“Because I’m not what you think I am,” Harry said evenly as he advanced around the table toward her. “I’m not a servant to jump to your bidding and then lie down when you’ve done with me.” His voice was deepening. “I’m not someone you can dismiss like those footmen, like everyone else in this manor. I’m a man with blood in his veins. If you start something with me, don’t expect me to turn into a lapdog, panting at your call.” Harry seized her upper arms and drew her against his hard body. “Don’t expect me to be your servant.”

George blinked. The idea of confusing this man, who fairly crackled with danger, with a lapdog was absurd.

He drew a finger slowly across the edge of her bodice, watching her reaction. “What do you want with me, my lady?”

Her breasts seemed to swell. “I . . .” She couldn’t think while he touched her; she didn’t know what to say. What did he need to hear? George looked around the room for help but saw only the piles of food and dishes. “I’m not sure, really. I don’t have any experience in this.”

He dipped two fingers below her bodice and brushed her nipple. She shuddered. Oh, my. Harry pinched the nipple, sending sparks all the way to her most private places. George closed her eyes.

She felt his breath caress her cheek. “When you figure it out, my lady, let me know.”

He closed the door quietly behind him.

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Bennet walked into the Cock and Worm at just after midnight that evening. The tavern was crowded and loud at that hour, the smoke from innumerable pipes hovering in a cloud near the ceiling. Harry sat in a dark corner and watched young Mr. Granville move with the overly cautious gait of a man who was already the worse for drink. Walking into a disreputable place like the Cock and Worm with one’s senses impaired wasn’t a particularly bright thing to do, but that wasn’t Harry’s worry. An aristocrat gambling with his own safety wasn’t his business—now or ever.

Harry took a pull from his mug and switched his gaze to the two local harlots drumming up trade. The younger of the wenches, a blonde, sat on a ruddy-faced man’s lap. Her titties were right under his chin—as if she was worried he was near-sighted. The man’s eyes were glazed, and the harlot made stealthy movements at the front of his trousers. It wouldn’t be long before the two came to an understanding.