‘It feels very enjoyable.’
Marc chuckled. ‘If you wish to become a harlot you will have to do a lot better than that. A man’s feelings will suffer irreparable harm if he only makes you enjoy his attentions.’
Her head bobbed up. ‘I must flatter you?’
‘Absolutely.’ God’s beard, Marc had smiled more in the past week in Harri’s company than he had in more than a year. ‘Let your inhibitions go, relax, and allow me to take you on a journey of discovery.’
He set about igniting her passions in earnest, refusing to yield to her impatience.
‘An experienced paramour would know better than to rush a man’s pleasures,’ he cautioned, enjoying himself immensely as he leaned over and observed her features contorted with desire.
‘Then she has my sympathy. Her profession is harder work than I envisaged.’
‘Tell me what you feel now.’
She gasped. ‘I feel as though every part of my body is on fire,’ she said, her wide eyes clouded with arousal.
‘Then you begin to understand the true meaning of passion.’
Marc wondered if he had been right to submit to his wife’s request. Even as he aroused her desires, and his own, he felt he was the one under instruction but failed to understand what lesson he was being taught.
They climaxed together and Marc immediately withdrew, thinking to repair to his own chamber. Except he didn’t have one. He would have to spend the entire night with his wife cradled in his arms. He hadn’t stopped to consider that possibility when he decided to visit her.
Of course, he had not.
Chapter Sixteen
Harriet woke with the dawn—alone. Only a dented pillow and the lingering essence of Marc indicated he had been there—minimal reminders of his demanding touch as he transported them both to a place that gave their relationship structure, meaning and hope. Or would have, Harriet thought mutinously, had his cold manner not returned immediately their intimacies came to an end. He had no choice but to share her bed but turned away from her and went directly to sleep.
He had not even lingered to break his fast with her and must have slipped from her bed before daylight without her being aware of it. Harriet sighed, obliged to concede that in spite of her best efforts to please him, his dratted mistress must still have first claim upon his affections.
She attended to her ablutions, a strange sense of disquiet gripping her as she mentally planned her day. She would immerse herself in the business of producing the best barrels of cider her daring new combination of apples could facilitate. It was an effective way of shutting out the brutal knowledge that Marc bedded her for the sole purpose of begetting an heir. She had always known it—he had never misled her in that respect—but it still rankled.
‘I reckon we’ve done it, Miss Harri!’ Ben said a short time later, so animated that he forgot about her new title as he savoured the taste of their latest brew.
‘So do I, Ben,’ she agreed, nodding as she too took a taste. ‘This is the best we have ever produced. The additional percentage of bittersweet apples was the key all along.’
Ben looked sheepish. ‘Yet I advised you against the experiment, if you recall.’
‘It was a risk.’ She ushered the recovered puppy in front of her as they left the fermenting shed. Freddie yapped at the slops buckets and gave them a wide berth. She was annoyed that images of Marc’s handsome features, enhanced by rare laughter lines as he lifted the inebriated puppy out of harm’s way, sprang to the forefront of her mind. She really must forget all about making him fall in love with her. It was impossible to win the heart of a man who did not possess one. ‘But sometimes fortune favours the brave.’
‘That it does, Miss Harri. That it does.’
The day passed in a whirl of activity, as did the next one. Harriet was more tired than ever when she finally retired for the night. She fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, but was woken in the early hours by little Freddie barking frenetically. He had been sound asleep across her feet until that moment. Harriet sat up, still drowsy, wondering what could have disturbed him. She strained her ears and heard the faint sound of broken glass being trampled on by what sounded like an army on the march.
She froze. Someone was in the house and making little effort to disguise his presence. What should she do? Her room was immediately at the top of the stairs, from where she could clearly hear the sound of the rooms below being systematically searched. None of the others were likely to hear. The boys and Mr. Swift were on the floor above and the sound wouldn’t reach them there. Her mother was next door to her but always slept too soundly for anything to disturb her. Charlotte and Mrs. Forbes were at opposite ends of the corridor, well away from the noise.
Slipping into her robe and tying the belt tightly around her waist, Harriet’s hands were shaking so violently it took her several attempts to strike a light from the tinder box. She turned up the wick on her lamp and placed the flame to it, reassured when the familiar surroundings were illuminated and proved to be devoid of intruders. Squaring her shoulders and gulping down her apprehension, she picked up the poker and opened her door as loudly as possible. If the miscreants received notice that they had been disturbed, then surely they would flee?
Freddie flew down the stairs, barking loudly enough to rouse the rest of the household. Hopefully, that would bring Mr. Swift to investigate. Harriet briefly contemplated wasting more precious time by running up to the next floor and rousing him herself, but decided against it. She didn’t wish to expose her brothers to unnecessary danger, and they would never agree to remain in their room amidst all the excitement.
Anger surged through her, effectively dispelling her fears. How dare these people attempt to steal her family’s belongings! They didn’t have much, but the possessions they did own were precious to her and she was damned if she would stand by and meekly permit these opportunistic ne’er-do-wells have their way.
Unsure quite how she proposed to stand up to the thugs, she knew for a certainty as she descended the stairs there were more than one of them. She could hear them talking quite openly to one another. Harriet pondered her options, never once considering retreat. Her only defence against the burglars, apart from an enthusiastic puppy and a sturdy poker, was her sense of righteous indignation. That and the element of surprise. They would never expect a defenceless woman to face them, would they?
‘Who’s there?’ she shouted loudly, hoping the sound of her voice would cause the villains to flee. She was cheered by the sound of other doors opening above her, and the even more welcome sound of Mr. Swift’s feet rapidly descending from the upper landing.
‘Wait, Your Grace!’ he shouted. ‘Wait for me. Don’t approach them. The duke will hold me responsible if you are harmed.’
Harriet’s last thought as she entered the hall and confronted the two bulky intruders was that she should have heeded his advice. The larger thug, a bull of a man, leered at her, his features contorted into a parody of a smile as he made her an exaggerated bow.
‘Here she is, at last,’ he said to his partner in crime, whose features she couldn’t make out in the gloom, but who seemed vaguely familiar. ‘Good evening, Your Grace. We thought you would never wake.’
She gasped when she registered the flash of a knife in his hand aimed directly at her heart. Panic flared. She was trapped between the stairs and the two oafs who had obviously come with the express intention of killing her. Harriet closed her eyes and thought of Marc, of her breakthroughs with the cider, of her family…of all the compelling reasons she had to continue living. The clock ticked loud, the men’s breathing sounded laboured, the pounding feet above her head louder still. But her rescuers would never arrive in time.
She opened her eyes again. The knife was still there and the men looked ruthlessly determined. But passivity did not sit well with Harriet. She gripped her poker more tightly, concealing it within the folds of her robe, in the split second it took he
r to realise that she must either act or die. Could she drive the poker into the knife-wielder’s groin before he struck? Why had he not attacked her already?
Because he enjoyed seeing her squirm, Harriet realised. All bullies liked to intimidate, but Harriet was in no mood to be cowed. No, it was more than that. The fool was gawping at her body, clearly defined beneath the thin robe and smacking his lips in appreciation. But he couldn’t afford to enjoy the view for long. Mr. Swift was almost upon them. Her attacker seemed to realise it and moved his knife arm. At the same moment Harriet thrust the poker forward with as much force as she could muster, causing the intruder to grunt but not drop the knife. Freddie joined the fray at that point, either instinctively protecting Harriet or thinking it was a game—she neither knew nor cared which. The puppy sank his needle-sharp teeth into the man’s ankle, and it was that which caused him to miss his mark.
With a string of violent oaths he dropped his knife hand lower as he tried to shake the puppy off. Harriet felt a searing pain in her thigh. She dropped both the lamp and poker and crumpled to the floor. Her head struck the newel post a hefty blow and then blessed oblivion claimed her.
Marc left Matlock House, confident that once he reached the capital he would be able to set aside the disquieting mood which contact with his wife was making a habit of engendering. And if immersing himself in his business affairs and indulging his passion for cards didn’t do the trick, then a long overdue visit to Elisa Tucker in Chelsea would put his demons to rest.
But the prospect of placing himself in his mistress’s skilful hands had lost its appeal—another complaint to lay at Harri’s door—and he didn’t visit her. Instead, he blackened a mood that was already as dark as pitch by paying an unannounced visit to the Rothwell townhouse to satisfy himself no prominent works of art were missing from the paintings his uncle had kept in the gallery there. Someone was interested in his uncle’s collection, and it was Marc’s duty to ensure that it remained intact.
Now, on the day following his arrival in the capital, he and Giles were ensconced in one of the less densely populated rooms at White’s.
‘Your instincts are sound, Marc.’ Giles leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his claret. ‘About Jessop, I mean. I approached both of the dealers whom you suggested and asked them if any unknown Hogarths had been offered for sale of late. I was told by them both that Hogarth was all the rage again, but they could only tell me what they had informed the pervious enquirer—none had come to light over the past two years.’
Marc followed Giles’s example and swirled his wine around the glass before taking an appreciative sip. The ruby liquid slipped easily down his throat, warming his insides. ‘Did either dealer tell you who that previous enquirer was?’
‘Not precisely. They would only say the person had approached them more than a year ago. I said I was competing with a friend. We had a wager to see who could uncover more unknown works by up-and-coming artists, and it sounded as though my friend Jessup had stolen a march on me in respect of Hogarth.’
Marc nodded his approval. ‘Very inventive.’
‘Yes, well the ruse was successful in both cases because the dealers confirmed Jessup had indeed beaten me to their respective doors.’
‘Were you able to discover what works were sold by the first dealer and to whom?’
‘The agent sold some previously unknown sketches, signed by Hogarth and independently authenticated as his work, to one of his oldest and most respected clients.’
Marc sat forward, his excitement escalating. ‘That could only have been my uncle.’
‘Very likely, but the man wouldn’t say.’
‘Did he tell you what the sketches depicted?’
‘Yes, they were cartoons of different faiths gambling together, with a merry-go-round in the centre of it all. Typical Hogarth, very non-conformist, apparently.’
‘They must have been his inspiration for the South Sea Company. He referred to the merry-go-round as Who’ll Ride? if memory serves.’ Marc sat a little straighter as he thought it through. ‘If I’m right about them being in my uncle’s possession, they must be worth a small fortune. But where the devil are they? I haven’t come across them, or any paperwork alluding to them.’
‘Do you imagine they are what your uncle put aside for the Astons?’
‘If he was the purchaser than they must be. They’re definitely not anywhere amongst his various collections. I checked everything at the town house yesterday just to be sure.’ Marc contemplated for a moment. ‘I shall call upon the agent myself tomorrow and ask him directly if my uncle was the purchaser. As his heir, he can’t refuse to answer me.’
‘Where do you suppose he has hidden the cartoons, Marc? He must have taken care to select a place no one would come upon by accident.’
‘They must be somewhere within Matlock House.’ Marc rubbed his jaw. ‘I believe he called Harriet to see him in order to point her in the right direction.’
‘Why not simply tell her?’
‘Why indeed? Presumably my uncle had his reasons.’ Secrecy, keeping the Astons’ affairs separate from his other interests, had become second nature to him. ‘Anyway, although my wife doesn’t yet realise it, I’m willing to wager she must be sitting upon a small fortune hidden somewhere amongst the paraphernalia of the cider mill.’
‘If you permit her family to retain the sketches, instead of claiming them back into your collection as is your right, then they are now independently wealthy.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of going against my uncle’s wishes,’ Marc replied, slightly offended that his friend imagined he would.
‘No, of course not. Besides, the family’s future is secure anyway, now that you have married Harriet. Your uncle could not have foreseen that eventuality.’
Nor had Marc. ‘I shall need to think what’s best to be done.’
‘You will be able to settle a decent dowry on Charlotte.’
Giles spoke so casually that Marc stared at him in bald surprise. He hadn’t thought him so seriously enamoured with the silly chit as that.
‘I dare say.’
‘So, what now?’
‘Some interesting information came to light this morning in Whitechapel regarding Binstead. I—’
A club steward approached them and coughed discreetly. ‘Pardon me, Your Grace, but there’s a person here desirous of an urgent word with you. He is quite agitated and claims it’s a matter of great importance.’
Marc’s lips twitched. The way the man pronounced the word person, as though he had an unpleasant smell beneath his nose, made it apparent that Marc’s unexpected visitor was a servant of the lower orders. So low he wasn’t deemed worthy to pollute even the outer vestibule of the salubrious club.
‘Does this person have a name?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. He says his name is Ben Havelock and claims to bring urgent tidings from somewhere called Matlock House. He said you would wish to know at once, but I told him I didn’t think—’
Marc shot out of his chair. ‘Where is Havelock now?’
‘In the entrance vestibule, Your Grace. I didn’t think it right to—’
Marc strode from the room, Giles close on his heels. Some sort of harm must have befallen Harriet. What else could have brought Ben rushing to town, asking for him? Marc’s blood ran cold and a murderous rage consumed him. If anyone had harmed so much as one hair on her head, by all that was holy, the miscreants would rue the day they were born.
‘What is it, Ben?’
Marc quailed at the sight of Ben, dishevelled and travel-stained, his expression exceptionally grim as he twisted his cap nervously through hands that were clenched into tight balls. It was apparent he had made his way to town on horseback and, judging by his mud-splattered clothing and obvious exhaustion, he’d covered the distance in record time.
‘Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but I thought you would wish to know at once.’ He paused to catch his breath but Marc was in no mood to brook delay.
‘What is it, man?’ Fear and anger twisted his insides, causing him to be even more abrupt than usual. ‘Out with it.’
‘Thieves broke into Matlock House last night and…’
Marc’s groan caused Ben’s words to trail off. ‘And Her Grace confronted them, I suppose.’
‘That she did. We think the puppy alerted her to their presence. She tried to frighten them away by calling out and letting them know she was there.’
‘You think? Why the devil don’t you know?’
‘Marc.’ Giles placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let the man tell it his way. There’s nothing to be gained through impatience.’
‘She didn’t call for Swift, I suppose.’ Marc shook off his friend’s restraining hand.
‘Apparently not, but he heard the commotion and went to her aid.’ Ben paused and met Marc’s blazing eyes. ‘But it was too late. She had already been stabbed, Your Grace, and the villains had made their escape. In the confusion, by the time anyone thought to give chase, they were well away.’
‘She lives?’
Marc’s voice sounded hollow and without hope, already knowing the answer. He should have known better than to let her get even as close to him as she had, and he now had another death on his conscience.
‘Aye, my lord, she lives.’
So wrapped in his own version of living hell was he that at first Ben’s words didn’t register.
‘Marc.’ Giles shook his shoulder. ‘Were you not attending? Ben says she lives.’
Marc lifted shuttered eyes and looked at Giles bleakly, forcing himself to confront his worst fear. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but for how long?’
‘Her stab wound isn’t life-threatening,’ Ben said. ‘The problem is that she struck her head when she fell, reopening the wound on her temple. She had not, when I left Matlock House at first light, regained consciousness.’
‘What does the doctor say about her condition?’ Giles asked, presumably because he sensed Marc was incapable of getting the words past his lips.
A Duke by Default: Dangerous Dukes Vol 3 Page 18
