Unraveling the Earl, Book 3 in the Idyllwild series:
The Earl of Hastings’s reputation as London’s greatest gift to the ladies has taken on a life of its own, one he is only too happy to live up to in one Mayfair bedchamber after another. Until he encounters a lady more interested in poking around his country estate than sampling his lauded charms.
Georgiana Buchanan is possessed of murky morals, skewed notions of right and wrong, a talent for dancing around the truth, and a penchant for crashing weddings, funerals and charity balls.
When Georgie catches Henry’s roving eye, she turns the tables on the arrogant scoundrel, introducing him to a world of sensual delights and unraveling his vaunted control before fleeing into the night.
Henry is determined to make the elusive Georgiana his mistress while the lady wants only to use his desire to further her own schemes. When they find themselves marooned at Idyllwild during a summer storm, they will both discover they’ve gotten more than they bargained for.
The great lummox was lounging at the table with a napkin tucked into the lapels of his brocade dressing gown when Georgie emerged from the bathing room after twenty minutes spent attempting to rid her body of his seed.
With a pheasant leg in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other, Hastings looked up from the table with a lopsided smile that did queer things to her insides. Which infuriated her to no end.
She breezed by him in search of her gown only to come up short when she did not find it lying on the floor where she’d left it. She spun about to face him, battling to hold on to her temper. “Where are my clothes?”
“I sent them to be pressed,” he answered, ducking his head over his plate. “The servants will return them in the morning.”
She opened her mouth to demand that he fetch them back immediately. She could hardly sneak about his house naked. And she had no intention of remaining under his roof until morning.
But he was tucking into his dinner as if he hadn’t eaten in three days and drinking brandy like it was water.
Surely he would be snoring in his bed before long.
With that thought uppermost in her mind, Georgie marched to his dresser and rifled through the drawers until she found rows of pressed white shirts. Removing one she pulled it over her head and rolled up the sleeves before turning to wander about the perimeter of the room. She extinguished every candle in the sconces that dotted the walls until the room was a patchwork of dark shadows and golden light from a handful of tapered candles spaced about the room.
Two orgasms, a little food, a quantity of brandy and a darkened room ought to put the lord to sleep.
Georgie joined Hastings at the table, dropping into the empty chair with a sigh.
“Sure and that was poorly done, my lord,” she admonished, lifting the lid of a silver platter to find an entire roast pheasant, less the leg his lordship was currently devouring, swimming in a congealing sauce of some sort.
“Why did you run off?” he asked. “I had every intention of seeing to your pleasure just as soon as I’d regained my wits.”
Seeing to her pleasure? Was it possible the man did not realize she’d climaxed the moment he’d breached her body?
If the cocky lord couldn’t recognize a woman in the throes of a rollicking good release nor pull out before reaching his own, he most assuredly did not deserve the reputation he’d somehow earned. Nor did he deserve to be enlightened. In fact he deserved to be tormented a bit.
“No need,” she assured him, dropping the lid with a clatter. “I saw to it myself.”
Hastings made a choking sound and she darted a quick glance his way as she lifted another lid. He was staring at her from comically round eyes, a flush spreading over his cheeks.
“You saw to your own pleasure?” he croaked out. “Just now? In my bathing room?”
“I’m sorry,” she replied, her temper falling away at the look of astonishment on his face. She peered into the second platter. Shaved beef on toast swimming in gravy. “Did you want to watch?”
“Sweet mercy,” he murmured.
“Does one of these dishes contain vegetables?”
“Would you allow me to watch you…” He waved his hand about, dripping sauce on the tablecloth.
“Bring myself to climax?” she finished for him, finally finding a porcelain dish filled with potatoes and white beans in butter.
“That is a sight I would truly love to see.”
“I imagine one woman diddles herself much like the next.” Georgie heaped potatoes and beans onto her plate before slathering butter on two thick slices of bread.
Lord Hastings watched her, both elbows propped on the table, his fowl forgotten in his hand.
“Or perhaps not,” she considered, delighted by his wonder despite her intention to remain untouched by his boyish charm. “Perhaps some women use the right hand while others use the left.”
“Which do you use?”
“The right. The left is for tweaking my titties.”
Hastings dropped the pheasant leg onto his plate and fell back against his chair with a groan.
Georgie let him stew on that while she dug into her meal, discovering with the first bite that she was quite ravenous.
And why not? She’d been pacing the warped boards of her rented rooms for the better part of three days with her stomach in knots, undone by the news that the Countess of Hastings had passed away.
“You’ve beautiful breasts,” the earl said some minutes later.
Looking up from her plate she eyed him suspiciously, not at all certain he wasn’t toying with her.
“Truly,” he assured her with a grin. “Quite the loveliest titties I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” she replied on a huff of laughter.
“Your nipples are like ripe berries,” he continued, his eyes dropping to her chest.
Georgie looked down, not the least bit surprised to see the sensitive buds clearly visible beneath the fine cotton of his shirt. Under their combined regard, the tight buds hardened and lengthened, pressing against the fabric. Heat pooled between her legs and it was all she could do not to squirm in her seat.
She might have erred when she’d decided to torture the man for his transgressions, most specifically spending his seed in her body and failing to recognize the gift of her climax. The diddling of her quim and fondling of her nipples likely weren’t subjects destined to put the earl to sleep.
“Eat your dinner, my lord,” she murmured, plucking up another piece of bread and heaping butter on it.
“Henry,” he corrected, apparently not inclined to adhere to her gentle command. “I’d much rather eat your berries.
“Does that sort of nonsense customarily work for you?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Eat your berries,” she mimicked. “Play my pipe. Has that ever worked for you?”
“I seem to recall you on your knees before me not too long ago,” he pointed out with a soft chuckle.
“It wasn’t because you’d compared your prick to a pipe, of that you can be certain,” she replied, amused by his arrogance.
“I don’t give a fig as to the why of it,” he said.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” she agreed knowing full well he’d be less than pleased if he knew the true reason she’d fallen to her knees before him.
Where to find Lynne: