The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(78)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“My lady?” He gently pushed in. Ah, God, so tight.

She clutched him as if she would never let him go. And that was fine with him. He was more than glad to stay right here for eternity. Or maybe a little farther in.

He shoved again. “Oh, Harry,” his lady sighed.

Someone pounded on the door.

She started, squeezing him inside. He bit back a groan. “George? Are you all right?” One of the brothers. Harry withdrew a little and thrust carefully. Tenderly. “Answer him.”

“Is it locked?” His lady arched her back as he thrust. “Is the door locked?”

He grit his teeth. “No.” He wrapped his hands around her bare rump.

The pounding started again. “George? Should I come in?” His lady panted.

He somehow grinned through his terrible desire. “Should he?” He thrust deeply, burying himself in her heat. Whatever happened, he wasn’t fleeing. He didn’t think he could, anyway.

“No,” she gasped. “What?” From the door. “No!” she yelled. “Unh. Go away, Tony! Harry and I need to converse a little longer.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “Converse?”

She glared at him, her face flushed and damp. “You’re sure?” Tony apparently cared deeply for his sister.

Harry knew he would appreciate that fact later. He brought one hand to where he was joined with her. He touched her.

“Yes!” she screamed. “Fine, then.” Footsteps retreated.

His lady wrapped her legs high over his hips and leaned forward to bite his mouth. “Finish it.”

His eyes half closed at the feel, the perfection, of her. This was his lady, and he was going to claim her. His chest filled with gratitude that he’d been given this second chance.

But she was still waiting. “As you wish.” He pressed his thumb firmly on her and at the same time thrust hard and quick, shaking the table.

“Oh, my Lord!” she moaned. “Bite my shoulder,” he panted, picking up his pace even more.

He felt the pinch even through his coat’s broadcloth. And then he burst within her, flinging his own head back and grinding his teeth to keep from shouting in ecstasy. “God!”

His entire body trembled in the aftermath, and he had to prop one arm on the table to brace both of them. He locked his knees to stay upright and gasped, “Will you marry me, my lady?”

“You’re asking now?” Her voice was weak.

At least he wasn’t the only one affected. “Yes. And I’m not leaving until you give me an answer.”

“WHAT COULD THEY POSSIBLY be talking about this long?” Violet asked no one in particular. She shivered and wished she’d thought to bring a wrap. The church was chilly.

The vicar muttered and settled more deeply into a front pew. His eyes were closed. She suspected he’d fallen asleep.

She tapped her foot on the flagstones. When Harry and his friends had first shown up, it had been quite tense, exciting really, with all those swords waving about. She’d thought for sure that some type of fight would break out. She’d been all ready to start tearing up her underskirts in the proscribed manner should any blood be spilled. But as the minutes wore on, the gentlemen had begun to look, well, bored.

The big man with the scarred face started poking the tip of his sword into the cracks in the church flagstones. The elegant-looking man was glaring at the big man and lecturing him on the proper maintenance of blades. The third man in Harry’s group had brown hair and was wearing a terribly dusty coat. That was all she knew about him because his back was to everyone else as he idly inspected the church’s stained-glass windows. He had a small boy by his side and appeared to be pointing out to him the biblical scenes depicted in the glass.

Meanwhile, Oscar, Ralph, Cecil, and Freddy, the defenders of George’s honor, were arguing about the correct way to hold a sword. Ralph’s eye was swollen and turning greenish yellow, and Oscar was limping. She’d have to find out about that later.

Violet sighed. It was all rather disappointing. “I say, aren’t you de Raaf?” Tony had returned from knocking on the vestry with an odd, almost embarrassed expression. He addressed the scarred man. “The Earl of Swartingham, I mean?”

“Yes?” The big man frowned ferociously. “Maitland here.” Tony stuck out his hand.

Lord Swartingham stared at the proffered appendage for a moment, then sheathed his sword. “How d’you do?” He tilted his head toward the elegant man. “This is Iddesleigh, viscount.”

“Ah, indeed.” Tony shook hands with him as well. “Heard of you, de Raaf.”

“Oh?” The big man looked wary. “Yes.” Tony was unperturbed. “Read a manuscript of yours a while back. About crop rotation?”

“Ah.” The big man’s face cleared. “Do you practice crop rotation on your lands?”

“We’ve begun to. We’re a bit farther north than you, and peas are a major crop in the area.”

“And barley and swedes,” Oscar cut in. He and Ralph wandered over.

“Naturally,” Lord Swartingham murmured.

Swedes? Violet stared. They were discussing farming as if they were at an afternoon tea. Or rather, in this case, at the neighborhood tavern.

“Sorry.” Tony indicated his brothers. “This is Oscar and Ralph, my younger brothers.”

“How d’you do?”

Another round of masculine handshaking.

Violet shook her head dumbly. She would never, never, never understand the human male.

“Oh, and this is Cecil and Freddy Barclay.” Tony cleared his throat. “Cecil was to marry my sister.”

“Not anymore, I fear,” Cecil said ruefully.

They all chuckled, the boobies. “And you must be the little sister,” a male voice said in her ear.

Violet whirled to find Harry’s third friend standing behind her. He’d left the boy kicking his heels in a pew. Up close, the man’s eyes were a beautiful green, and he was suspiciously handsome.

Violet narrowed her own eyes. “Who are you?” “Granville, Bennet Granville.” He bowed.

Violet didn’t curtsy. This was too confusing. Why would a Granville be helping Harry?

“Lord Granville nearly killed Mr. Pye.” She scowled up at Bennet Granville.

“Yes, I’m afraid he’s my father.” His smile slipped a bit. “Not my fault, I assure you. I had very little to do with my conception.”