't come back." The boy said it flatly, as if he'd been expecting to be abandoned someday.

"You'd best come in," Harry replied.

The boy hesitated, then stood and ducked inside.

Lady Georgina poked her head around the corner of the bedroom door. "Who is it, Harry?" She caught sight of the small shape. "Oh."

Boy and lady stared at each other.

Harry put the kettle on for tea.

She recovered first. "I'm Lady Georgina Maitland from the manor. What's your name?"

The boy merely stared.

"Best to nod when a lady talks to you, lad," Harry said.

She frowned. "I hardly think that's necessary."

But the boy tugged his forelock and dipped his head.

Lady Georgina sidled into the room. She'd thrown a bed linen over her gown from the night before. Harry remembered he'd torn the bodice. "Do you know his name?" she whispered in his ear.

He shook his head. "Would you like tea? I don't have much else. Some bread and b.u.t.ter."

Lady Georgina brightened, whether at the offer of food or something to do he wasn't sure. "We can make toast," she said.

Harry c.o.c.ked an eyebrow, but she'd already found the bread and b.u.t.ter, the knife, and a bent fork. She hacked at the bread and sawed off a shapeless lump.

All three of them stared at it.

She cleared her throat. "I think cutting may be more of a man's job." She handed the knife to Harry. "Now, don't make the slices too thick or they won't toast and they'll have that awful spongy bit in the center. And it's important they're not too thin or they'll burn, and I detest burnt toast, don't you?" She turned to the boy, who nodded his head.

"I'll do my best," Harry said.

"Good. I'll b.u.t.ter. And I suppose"-she looked critically at the boy-"you can toast. You do know how to toast bread properly, don't you?"

The lad nodded and took the fork as if it were the sword of King Arthur.

Soon there was a pile of crusty bread, dripping with b.u.t.ter, in the center of the table. Lady Georgina poured tea, and the three of them sat down to break their fast.

"I wish I could just stay here," she said, licking b.u.t.ter from her fingers, "but I suppose I shall have to return to the manor at least to dress properly."

"Did you leave word to have the carriage come for you?" Harry asked. If she hadn't, he would lend her his horse.

"I saw a carriage this morning," the boy piped up.

"You mean waiting on the drive?" Lady Georgina asked.

"No." The boy swallowed a huge mouthful. "It was going up the drive at a gallop, fair flew by, it did."