The Marquess and the Maiden(21)

"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.