"I can't think when you're this close to me," she murmured.
"Blissful, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Feeling, doing-that is far more enjoyable. Thinking. It's overrated."
"That's a very hedonistic view of things."
He stepped back and shrugged. "Indeed."
She set her hands on her hips. "You are supposed to be inside meeting women and narrowing down your prospective brides. Not out here dallying with me."
"How is it possible you still doubt my desire?"
She waved her hand. He was the silliest of men. But something dark clouded over his eyes, and he stepped closer to her. He gripped her hand and pulled it down, pressed it firmly to the front of his trousers.
"Do you feel that, Harriet? That is my desire for you. Lust so hard and deep that I had to stop kissing you for fear of spilling myself in my trousers like I was nothing more than a randy schoolboy." His gaze met hers, and she swore her heart stopped beating. "Do not, for a moment, think I am toying with you. I want you. In my bed. On this balcony. Shall I toss your skirts up and prove it right now?"
She swallowed. "That won't be necessary." She felt her own desire hot and damp between her legs. His words had that effect on her. That and his voice, his mouth, his face. Merely looking at his beautiful face made her want him, but she couldn't want him. He would break her heart. Of that she was certain.
"I have to go," she said.
He didn't fight her or try to make her stay. He dropped his hand from her and allowed her to turn and leave him alone on the balcony. She dared not go straight to Agnes; her friend was far too perceptive to not realize something had happened, that something was going on that Harriet was hiding.
She needed to focus, put her attention on discovering who Lady X was and why she was trying to destroy the Ladies of Virtue. As it was, the danger was increasing; Agnes had received a personal letter from the mysterious woman, as had two other members. This was quite clearly more than her wanting to expose the group; she knew at least some of the members by name, and a woman's reputation would never recover from that kind of public divulgence.
She stood off in the back of the ballroom, surveying the space. This was a success, that she could clearly see. But if he didn't propose to someone, other than her, on this weekend, then she would have failed. Murmurs surrounded her, and she latched on to a group to her right.
"I simply cannot believe she's here," one woman said.
"She's disgraceful," the other commented.
Harriet scanned the room and tried to determine of whom they were speaking. Then she caught a glimpse of the tall blond woman across from her. Lady Burgess. The woman who'd broken Oliver's heart. They'd been nearly betrothed before his accident. The most beautiful couple, people in London had called them. And after his injury, she had walked away. Evidently, she hadn't been able to handle his shortcomings, as they were.
The man next to her, his hand possessively against her back, was her husband. Lord Burgess, also extremely attractive in a hard, dark way. They were a stunning couple, though neither of them had any sort of kindness to them. They moved gracefully through the ballroom, speaking to people. Then Catherine seemed to look directly at her.
Certainly not, but then she felt him. Smelled him. He must be right behind her, but she didn't want to look. She saw the desire in Catherine's gaze from across the room. And then Harriet understood. He'd seen his former love and he'd been filled with desire and he'd simply grabbed the first woman he knew would be willing to accept his kisses out in the darkness. He'd used her to scratch an itch another woman had created.
She was the worst sort of fool.
She turned to him then, but his eyes weren't on Catherine, they were on her. Warm and full of heated desire.
"I'm afraid I have a headache. I'm going to retire for the evening, my lord," she said, then fled the room.
Chapter Eleven
Harriet sat still at the dressing table while her borrowed maid undid her coiffure. She wished Lottie was here so they could talk as they usually did during such rituals. Instead, Harriet was left with her most unwelcome and confusing thoughts.
She supposed she could go to her mother, but disclosing that Oliver had stolen not one but several kisses from her was not a conversation she longed to have with her parent. Nor did she want to go and find Agnes.
The young girl standing behind her did not meet Harriet's gaze in the mirror. She merely kept her focus on her task and unwound the curls after pulling them free from their confining pins. Tears pricked at her eyes, which was foolish. She had no claim on Oliver. Not only that, but if she wanted him, she could certainly have him; he'd proposed enough times. But she didn't want to be in a marriage knowing her husband wanted another woman.
She hated how easily Oliver was able to make her want him. Make her behave in such an improper way. He made her a wanton. It was unexpected and terrifying. And if she were completely honest with herself … liberating. Still, she could not afford to get swept up in the passion he promised, especially since he'd been using her only for convenience, because the woman he wanted was unattainable.
The fact that all of that made her chest ache meant nothing. It was the sting of his long-ago rejection coming back to haunt her. She wasn't the same girl she'd been then. She was stronger, knew more of what she wanted.
Once all of her hair was free, the girl picked up the hairbrush, but Harriet shook her head.
"That will be all. I'll brush it."
The maid bobbed and left the room, leaving her with her thoughts and unresolved desire swimming through her body.
…
He recognized that he was tempting fate. He could easily wait until the following day to explain to Harriet that she'd misunderstood the situation. But the idea of her hurting had led him to the darkened corridor down from her bedchamber.
Oliver waited until the lady's maid had left her room. He didn't bother knocking; she wouldn't let him in if he had. So he simply opened Harriet's bedchamber door and stepped inside. She stood from her dressing table at the sight of him, clutching a hairbrush to her chest. Her golden waves fell about her shoulders.
His mouth went dry.
Her dressing gown covered her perfectly modest shift. She was covered neck to feet, wrist to shoulder. The only bit of skin he could see, besides her face and hands, were her toes peeking out beneath the white fabric. Still, he found her so damned appealing.
"My lord, what are you doing in here?"
"I needed to see you, to speak with you."
She shook her head. "Please don't. I cannot take much more of your torment." She bit down on her lip.
"Sweet Harriet, I know what you think. I know you saw Catherine."
She swallowed visibly, still clutched the brush to her chest. "I did. She is as beautiful as ever."
"That she is. She and her husband make a striking couple, indeed."
Her chest rose with her deep breath. "I was surprised you added her to the guest list."
He shook his head. "I didn't. She and Burgess came with our neighbors. I would never have invited her. I have no reason to want to see her."
"Oliver, this isn't proper. You must go."
He strode toward her. "I want you to answer one question, then I will leave if you insist."
"Very well."
"Why is it you believe me to be lying about my desire for you?"
She frowned. But the pink staining her cheeks belied her irritation, boldly declaring her embarrassment, and dare he hope, her desire for him. "You could have had me. Six years ago, our mothers had made an agreement. I offered myself to you, despite your rudeness. You were quite clear then that you did not want me."
Six years ago he hadn't been worth anyone's time, let alone their fortune. "That had nothing to do with you." He tipped her chin up so he could look into her eyes. "I refused to marry any woman for her dowry."
"You were marrying Catherine for hers." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "That matters not, and I shouldn't have said it. You and she had a very different relationship."
"Yes, we did. One built on lies and deceit and evidently, outward perfection, though I hadn't realized that had been part of the deal." Even now, knowing she walked away because of his injury, because he wasn't a whole man, ate at him. There was nothing he could do to change the man he'd become.
"I didn't reject you or refuse you because I didn't find you attractive, Harriet." He ran a finger down her cheek. "And don't, for a moment, think that what we have, whatever this is between us, has anything to do with Catherine or anyone else." He bent and took her mouth. He reserved his ardor, giving only the sweetest of kisses.
She melted against him, sighing into his mouth. Her unrestrained breasts pressed to his chest, and he could feel the weight of them. Despite her lack of stays, he cursed the layers she did wear. He angled his head and deepened the kiss, and she opened for him. He marveled at the feel of her, the taste of her. He pressed his hand to her back, holding her tightly against him. Desire, heavy and thick, raged through him, settling in his groin. His erection pressed against the front of his trousers, but he ignored the pressure. He would not take her tonight, but he would taste her, watch her come apart in his arms.