Her gaze clasped to his, crisp and direct, impervious to his taunt. “You wanted me to level myself with the poor street-walkers?” She taunted back with a slight grin stretching those lips that had—
“Sit,” he invited as a delay tactic. When it came to business, he was an old fox. And he’d use just about anything to get what he wanted.
He took his seat, so she’d follow.
“I prefer to stand. Thank you.” When it came to business, she was a natural.
Harris reopened the ledger, curious to see what she listed. And his gaze darted back to her. “You included that morning I dropped in at home.” The knowledge led to a ball of fire to erupt from the depths of his guts. That she even remembered that morning counted as a solace. That she’d charged for it caused something to shift in him.
“I did your bidding as specified in our contract.” And who was he to go against such a logical argument? She operated in the same logic as him, and the fact made nothing easier. It only drove home that she could stand on equal ground, exchange equal currency. And if any bastard ever told him again that women were fragile and emotional, he’d thrash the scoundrel to an inch of his life for his prejudiced concepts.
He’d have done the same.
He did the same. With her.
Something came crashing down on him like a whole bottle of burning whisky. More than guilt, it was the awareness that if he let her, she’d slip away. She’d leave him as easily as taking a trip to Bath. She’d wash herself clean of him as though he’d never touched her, taken her; gone insane with her—in her. And that guilt joined a sour, shaking feeling too much like loss.
“Of course, you did.” He forced his voice through the lump lodging in his windpipe.
“Were I to include the virgin auctions Madame told me about, I might have doubled the amount.”
At that, he sprang from the chair so suddenly that it smashed on the floor. “Your virginity has nothing to do with this!” he roared, baring his teeth with a savage urge to pounce on her, throw her over his shoulder and take her to his bed. Show her they were more than numbers on a ledger.
“Why not?” Her delicate brows arched, those tragic lips curled. “I gave it to you, didn’t I?”
That she chose to say ‘I gave’ instead of ‘you took’ didn’t relieve him. Of the deed or of his role in it. He took her maidenhead, and he took it almost beating on his chest with triumph. He’d do it again, without regret, without guilt. Without a second thought.
But he mustered his last shred of strength to huff a nonchalant grin. “If you gave it to me, it was mine to take.”
She shrugged, damn her! As though it meant nothing—nothing!—to her. “According to the ledger, the debt is paid at any rate.” Her head tilted as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet. “Which means I’m free to go.”
He marched to her and halted mere inches from her head-to-toe-clad form. “You’re free when I say you are!” he hurled in a low command that brokered no argument.
Probably, nobody told this to his little shrew because she’d not take the hint. “It’s black on white.” That prominent, delicious chin of hers jerked at the ledger. “You demanded my services as payment, and I supplied them. It’s done.”
She was about to beat him in his own game. Corner him into a check-mate not even his canniest competitor had ever succeeded in doing. It felt like a punch in the pit of his stomach and, if he didn’t watch it, he’d be doubling over with the shock she inflicted on him. No, not shock, the word was pain. With the pain of the blow. A pain he had no idea where it came from, hated anyone who did. Would kill anyone who accused him of feeling pain in a business transaction!
“We’re not.” He tamped down his temper enough to drawl it with a cynical ring. “We’ll never be done.” To stretch his lips in a dismissive grin felt like stretching a block of concrete. “You’ll always scream when I’m inside you.” The words flooded her cheeks with vermillion. “I can sense your arousal even now. You want me in the same way I want you. There’s no end.” Harris was seething with the prospect of being left. More precisely, with the prospect of being left by her!
Her hands flew to her slim waist as her head fell back, and her eyes bored into his very soul. “Whatever my feelings, they don’t play a role in this.” Her delectable breasts nearly touched his waistcoat, and he had to confess that his feelings were playing an enormous role in this. Mind the term—enormous! “We had an arrangement. It’s coming to a closure. You signed the papers; I signed them too. End of conversation.”
Both battled fiercely, not ceding ground. Their eyes locked irreducible. Harris’s guts whirled, a crushing sensation dropping them to his feet. His little shrew was slipping away through his fingers. Short of tying her to his bed, there was nothing he could do about it.
“All right,” he argued. “Fair enough.” His nostrils pulled air. Tying her to his bed began to sound like a very good idea. “Tonight will be our last, our farewell dinner. Tomorrow we part.” He negotiated, not ready to let go, to release this woman for her to fly away, choose another, allow another to touch her, give her pleasure. The bile that the thought shot through his veins would be enough to poison him until the end of his life.
She was his, exclusively, permanently. If any other snatched her from him, it would be like they flayed him alive. Ripped at his insides, maimed him, thrashed him. Reduced him to a useless mess.
“I don’t think so,” she replied firmly, her eyes directly on his. “I’ve already packed my portmanteau. And brought it with me. From here I’ll return to my home.”
Her home was with him, bleeding hell! For however long they lasted. The reality she planned all of this, that she chose to have this conversation in his office as any trivial dealing broke the dam of control he strove to keep. It burst and spread lava throughout his body. He held her shoulders and brought her flush to him, their bodies igniting with instant lust.
“Look me in the eyes,” he growled, “and tell me you don’t want one last night with me turning you inside out as I take you a million times, in a million ways.”
Ragged, both their breaths mingled in the two inches between their mouths.
He was going to kiss her into submission. He would suckle on her until she said yes. Lick her until she forgot there was a single spoken language in this world. Damn her for turning him into a pulp of hunger, of riotous emotions. A pulp of madness!
Talk about emotional creatures!
A loud yell and a bang against furniture sounded just outside the office before the door burst open.
“Darroch!” Haggard, Henry Brockton hollered as he stormed inside, Miller on his heels. “Where the hell is my cargo?”
Baron Enfield’s uncle contracted Darroch Shipping for a cargo from India. The ship had docked nearly a month ago, but the man was nowhere to be found and notified of the fact. Usually in his cups, he must have been lying around somewhere.
Harris put Edwina away from him in the same second, but Brockton certainly couldn’t unsee the scene he happened upon.
With a scowl, he stared at her. “Miss Whitman?” And the man knew her. “What are you doing here?”
It was none of his business, but Harris understood that a refined lady such as Edwina wouldn’t say this to his face.
“My father had dealings with Darroch Shipment.” Composed, she took the man on without hesitation. “I’m here on behalf of his interests.”
A quizzical expression appeared on his too red face as he narrowed his eyes and observed her and then Harris. “I see.”
“I was on my way out in any case.” The little shrew tried to slip away, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Mr Brockton,” Harris interjected before the man interfered even more. “Your cargo has been waiting for you for one month.” He turned to the clerk. “Please, Miller, take Mr Brockton to inspect it.”
Miller followed his orders and left them. “You stay,” he instructed Edwina as she’d already turned to
leave.
Her head pivoted to him. “No.” She looked at him with pleated brows, a pursed mouth, and in her beautiful eyes there was something akin to finality. “Goodbye, Harris.”
She made the five steps to the exit as though she was leaving a shop where nothing had interested her. Elegantly, she walked out and closed him inside quietly.
Harris stared at the vacated space before him with incredulity mixed with emptiness. His knees gave, and he sank on one of the chairs facing his desk.
When he raked his hair, his hand shook.
Edwina jostled in the hackney looking ahead but not seeing a thing. To think she had been an inch from falling for Harris’s parting night glib. If she had, he wouldn’t let go, and she wouldn’t have the strength to leave. Inside, hollowness flooded her. Her home awaited her. Her solitary, cold home. She tried to remember why she did this, why she did everything.
But the hollowness wouldn’t budge.
Since she had the idea of consulting Madame Lafond, she had recited to herself all the reasons why she had to break away from Harris. He was a libertine who collected women as she collected laces. He paid exorbitant sums to brothels. He lived to indulge in pleasure. And he had had no qualms in propositioning to her.
Even though nothing happened against her will, she’d never planned to become a mistress. He did it to her, transformed her into a woman who accepted to be at his beck and call. Transformed her into a woman who…
He transformed her into a woman.
Because of him, she discovered how much joy she could find in her own body. How much pleasure she and another could make together. And how sin and guilt were imposed on women by double standards.
All her life, she had been told that she’d marry as a virgin and become the property of a man whose name she’d carry. Her obligation would be to obey him, bear his children and clean up his mess.
Her time with Harris showed her none of these were necessary. That she could enjoy a man without being his property, without having to bear children. Enjoy him and regain her freedom whenever she wanted. No marriage needed to be involved in it. No exchange of her body for dubious security.
For what marriage came with guarantees? She’d heard so many cases of gambling debts, violence caused by drinking, husbands with countless mistresses, and abandoned wives without a way out.
Harris transformed her into a woman with options.
And she chose to be on her own. Because she convinced herself that a libertine was no choice at all. Sooner or later he’d tire of her. He’d seek variety, go back to frequenting brothels and rousing raucous parties. Funny though how none of that happened in these last weeks. Not one night had he been out carousing. He’d been with her.
Every night, all night.
Bestowing joy at her. And pleasure, and laughter, and cuddling.
Good gracious, what had she done?
She’d done the right thing, that’s what!
She couldn’t go on being his mistress forever; she risked being caught. And then what? Soil her reputation? Destroy her sister’s chances? Throw her family’s name in the mud?
No. She made the right decision. Kept her eye on her purpose, cleared her father’s debt, freed Philippa’s future. That’s the reason she cut ties with him. Reasonable and sensible.
She’d reach her home, do her work, deliver Madame Delamere’s order. Live her life peacefully and quietly.
And feed on memories. But that would be quite pleasant. Better living off memories than having none.
Though the hollowness persisted, she clamped it down. She’d not let doubts mar her feelings when she knew she’d done what she had to do.
The hackney halted in front of her house. She paid and came inside to a pile of correspondence Mrs Edson, the housekeeper, had placed on the entrance hall’s table. With a smile, she opened first her sister’s letter, and then her grandmother’s.
Harris lay in his bed between slumber and wakefulness. Eyes closed, he felt for the chit. As dawn announced itself, he was ready to take them both to paradise.
Where was the goddam woman? “Edwina,” he rumbled, certain she must be on the other side of the large bed.
His hungry body rolled over, his mouth seeking her warm skin. But all he found were freezing sheets.
Jumping to a sitting position, eyes snapping open, he met dim light. “Edwina!” The sheets slid down his naked torso as he looked around.
Then he remembered yesterday and fell back on the mattress with a groan. She had left. The despairing sense of loneliness that invaded him came so foreign that he punched the pillows until they burst in a cloud of feathers.
The rest of the previous afternoon had passed in a blur. There had been this utter need to trash his whole office to the point the furniture became good only for firewood.
Upon returning home, Hobson informed him of her departure, and he nearly threw all the servants in the street for letting her go. He’d wandered to her chambers only to see she cared not enough to take the clothes he bought her.
He’d been a second from grabbing all of them to throw them in the fire. Or bundle them in a mass of silk, ribbons and lace to carry them to her house and shove them into her arms. So she’d accept his gifts, his money.
Him.
The worst was that he nearly did it. At least he’d get to see her once more. And if he’d been lucky, ‘convince’ her to spend the night with him. Kiss her, caress her, murmur his raw plans for them, seduce her. And quench this thirst that wouldn’t give him peace.
He feared the thirst wouldn’t go, and the peace wouldn’t come.
Ever.
He’d give his entire fortune not to be feeling like this. Not to feel anything. The woman inveigled her way into his guts and blew him apart.
Oh, but he had no intention of letting her do this to him. Not a prissy miss like her who hid a siren beneath those drab dresses. Or a miss who melted under him and transformed the madness in his veins into an explosion of carnality.
Not her. Not this.
None of it.
Resolutely, he threw the bedcovers aside and sprang from the bed he’d always remember being in with her. Just like the desk in his study.
He should sleep in another room. He should change his study.
Buy another house.
If he requested a cold bath, the servants would think him crazy. And they’d probably be right.
A few evenings later, Harris invited every scoundrel of the ton to a raucous gathering at Madame Lafond’s. He closed the place, paying what the madame asked without hesitation.
In his best evening attire, a full tumbler of brandy in his hand, he sat by a dove. All around him the men drank and enjoyed the best Cyprians in town.
The chandeliers cast a bright light on the luxurious drawing room furnished with upholstered settees and armchairs. The sideboard offered an expensive dinner made by a French cook, and the footmen circulated with the best champagne and brandy.
“Darroch,” a voice sounded above him.
He looked up to see Brunswick and Worcester standing by his seat with a glass of champagne each. “Brunswick, you made it.” Gently excusing himself, he stood to greet his friend. “Good to see you, too, Worcester.
The marquess was one of the most inveterate rakes in town, wouldn’t miss this ode to pleasure for the life of him, Harris guessed, glad to have a partner in crime.
“What are we celebrating?” Brunswick asked. All around them, the girls wearing their finest dresses strove to entertain the guests.
Harris lifted his brandy in a toast and produced a smile that felt brittle. “Variety.”
His friend studied him in that quiet way of his. “Who is she?”
Harris tossed his brandy and laughed rather loud. The duke was too sharp for his own good.
“How careless of me.” He extended his hand to the dove who he’d sat with. “This is Eloise. Eloise, my love, have you met the Duke of Brun
swick and the Marquess of Worcester?”
“It’s a pleasure, Your Grace, my lord,” she curtsied with an artful smile.
“Delighted to meet you, Eloise,” the marquess manifested with an eager grin, looking around the room to find one for himself.
“Don’t play the stupid, Darroch.” Brunswick peered around him at the noisy gathering. “We all know that hurting men are incapable of staying home, sorting out tangled feelings. So, we go carousing.”
Damn the man! “Have you done that, too?” Harris threw back, the alcohol already snaking its way through his head. He understood he shouldn’t have asked; the man had lost his wife and child.
Undaunted, the duke shrugged. “Who hasn’t?”
“I can’t say I have,” he lied through his teeth. “This is just me being me.”
“Or me,” added Worcester.
“Enjoy yourself in that case.” Brunswick checked his pocket watch. “I’ll take my leave. Ducal duties to attend to in the morning.”
“You don’t think Thornton is making an appearance.” Though the answer was obvious.
His Grace huffed a laugh. “The Earl is besotted with his wife,” he said. The whole ton commented on their love match.
“How…domestic,” Harris derided. Staying the night in with only one woman. Who needed that? Then take her to his chambers, and cuddle in bed, and wake her with kisses at dawn. Talk about little nothings and cuddle some more. After a day’s work, open the library door and find her serenely reading or learning bookkeeping. Give her rewards in the study for being a quick pupil.
Only stupid men dreamed of that.
“Sometimes domestic is all we need,” Titus replied.
“As you can see,” he encompassed the place with a gesture of his glass. “I’m the exception.”
Titus lifted his brow. “You may fool yourself but not me.” Eloise slid her hand through Harris’s arm to attract his attention. “Send for me if you require help.” He bowed to both men before turning to the exit. Whereas Worcester excused himself to go greet a dove.
A small orchestra started the ball, and Eloise pulled Harris to dance.
Her Wicked LibertineEDIT Page 12
