“Harry.”

“Dearling.”

“Tup me, Harry.”

And he thrust hard, in surprise and in pure lust. Good God, 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 cock 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 buttoning his shirt.

He started into the other room and heard a faint scrape. 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.”