"Darling, those gems are not paste," her mother said.
Harriet shook her head. The rest of the basket was filled with delicious-smelling soaps and hair rinses, and then a small box of candies. She inhaled the rich aroma and offered one of the confections to her mother, who gracefully popped it in her mouth and sighed. Harriet herself chewed thoughtfully, the sugary treat melting on her tongue.
"Mother, you must send a message immediately requesting his presence. His mother can come along, but this must end."
Her mother smiled warmly. "I think you're upset for no reason. Look how thoughtful this is. Helen never received a basket of trinkets from any suitors."
Harriet paused at those words. They were true enough. Helen might not have received any such gifts, but she had received a declaration of love. No matter how many gifts he bestowed upon her, Harriet knew that Oliver wasn't a true suitor. He'd said the words aloud to her brother, he would never love her, could never love her.
"It's rather adorable. He's obviously quite smitten."
"He is not smitten." He is-what would she even call it-infatuated, in lust, insistent on making her life a confusing mess? "I am serious. If you do not send a message requesting his presence here I will go to his house alone."
"Grab your cloak and we'll go over there. I've been meaning to visit to see Claudine's newest tapestry."
Not a half hour later Harriet was led into Oliver's study, their mothers agreeing to keep a watchful eye while the "couple" was alone. She wanted to remind them that they were not a couple, but knew the protest would fall upon deaf ears.
He stood when his butler announced her. "Harriet." His silver eyes warmed at the sight of her.
"I got your basket."
He nodded. "Did you like it?"
"I liked some of it." She came forward, and he stepped around his desk, leaned against the carved mahogany. "This is not the way to win my affection."
"I never said I wanted your affection. I don't require your affection. I want you in my bed."
"Oliver, people do not marry simply because they desire a coupling," she whispered the last word.
"We have passion and desire between us, I can see that. Feel it. I know you feel it as well." He reached out and took her hand, pulled her closer to him. With him leaning his weight on the desk, he was able to release his cane and put both hands on her hips. He bracketed her between his strong thighs.
Her breath stuttered. "Oliver," she whispered.
"Tell me you feel it, too, Harriet. You desire me." He brought her right hand to his mouth, kissed the tip of each finger, then slid her index finger between his lips.
His warm mouth and tongue laved her finger, sucking gently. The sucking pulled at the hidden spot between her thighs. She swallowed.
He pulled her closer, put one of his large hands to her cheek, and leaned her to him. He kissed her, and she forgot everything save the sensations he evoked when his lips were on hers. His tongue slid against the seam of her mouth, and she parted for him, granting him entrance. Then a slide of their tongues together poured molten desire down her body, pebbling her nipples and drenching her pantaloons.
"Harriet, tell me how much you want me," he whispered against her lips.
When she didn't answer immediately, he kissed her again. This time with more hunger and ferocity. When he pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. He touched his forehead to hers.
"Harriet," he said.
"I want you, Oliver. My body wants you. You make my body want you." Her thoughts were incoherent, and her words came out thusly.
"Will you marry me?" he asked.
In that moment, she wanted to say yes. The word tickled her tongue, but she pulled herself out of his embrace. "I cannot."
He closed his eyes and exhaled. "You are tormenting me."
"That is not my intention, my lord."
"There is no legitimate reason for us to not marry."
"There is most assuredly a good reason to not marry. You do not love me."
His features darkened, and he gripped his cane tightly, his knuckles whitened. "What you think of as love is nothing more than fantasy. People mistake desire and lust for love. That sort of love only exists within the pages of poetry and fiction."
"Please stop sending me gifts," she said.
"It is customary for a man to buy presents for the woman he is wooing. Tokens of his affection, as it were."
She shouldn't ask. She knew she shouldn't, but the words would not stop. "The flowers?"
His nostrils flared slightly. "You understood their meaning?"
"I wasn't sure you did," she said. "In any case, you should spend your money on something far more worthwhile. Like orphans and the like. Not purchasing me baubles I have no use for." She winced at her own words. "My apologies, my lord, I do not mean to sound ungrateful. I am truly flattered by your attention. But it is unnecessary."
"The country house party is this weekend," he said.
"It is. I shall find you a wife."
He nodded, then turned his back to her and walked to the window. "I shall see you there, Harriet."
And with that he effectively dismissed her. She knew if she went to him, pressed her face to his broad back the way she truly desired, he'd take her. Give her all the passion her body so desperately ached for, likely right there on that plush rug before the fireplace. Good heavens, he was turning her into a complete wanton.
Chapter Nine
Were it not for Lady Davenport, this country house party would never have come together so quickly. Guests were expected to begin arriving the following day, and Harriet was full of nerves. She hadn't seen Oliver much in the intervening time, deciding it was best to avoid him and concentrate on the planning. Thus, she hadn't had to endure any more of his senseless flirting and wicked tongue.
She and Agnes had made certain to include members of the Ladies of Virtue so they could observe them. The first step in uncovering the mysterious Lady X's identity would be to eliminate the possibility that she was one of their own.
Harriet and her mother and Lady Davenport had ridden up together while Oliver traveled separately. She hadn't yet seen him since her arrival but had been instructed to meet him on the balcony off the ballroom.
He stood with his back to her, wearing only his trousers and shirt. The pants molded to his bottom and thighs and made her wonder what those muscles would look like without the hindrance of clothing. The white shirt accented the breadth of his shoulders and, when he turned to face her, revealed a swatch of bronzed skin at his throat and chest. His forearms were also uncovered, as the shirt had been pushed up to his elbows.
It wasn't indecent, but more skin than was proper. Her mouth dried. When her eyes finally reached his face, she found him smirking at her, one brow arched in a question.
"You asked to see me," she said, tilting her chin. Though the movement usually made her feel a modicum taller, in his presence, it did nothing.
"My mother has suggested I should shave and cut my hair. I recall you have also said as much." He walked toward her until he stood right in front of her.
She barely reached his chest. "It is a good idea, especially considering how some of the girls in London spoke about you at that last ball." She looked up at him and gracious if it wasn't as if she were staring directly into the sun. Why did he have to be so beautiful? It was maddening. "It makes you look old," she lied.
He held up a hand. "Do not repeat what they said."
Harriet swallowed a laugh. She suspected no one would be fond of being compared to Ebenezer Scrooge. "Well, you might be a miser, but you're not old, and we need to show them that. I seem to remember you having quite a handsome face."
He smiled slowly, a wolf appraising his next meal. "You think me handsome?"
"Your face."
"That is the same thing."
"It is of no consequence."
"On the contrary. When the woman I want to marry declares she finds me attractive, it is of monumental consequence."
"You are not still on about that?"
"Sweet Harriet, let us not fight." He pointed behind her. "Look, it is all set up for you."
She turned to find a chair and a tea cart that had been temporarily turned into a barber's station. "I am to watch you get shaved?"
He walked to the chair and lowered himself down. "No, you are to shave me. And cut my hair."
Something about the tone in his voice and the angle of his shoulders told her arguing would be futile and only delay the inevitable.
Harriet circled him, scissors in hand. She stood behind him and grabbed a length of his hair. It was softer than she'd expected, and she had to resist the urge to simply run her fingers through all of it. She swallowed.