The Countess and the Rake: A Super Hot Historical Romance by Georgette Brown

Author:Georgette Brown [Brown, Georgette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wind Color Press
Published: 2018-06-18T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

THE INNKEEPER CLEARED his throat uncomfortably as Lord Barclay’s nostrils flared. It was not the fault of the innkeeper, but Phineas could have killed the man. He rose to his feet and sauntered to the table with more calm than he felt.

“Would—would my lord care for some sherry?” Mr. Pettigrew stuttered. “Or a pudding? The missus bakes a mighty fine...”

“No,” Phineas replied.

Nodding, the innkeeper scurried away. Alone, Phineas sat down and retrieved his snuffbox. He sighed through his nose. The snuff was a poor substitute for the intoxication of Lady Lowry’s lips. After inhaling a dose of the tobacco, he turned to stare into the fire. His body needed time to cool. The blood drained slowly from his engorged shaft.

The Countess had consumed her wine too fast. He could see the glazed look in her eyes and the uncertainty of her movements. He could not know how much of her kiss was the effect of the wine, and he should be glad for the interruption of the innkeeper. Not that he had allowed a woman’s drunken state to stop him before, but he suspected Gertie was not practiced in holding her wine, and he would not take advantage of a vulnerability induced by wine.

God help him. He needed no wine. He was consumed by her. Even now, he could feel the softness of her lips upon his own, smell her scent upon him. Deprived of her presence, his body tortured itself with longing.

He would hardly have considered himself a romantic, but the firelight dancing upon her visage, stoking the glow in her eyes, had entranced him. Even the way her wet hair had became undone in the fury of their kiss he found appealing. A single rivulet of water had wound its way from her neck and down over the top of a breast. He wanted nothing but to crush her body to his, to feel those heavy orbs pressing against his chest.

He could hardly believe his luck when he had come upon her in the rain looking a miserable creature covered in mud. He knew few women who would have braved the dirt to fix the wheel of a carriage in drenching rain. He had shaken his head for once again she traveled without servants. Such a stubborn, self-sacrificing, selfless...admirable woman. He regretted having criticized her riding habit that day they rode back from the orphan asylum. Lady Lowry may have lacked any talent in the realm of fashion, but her attentions were more properly placed than many a fine dressed person. If only she would consider herself a more fitting priority.

Rising to his feet, he picked up the guilty bottle of burgundy and poured himself a glass. He thought about Gertie in her room. What would she think of him when she came to her senses? Might she abhor him more because this time she had returned his kiss? The blood coursed more strongly through him at the memory. His desire to devour her had overcome him. He could not endure her tears—tears that he had caused.

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