What the Hart Wants (Headstrong Harts Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  “Miss Hart, are you all right?” The arrogant mirth in his expression had disappeared—replaced by concern.

  “I-I became a little overheated,” she said.

  “Let me take you onto the terrace.”

  “No,” she said, “there’s no need.”

  A wicked glint shone in his eyes. “You’re right not to trust me, lass. At this moment, I’d struggle to trust myself.”

  At that moment, they were separated in the dance, and Lilah found herself linking arms with the elderly Lord Whitshire. A rather dull man, but she welcomed the respite from the assault on her senses brought about by the huge beast who had the power to render her as helpless as the swooning misses she despised.

  As she moved from partner to partner, she watched him. Each lady he partnered seemed to fall under his spell as soon as he took her by the hand, her body melting into his arms before he moved onto the next. By the time Lilah rejoined him, her jaw ached from gritting her teeth.

  Jealousy was an ugly emotion, particularly in a woman, and to be reduced to such a state was not to be borne. But he showed little sign of noticing the maelstrom of emotions that boiled inside her.

  “It seems you’re familiar with Mr. Smith’s work,” he said. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised by it.”

  This time she was prepared for his inquisition.

  “How so?” she asked, keeping her voice level.

  “Because you share the same sentiments. But I must admit to being disappointed in you.”

  She swallowed her fear, waiting for the recrimination. Would he expose her in front of the whole company? He had every right to, given the defamatory comments about the Molineux family, which had filled her latest essay.

  “I’ll settle with your disappointment,” she said. “Better that, than be one of the numerous women dependent on your approval.”

  To her astonishment, he laughed. “If I understand you correctly, Miss Hart, you believe I’m patron to a long string of mistresses, and that I’m an object of desire for half the women in the room tonight.”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “I shall leave you to decide whether I’m an object of desire, Miss Hart.”

  “If I’m such a disappointment, you’ll not care for my opinion,” she said.

  “Forgive me, I meant no disrespect,” he said. “My disappointment comes from knowing that the pretty words you use to declare your opinions are, in fact, those of another. Do you admire Mr. Smith’s talents?”

  Why could he not think of something else to discuss? His interest in Jeremiah Smith needed to be diverted.

  “I haven’t really considered it.”

  “Even though I admire the passion in his words, I despise the man.”

  “You do?”

  “But you’re an admirer of the man as well,” he said, his smile slipping. “Does he know you’re such a devotee of his work as to quote it yourself without citation? Do you use his words when penning your poems?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good,” he said. “If you wish to succeed as a writer, you must use your words, not someone else’s.”

  Were the situation not so distressing, Lilah would have laughed at the irony of it. He expressed nothing but admiration for her work, though he did not know it to be hers. But were she to reveal her identity as Jeremiah Smith, he would despise her.

  “Miss Hart, are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He shook his head. “Forgive me, perhaps I was a little harsh. There’s no shame in using the words of another. Often, we do it without realizing, particularly if those words resonate with us. But though you share Mr. Smith’s sentiment, I hope you don’t despise the Molineux line—or at least the newest ascendant—as much as he.”

  “I assure you that I do not despise you, Your Grace.”

  He smiled. “I shall be content with that, Miss Hart. In one aspect, I do admire you.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your honesty,” he said. “Most women seek to flatter. But you give your opinions freely and without deception or intent to tell me what you think I wish to hear. It’s a quality I value most of all.”

  The dance concluded, and the couples drifted toward the edge of the room.

  He took her hand and kissed it. “For your frankness alone, I honor you, Miss Hart. To atone for my earlier rudeness, I’ll offer my services once more in seeking a publisher for your poetry, if you’d be so kind as to let me read them.”

  His eyes shone with sincerity, and she acquiesced. Beneath the boorish exterior and the Molineux name lay the heart of a good man.

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll ask Dexter to invite you to his next card party. You may read them then.”

  “Excellent!” he said. “Perhaps I might even ask Smith’s publisher to look at them.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t think the City Chronicle would publish poetry written by a woman.”

  “Use a pseudonym,” he said. “I have the perfect name for you.”

  “Which is?”

  “Terence West.”

  “It sounds rather silly.”

  “But perfect for you,” he said. “You’re my West Highland terrier, which snaps at a man’s ankles.”

  “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

  “I’ve no intention of doing either,” he replied. “As you are honest with me, I wish to be honest with you.”

  He gave her a deep bow, brushed his lips over her hand, and withdrew. He may be a savage, but his sincerity had the potential to disarm her. Ignoring the stab of guilt at her own deception, she curtseyed and rejoined her party.

  For the remainder of the evening, she accepted Sir Thomas’s gallantry. He was pleasant enough.

  But what might it be like to relinquish control, if only for a moment, and yield to pleasure at the hands of a man capable of awakening such need within her?

  Chapter Ten

  Lilah followed her sister and their guests into the drawing room, where the card tables had been set up. Sir Thomas sat at a table and placed a stack of coins in front of him. He beckoned to Lilah, but she ignored him. He was a little too competitive at cards. Fortunately, Dorothea had already offered to partner with him.

  The tables filled up, and the players placed their bets and shuffled cards. Soon, the air filled with the clink of coins and the exclamations of joy or sighs of frustration as the players settled into the evening.

  Lilah reached for a glass of wine and settled in a side chair to observe the players.

  “Do you not play cards, Miss Hart?”

  The rich Scottish burr sent a thrill through her.

  “I’ve read one of your poems,” he said.

  “I only gave them to you this evening.”

  “I must confess being ungracious toward my hosts as to have spent part of the evening reading the first one. You have some talent.”

  She sipped her drink. “Are you flattering me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then you’re being gallant.”

  “I’m not a gallant man, Miss Hart. I prefer frank honesty over flattery. Were your poem the worst I’d ever read, I would tell you. As it is…” he hesitated, “…the words show accomplishment, but they lack something.”

  “Which is?”

  “Passion, Miss Hart,” he said. He shifted his knee until it touched hers, and she could feel his body heat through the fabric of her gown. She lowered her glass, and he leaned toward her.

  “Shall I fill you?” he asked, his voice a low whisper. She gave an involuntary cry, and he nodded toward her glass. “You’ve finished your wine.” He reached for the glass, and a shock of need coursed through her as his fingers slid over hers.

  “Are ye thirsty?”

  Her skin tingled with the anticipation of his touch. He dipped his finger into the glass, then ran the tip around the rim, until a single note rang out.
<
br />   “Hush!” she hissed. “People will hear.”

  “Your brother’s guests are too occupied in losing their money,” he said, “and the danger of being watched heightens the pleasure.”

  Circling his hand round her wrist, he placed his fingertip on her skin, where her pulse raced.

  “Ahh,” he whispered. “I can feel the thrill inside you.” He traced a path around her wrist, then followed a line along her arm until his fingertip disappeared under her sleeve.

  How could such a simple act be so…intimate?

  “All you need, lass, is a little indulgence in the pleasures of life, to unleash the passion which lies hidden beneath this…” The tip of his tongue flicked out and moistened his lower lip, “…this deliciously smooth skin.”

  Lilah withdrew her hand. “Are you seducing me while criticizing my poems?” she asked.

  “I’m giving you my honest opinion,” he said. “But I promised I’d help you. I’m most anxious to assist you in finding a publisher. Or, I’d be happy to assist you in publishing them yourself.”

  “I don’t want charity, Your Grace.”

  “You’d profit from them on your own merit, I assure you,” he said.

  “I’m not interested in a profit for myself,” she said. “My writing pays for…” He lifted a brow, and she hesitated, “…my writing will, I hope, help to support Mrs. Forbes’s establishment for disadvantaged women.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Forbes,” he said. “I’ve heard Mrs. Pelham mention her. Are disadvantaged women your passion, Miss Hart?”

  “Do you mock me, sir?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “I’m merely curious.”

  “Mrs. Forbes has devoted herself to bettering the lives of women fallen on hard times,” Lilah said, “mostly widowed mothers unable to support themselves. She’s trying to help them learn the skills required to seek gainful employment.”

  “Employment?”

  “Her aim is for them to gain financial independence.”

  “And you wish to help her?” he asked.

  “I visit regularly to help around the house. But she’s also in need of funds. Mrs. Pelham provides her with a regular stipend, and I wish to do my part.”

  “What do you do for them?”

  “I help teach them some of the basic skills needed to manage their income,” she said.

  “You mean you’re teaching them mathematics?

  “Do you ridicule the notion of teaching arithmetic to women, Your Grace? Or is it the thought of teaching the lower classes you find repugnant?”

  “On the contrary, Miss Hart. Education should be available to all, regardless of their age, sex, or social status.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought a man capable of such beliefs,” she said.

  “Then, as I’ve said before, lass, that’s because you’re unused to being acquainted with a real man.”

  His voice sent a thrill through her, but before she could respond, Thea clapped her hands.

  “Time for a little dancing before supper!” she cried. “Mrs. Pelham, would you oblige us on the pianoforte?”

  “Of course, Miss Hart.” Anne Pelham rose to her feet, while Dexter directed some of the men to move the card tables.

  Lilah’s companion plucked her glass out of her hands and set it aside. “I thought tonight was a card party.”

  “Dexter despises gambling,” she replied. “He prefers to play against his enemies rather than his friends. He says gambling leads to ruination.”

  “Not for those of us with self-control.”

  “Sadly, not everyone exhibits such care,” she said. “The temptation of easy money can ruin any man when he’s pitted against a foe beyond his skill. Dex is a master at it.”

  “Then remind me never to make an enemy of him.”

  The music began as Anne practiced a few scales, and a number of couples formed a line. Lilah jumped as a hand was placed on her shoulder. She looked up into the eyes of Sir Thomas and brushed his hand aside. His face creased into a scowl, then he smiled.

  “I believe you’re engaged to me for this dance, Miss Hart,” he said.

  “No,” she replied. “I’m sitting this one out.”

  “I’m sure your companion would release you into my care, Delilah, my dear. He mustn’t possess you all evening.”

  The duke stiffened at Sir Thomas’s familiar address but said nothing.

  “I’m my own person,” she said.

  “Very well,” he replied. “I’m sure Miss Vine would oblige me. I hear she’s an excellent dance partner.”

  He sauntered off, toward a young lady sitting beside Countess Stiles.

  Fraser stretched in his seat, then crossed his long legs. “That young whelp is trying to make you jealous by wooing Miss Vine.”

  “He’s unlikely to succeed,” Lilah said. “The countess is a formidable chaperone.”

  Sir Thomas bowed to Miss Vine. Her face creased into a frown, and the countess gave him a dismissive wave. He retreated, taking a full glass of wine from a footman as he passed, settled into a chair, and he drained his glass in a single gulp.

  “It looks as if Sir Thomas has suffered the indignation of a rejection,” Fraser said. “Shall we further his discomfort by joining the dancers?”

  “That would be cruel,” Lilah said.

  “Then perhaps I should invite Miss Vine to dance.”

  Lilah rolled her eyes. “Now you’re seeking to make me jealous.”

  “Then dance with me.”

  She shook her head. “While I don’t intend to dance with Sir Thomas, I have no wish to further his humiliation by dancing with another.”

  “Then you are his for the evening, Miss Hart, if you are forbidden from partnering with another. I thought you were your own woman.”

  “I am, but that doesn’t prevent me from being sensible to the feelings of others.”

  He let out a laugh. “It seems as if your friend’s feelings are not so wounded after all.”

  Lilah looked across the room to see Sir Thomas joining the dancers with Thea on his arm.

  “Your sister has done both Sir Thomas and me a favor,” Fraser said. “You are now free to be claimed.”

  “But…”

  He took her hand, and they joined the bottom of the set. Sir Thomas’s eyes widened when he saw Lilah, but before he could speak, the music began.

  Anne had chosen to play a lively reel, and Fraser seemed to come alive with the music of his homeland. His firm grip, when it came to their turn to lead the dance, was possessive in nature, yet she found herself delighting in being claimed as he guided her across the floor. When the dance concluded, the couples dispersed, fanning themselves. Thea instructed a footman to open the terrace doors, then called for supper.

  “Come, Miss Hart,” he said. “Let me escort you to supper.”

  “I’m a little overheated, sir, and not hungry.”

  “Then shall we venture into the garden?” He steered her through the doors and out into the night. Voices echoed in the air as some of the guests followed. He led her across the terrace toward a bench concealed in the shadows, and he sat and drew her beside him.

  “Your presumption could be deemed impertinent,” she said.

  “I like to take what I want,” he said, “and I believe you enjoy being taken.”

  She tried to free her hand, but his grip was too strong.

  “Unhand me.”

  He dipped his head until his mouth was close to her ear, then he spoke in a low growl. “If that’s what you wish, lass,” he said, “but I am giving you what you need.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re taking what you want.”

  “If I see something I want, Miss Hart, I’ll claim it,” he said, “but only where there is a genuine desire to yield.”

  He ran his thumb across her wrist, and her skin tightened. He grinned. She opened her mouth to protest, but a whimper escaped her lips as he brushed his hand across her body, the movement touching her breast, as if by accident.r />
  But his actions were never inadvertent. Her nipple hardened at the touch. His eyes sparkled, and he gave a gentle squeeze, sending a pulse of longing to the secret place between her thighs. She shifted to chase the sensation away.

  “So responsive,” he whispered.

  “I am my own woman, sir,” she panted.

  “Aye, that you are. But deep down, even the feistiest filly yearns to be mastered.”

  “I do not yearn… oh!” she cried out as he cupped her breast again. Unlike the light touch of before, his hands squeezed her flesh, and his expert fingers massaged and caressed while her body pulsed in response.

  “Your body cannot lie, lass,” he said. “I want ye. Badly. My whole body aches with the need of it, the need to be inside you.”

  “How can you say such crude things!”

  “I speak the truth, lass, and you know it,” he said. “Would you prefer the pretty speeches of a boy, or the raw honesty of a man who promises unbridled, earth-shattering pleasure?”

  A firebolt of lust shot through her body, and she swallowed to hide the small cry which threatened to burst from her.

  “Are all Scotsmen as uncouth as you?”

  “We’re wild, lass,” he admitted. “We seek pleasure where we can. We live on the raw landscape of the Highlands, where we take our women against the rocks and among the heather.”

  His words sent a wicked thrill through her, and an unfathomable ache begged to be eased.

  “Allow me,” he whispered.

  He placed a hand on her thigh and waited. The ember of pleasure dulled, and she shifted her legs apart.

  “Shall ye feel pleasure at my touch?”

  She drew in a sharp breath at the anticipation of sweet release, and he dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers.

  “Have I shocked you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, “but I find it not unwelcome.”

  “I will not ruin you,” he said. “I value you too highly. But I can promise pleasure you’ve never known before. If you ask it.”

  He lifted the hem of her gown. His fingers caressed the skin of her thigh, and she drew in a sharp breath.

  “You’re so responsive to my touch, lass,” he whispered. “It’s as if nature fashioned you just for me.”